Armand's Daughter

by Diana Dickinson

On her way up to the tower room, she met Marie.

  “Did you see him, my lady?” the maid demanded, clutching her mistress’s arm.

  “Gilles?” Catherine could barely repress a shudder.

  “Not Lord Gilles! Did you see my nursling, my baby?”

  “Simon? Yes, yes. He looks well. Thierry says he is.”

  “Oh, my poor lamb. I do so long for him to be back with us!”

  “So do I, Marie. He will be soon, I hope.”

  “Should I get the boy’s room ready, my lady?”

  “Good idea.” It would keep Marie occupied. “Now I must go and speak to Lord Raoul.”

  As she took a step towards the stairs, Marie caught her arm.

  “I know what you’re doing, my lady,” she suddenly hissed at Catherine in a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ve poisoned him, haven’t you?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry that I doubted you before...when you were – you know. But when I heard he was sick I knew what you were up to. You fooled him well, I must say.”

  Catherine hesitated, unsure what to say. Perhaps it was useful for Marie to believe that, as long as she told no-one else what she thought.

  “Don’t say a word, Marie. It must be our secret.”

  “You’re safe with me, my lady.”

  Catherine thanked her and hurried away. Once she reached the tower room, she sent Jean Paul to find Yon Le Goff.

  “Try to bring him up here without anyone noticing you,” she said. “And keep guard outside the door while I speak to him.”

  While she waited for the blacksmith’s son to appear, her anxious thoughts returned to Raoul and the tunnel. When Yon appeared, she tried to set her fears aside.

  “Lord Raoul has left the castle and gone for help,” she told Yon bluntly. “He should be back in a day or so. But I daren’t wait that long. If Gilles decides to use those fearful contraptions, Raoul may return to find Radenoc nothing but rubble.”

  “When did he leave?” Yon asked, surprised. “How did he get out?” He glanced towards the curtained bed.

  “He was up on the roof of this tower early in the morning, the day that Gilles arrived. He saw the ships before anyone. He had plenty of time to get away.” Had it not been for what had happened between them that would have been true.

  “Yes,” Yon said, frowning. “I’ve often seen him up there.”

  “I didn’t know! You never told me!”

  “It wasn’t my place to tell you anything. You no longer thought of me as your friend.”

  “I’m sorry, Yon. I’ve treated you unkindly, I know. But I need you now. Will you help me?”

  “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  Instinctively she lowered her voice.

  “I’ve arranged to smuggle Gilles into the castle in the middle of the night. You and one or two others must be waiting for him. I want you to kill him.”

  “You’re sure it’s Gilles I’m to kill this time?”

  “Yes, of course. Who else would it be?”

  He looked at her doubtfully.

  “Where’s my brooch?” he suddenly said.

  Instinctively, she felt for it before remembering.

  “I gave it to my husband,” she said. “I love him, Yon. I was wrong to hate him for so long. Please, please, help me.”

  “You can rely on me to kill Gilles,” he said. “You bring him up here. I’ll do the rest.”

  “How shall I let you know when it’s time?”

  “Set a lantern on the tower top – I’ll be watching.”

  Remembering her fear, she swallowed but this was no time to be cowardly.

  “Very well,” she said.

  The day passed quickly. Once she had seen the child from Kerhouazoc who had a troublesome stomach ache, she quickly found a suitable medicine in her still room – and one or two other useful items as well. She was then obliged to spend some time with Father Alain, trying to reassure the villagers about what might happen if the garrison were to surrender. It was no easy task: she could say nothing about her plan in case it failed.

  After a hasty mid-day meal of cheese and bread, Catherine organised the older men and the women and children from Kerhouazoc, assisted by the priest, to move most of the stores from the undercroft below the Hall to the basement of the Western Tower. If everything went wrong, or if Raoul returned sooner than she expected, she would need to make sure that at least part of the castle would be safe and secure.

  While they were busy with that, Catherine returned to the tower to look for the key to the postern. All of her brothers’ possessions had been removed when Raoul had claimed the lord’s chamber. Gilles had mentioned a hook beside a mirror. Catherine remembered it from her father’s time – an intricate bronze piece that he had probably brought back from the Crusade. Now a bright tapestry hung on that wall. When she lifted it, to her relief, she saw that the key was still there. She found a ribbon and hung it round her neck, tucking it inside her shift. She had completed the first step.

  As darkness began to fall, she encouraged the villagers to bed down in the Hall and served steaming bowls of pottage to everyone. She had asked the priest if he would stay with them and comfort their fears in the night. He had agreed willingly and ate a large bowl of pottage himself. It seemed quite reasonable that, afterwards, they should feel warm and drowsy and settle down to sleep. Thanks to a few extra ingredients, Catherine knew that it would be hours before they were likely to stir. They would not notice anything unusual in the middle of the night.

  Too nervous to eat, Catherine returned to the Western Tower as soon as they all seemed to be settled. She knew that most people, and especially Father Alain, would condemn what she had planned as a mortal sin. All that really worried Catherine was the thought that Raoul might not be alive to benefit from Gilles’s slaughter. If he was dead, there would be no point to it. If he was alive, Gilles’s death would assure Raoul’s easy victory. Catherine felt as if she owed him that because she herself had made him suffer so much before.

  “Marie was here,” Jean Paul told Catherine as she entered the room. “She said some strange things.”

  “What sort of things?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t really listen to most of it. She seems to be convinced that Lord Raoul’s about to be defeated. I felt like telling her that he wasn’t even here.”

  “You didn’t, did you?”

  “Of course not.” He grinned. “I told her he was very sick and that she must go away so as not to disturb him. She seemed really pleased by that! I said she could come back later when you were here.”

  “Well done.”

  “She’ll get a surprise when he appears, won’t she?” He chuckled in gleeful anticipation.

  The squire, ignorant of Catherine’s fears, was full of confidence that his master would soon return at the head of a powerful army. He, of course, had no knowledge of Catherine’s true intentions but she was touched by his youthful optimism. He was about the same age as she was, but she felt centuries older than him at that moment. She must be sure that he was elsewhere in the castle when Gilles came. It was her duty to protect him.

  “I shall rest for a while,” she said to Jean Paul a little later. “If I should fall asleep, wake me in four hours. No, don’t ask why. There will be something that I want you to do for me.”

  She drew back the curtain on the side of the bed away from the door and lay down. From there she could see the tall wax candle each of whose rings measured one hour. Five must burn down before she could go to the postern. She tried to debate where the safest place for Jean Paul would be – thinking about that was preferable to worrying about Raoul. Should she send him across to the battlements beside the main gate? With a message for Guillaume Rénard, perhaps? But what message could there be? Something about Raoul? Or should he go to the stables? Or perhaps she could ask him to go to Simon’s room to see Marie for some reason. Still pondering a number of alternatives, each in some way implausible
and unsatisfactory, she fell asleep.

  “Catherine, help me!” Raoul’s face, pleading and ghastly floated into her dream and his cold pale hands tried to reach for her through the luminous green of the ocean. The tunnel was wide, sandy bottomed and sunlit, alive with bright darting fish. She knew Raoul was dead although he was calling to her. Then suddenly she was in the water too, and the sunlight was gone. It was utterly dark and waving fronds of weed brushed at her face. “We’re trapped....trapped....” The words echoed round her head and she knew that she too was doomed, dead already or soon to die. “So much for your precious virtue!” Gilles cried, laughing obscenely. Anger surged up inside her and she began to struggle, thrashing about in the water. Then the scene changed again. She was in the tower room, poised at the very top of the well, peering down it. At the bottom, clearly visible, was Raoul’s dark head, bobbing about in the black water. He was dead, unmistakably. “No!” she screamed, pitching forwards and beginning to fall. Her speed increased and she flew downwards, the water below seeming to rush up to meet her. At the final moment, just as she was about to reach it, she woke up.

  Still gripped by the dream’s horror, she lay still for a moment, her heart thumping. Then one thought filled her mind. Somehow, before Gilles was killed, she had to know. She glanced at the candle. Only two hours had passed. She tried desperately to calculate how high the tide must be.

  “Jean Paul,” she said, clambering off the bed and opening the shutters to listen to the sea, “I’m going to go outside for a moment.”

  “Are you all right, my lady? I think you were dreaming again.”

  “Yes, I was. But don’t worry.” The tide sounded low. If it was and her hasty calculations were correct, Raoul might have got through the tunnel safely.

  She ran down the spiral stairs and out onto the battlements. She was right. The rocks below were almost dry. The tide was at its lowest. She dashed back up the stairs again, not noticing that a shadowy figure was following.

  “Here, help me,” she said to Jean Paul, flinging the door open and rushing across to the window seat. It didn’t matter anymore that this tunnel was the Lord of Radenoc’s ancient secret. If Raoul had drowned down there, she had to know.

  Between them they pulled off the cushions and Jean Paul, directed by Catherine, removed the wooden cover.

  “I told you there was a secret way out, didn’t I?” Catherine said. “This is it.”

  Jean Paul peered down the well and exclaimed in amazement.

  “Would you be too scared to go down there?” she asked, lighting a torch as she had for Raoul.

  “No, I don’t think so. But why should I, my lady? Lord Raoul is long gone.”

  “He may not have got through at all.” Desperately she explained her fear. “If you find him, bring him back if you can but if you can’t do that, come straight back yourself. It’s only safe for an hour.”

  “And if he isn’t there? Should I still come back?”

  She hesitated then remembered Gilles.

  “No. If the way is clear and you believe that my husband got through, get out yourself and go north. Join up with him if you can. If you don’t find him, go to your father and ask him to send a message to the Count of Morbihan that Lord Raoul needs his help. Can you do that?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady.” Excitement had lit up Jean Paul’s face.

  “Be careful, please. Don’t take any unnecessary risks – promise me!”

  “I promise.” He grinned at her and swung his legs eagerly into the narrow hole.

  “There are footholds and handholds, I think,” Catherine said, remembering watching Raoul’s descent. “I’ll pass you the torch once you’re safely inside.”

  “Right.”

  As she bent over the opening, carefully placing the torch in the boy’s outstretched hand, Catherine heard a slight noise behind her. Only when the torch was securely in the squire’s grip, did she allow herself to look round. In her haste she had left the door open but she could see no-one.

  “Is anybody there?” she called.

  There was silence.

  She ran across and shut the door, fitting the bar in place before returning to the opening. Jean Paul was half way down but moving quite slowly – despite his youth; it seemed more difficult for him than it had for Raoul. Eventually, after what seemed like a long time but in reality was barely a quarter of an hour, the light vanished into the tunnel and Catherine was left alone.

  The next hour was the longest and most nerve-racking she had ever spent. She tried to kneel and pray but she couldn’t keep still and couldn’t concentrate. She alternated between circling the room and crouching beside the well, desperately listening for the tiniest sound. If Raoul was really dead, his body would be trapped down there and Jean Paul would find it. She kept imagining that she heard the sound of the squire returning and then she forced herself to peer down the well shaft. She could picture herself helping the boy to drag Raoul’s lifeless body out into the room. How would she bear it? Was that a glimmer of light in the tunnel now? No, no; there was nothing there. She forced herself to move away and began to pace up and down again.

  The candle was lower. Nearly an hour had passed. If Raoul was there, Jean Paul should have found him now. Was that a noise? If it was, it hadn’t come from the tunnel but from outside on the stairs. Had Marie returned and found the door barred? Would she be suspicious? For the hundredth time, Catherine went to the well and gazed down into its blackness, her stomach lurching as usual at the sight of the dark void – although its very darkness had become a sort of comfort.

  She crossed to the other window and sat down, clenching her trembling hands together. More than an hour had passed. If Jean Paul didn’t return now, he too would drown. If the squire had died and Raoul had survived, would he blame her for the boy’s death? In her heart she knew that even that death would be preferable to the foulness of Gilles’s depraved appetite. If she had protected Jean Paul from that, Raoul would thank her, not blame her.

  Slowly another hour limped by and then another. Although there was no possibility of the boy’s return, she could not bring herself to put the cover over the opening. Desperately trying to be calm and sensible, she put a dark cloak over her gown, itself dark and plain. She then lit another torch. The lantern should still be up on the roof-top, by the door where she had seen it last. There was no more time to waste. She must go. Gilles would be waiting.

  Catherine shut the chamber door softly behind her and crept up the narrow stairs which led to the roof. It was a little better to be up there in the dark, she thought – at least she couldn’t actually see how high she was. It was a cloudy night, very dark, with no sign of the stars – perfectly suited to her purpose. She knelt by the door, found the lantern and lit the wick inside it. There was so little wind that there should be no danger of it blowing out or blowing off the parapet. Moving cautiously, not standing until she reached the solid stone edge, she crawled across the roof-top and set the light where it would be clearly visible from the stables below. That was done. Now for the postern.

  On silent feet, she tiptoed down again, shut the little door at the bottom, and then went cautiously down the main tower stairs. She had kept the torch. Without it she would be unable to see to unlock the door in the North Tower. The danger was that someone might see her and challenge her before then. All the way down, she had a strange feeling that she was being watched – but the tower was utterly silent: she saw and heard nothing.

  She paused briefly on the battlements – there was no movement in the courtyard below. She hoped that Yon was awake and would not fail her. The solar was also silent and in darkness. The Hall beyond was dimly lit by a single flambeau and the only sounds were the snores, breathings and rustling of many people, all deeply asleep. Catherine crept through swiftly and slipped out through the main doors.

  Crossing the courtyard would be the most difficult. She braced herself, straightened her shoulders and walked down the steps boldly. If someone saw her, sh
e would pretend that she was on an errand – to get a cup of broth from the kitchens, perhaps, as her husband was feeling hungry. Yes, that would do nicely. But there was no-one there. No-one saw her or spoke to her. Moments later she was in the North Tower, and running down the stairs to its lowest level.

  She lifted the torch and peered ahead into the narrow passageway. In the red smoky light she could clearly see the door at the far end and an iron ring, near it, set in the wall. When she reached it, Catherine gratefully fitted in the torch into the bracket.

  As she had observed a few weeks before, the door looked as if nobody had used it for a long time. She reached into her pocket for the key, fitted it into the lock and tried to turn it. It moved a short way and then stuck. She tried again. It was the same. Battling to control a surge of panic, she pulled the key out, dropping it, and studied the door itself. In addition to the key, there were two bolts, both rusty-looking. She knelt and managed to pull back the bottom one. She stood up, panting, wiping her filthy hands on her skirt. Now for the other. She grasped the cold rough metal in both hands and pulled. It didn’t budge. She tried again, her hands becoming slippery with sweat. Cursing herself, Catherine decided that she should have come down earlier in the day to make sure that the door would open. If she failed to let Gilles in, he would attack them without mercy. She was sure of that.

  In desperation, she wrapped the edge of her cloak round her hands and pulled again at the second bolt, trying to move it any way, to loosen it somehow. After several minutes of tugging and heaving, it seemed to give slightly. She re-positioned herself, standing this time at the other side of the door. She gritted her teeth, scrubbed her hands free of sweat, grasped the bolt again, and pushed. After another moment of straining agony, where Catherine began to despair, it shot backwards and the door was unbolted. Now there was just the lock.

  Catherine picked the key up off the floor, fitted it into the key hole and again tried to turn it. It was the same as before. It turned a little and then stuck with a grating sound. She tried to push it in further; it didn’t turn at all. Perhaps it was the wrong key. She would try this key one last time and then she would go and see if she could find another. She put the key in, as she had at first, then on a sudden impulse, pulled it back slightly. To her amazed joy, it turned and she was able to wrench the door open.