“But if I took Holy Orders at least there would be some purpose to my existence.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“That is not possible, Raoul. It is your duty to marry and continue the direct line. I have someone in mind for you.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Louis has a granddaughter who is approaching marriageable age. She would be most suitable.”
“Then you would let me go to Bonnebosq!”
Eleanor gave an exasperated sigh.
“Of course not. Once I have negotiated terms with Louis, she would come here. She would bear you sons and be my companion. I’ve been lonely since poor Anne was lost to us. I see no reason why Louis would not agree.” She paused, thinking, calculating. “Her dowry would be useful in many ways. I would like to rebuild the approach to the Hall so that the entrance is more secure.”
Raoul’s heart sank. Trying to school his features into the appearance of attentiveness he listened as she started to outline her elaborate plan to prevent intruders gaining access to the keep. She was interrupted by a knock on the solar door.
It was Siméon de la Tour, the castle steward. He was a middle aged, mild-mannered man who had lived all his life at Valsemé.
“My lady, Guennec’s Men are at the gate, asking for shelter and for the chance to entertain the household.”
Raoul’s spirits leapt. He had temporarily forgotten about the mummers.
“Guennec’s Men?” Lady Eleanor repeated frowning. “You mean the minstrels from Brittany?”
“Yes, my lady, on their way home for the winter, it seems. Will you let them play?”
She hesitated then rose stiffly and crossed to a small locked chest which stood on the table.
“Give them some money, Siméon, and send them on their way. They should still be able to reach the Abbey before dark. I have no heart for their foolery this year.”
“Please, my lady, couldn’t we permit them to stay?” Raoul could feel his heart pounding. He must try not to appear too eager. “Were they not Mistress Anne’s favourites? Is it kind to her memory to turn them away?”
“I will add a few more coins, if that would please you,” she said, casting a doubtful glance in Raoul’s direction.
“I think the castle folk would be glad to see a play,” the steward said. “There’s not been much jollity at Valsemé in the past months. Just a short piece – in the bailey, if you would prefer it – could surely do no harm. It might put a bit of heart into the younger ones.”
Eleanor dropped the full purse back into the chest, returned to the window and seated herself with a heavy sigh. There was a moment’s silence and then she spoke.
“Very well. They may perform in the castle courtyard after the midday meal tomorrow. And, if they wish, in the village in the evening. The day after, on Friday, they must be on their way. I will not have the community disrupted for longer. They can sleep in the Long Barn as on other occasions. Master Raoul, as he seems so concerned, can look to their welfare.”
“Thank you, my lady. I will tell them.” The steward bowed and withdrew.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Hmmh.” The old lady gave a derisive snort. “They might have preferred a well filled purse!”
“But you will still give them money, won’t you?”
She gave a thin smile. “Not as much as if I did not have the bother of them. That is what you need to learn, my boy, practical matters – not about ancient nonsense. Go to the chest and put ten silver pieces in your purse. If you think they warrant it, when you have seen them play, give it all to the mummers. If you think they deserve less, bring the rest back to me.”
“Will you not be watching them yourself?” Raoul asked as he went to do her bidding.
“I have no wish to see or speak to Bretons now that Anne is gone. You can start assuming some of your responsibilities by dealing with these people. You may send them some provisions from the kitchens in the morning.”
“Certainly, my lady. It will be a pleasure.” He did not look at Lady Eleanor, afraid that his delighted grin would give too much away. If the eagle-eyed old woman was not going to witness his transformation, it would be all the easier to play his part.
“And send a message to the Abbey, Raoul. Brother Mark may come to the castle every Friday to allow you to read the scriptures and to instruct you in accounting...but your studies of the heathen Greeks and Romans are over and so you must tell him. I am surprised that he should have shown you such blasphemous texts. Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, my lady.” If he had not told her about his passion for the ancients, she would not be forbidding them now.
He was about to close the chest when his eye was suddenly caught by a small iron key whose use he immediately remembered. It belonged to the water-gate. Without pausing to think why he was doing it, he concealed it in his palm and rapidly transferred it to his pouch. He then locked the box and returned its key with a flourish to Lady Eleanor who hung it round her neck. As he bowed and left the room he consoled himself with the thought that he might still occasionally be able to elude her vigilance.
The following morning Raoul woke up ridiculously early. Moving quietly to avoid disturbing the rhythmically snoring Sergeant Bouchard, he drew the bed curtains, folded back the wooden shutter and lay against his pillows watching the sky grow gradually paler as dawn broke.
He could allow himself to think about Sévrine now. He guessed that his feelings for her were different from those his father had had for his mother. Marriage would not have occurred to Raoul as a possibility. He wondered what Lord de Fresnay’s granddaughter was like – different from the ugly serving girls, he devoutly hoped. Was he going to just accept these plans without argument? He pictured himself dutifully coupling with a plain, pious wife, probably with his grandmother supervising his efforts, then saw himself slipping secretly out of the castle through the water-gate by night to romp with a flock of buxom peasant girls. It was no good. If that was what the future held he couldn’t possibly agree to it.
He slid from the bed and began to dress. As he fastened his belt he grinned. He’d keep the key to the water-gate for the present. He quite liked the idea of all those peasant girls!
“You’re up early, lad,” Sergeant Bouchard grunted, opening a bleary eye.
“There are matters which Lady Eleanor asked me to attend to,” Raoul said. “I’m afraid I shall be busy with them all morning. I’ll send up a jug of ale, shall I?”
“Aye, it’d be good of you, lad.” The old soldier yawned and turned over.
Raoul went downstairs whistling cheerfully. The sky was clear and blue. It would be another warm, golden autumn day.
Once he had broken his fast he composed a short note to Brother Mark. He had no fear that anyone would intercept and read his letter but it amused him to construct a few sentences in elegant Greek, wittily, he hoped, bemoaning the enforced end of his Classical studies. He knew that his teacher would be sorry – especially when being so neatly reminded of his pupil’s aptitude. With any luck Brother Mark would at least try to persuade Lady Eleanor to relent.
He sealed the parchment then despatched a messenger to the Abbey. Now he could turn his attention to making the necessary preparations for the mummers. First he looked critically at the courtyard and gave instructions about sweeping the driest end and setting out seats for spectators. He gave orders that two recently slaughtered pigs’ carcases should be sent to the village to provide a communal feast that night. He took one of the housecarls with him to the undercroft and filled two large baskets with dry goods and salted meat and fish. He sent another boy to collect several freshly baked round loaves and took a barrel of ale from the buttery. Then, followed by the grumbling, heavily laden servants, he made his way out of the castle and up the steep path which led to the hamlet of Valsemé.
It was a few hundred yards to the barn from where the other village dwellings huddled together round a small stone-built church. At t
he furthest end of the muddy street was the blacksmith’s forge. It did not belong to Bouillet now. Broken by the murder of his daughter and the destruction of his cottage, Raoul’s maternal grandfather had gathered up his remaining belongings and set off for St. Lo. Rumour had it that he’d died of a fever weeks later. The smith now was his distant cousin. Snatches of song and ringing hammer blows rose from the building as Raoul passed.
“’Morning, Jean-Paul!” he called.
“’Morning, young master,” came the shouted reply.
Although few villagers were about at this time of day, Raoul was grateful that several trees and bushes screened the barn from public view. A good fire was burning in the clearing outside it. The woman, Maeve, was stirring something in a cooking pot.
“Good morning, young sir,” she greeted him with a warm smile. “You said all your prayers, then?”
“Yes. All I intend to say, anyway,” Raoul replied with a grin. “Lady de Metz has sent you some foodstuffs – I met Master de la Tour, the steward, on my way here and relieved him of his burden.”
“Holy Mary and Jesus!” Maeve’s jaw dropped in wonder. “Blessings be upon the good kind soul. I’ve never seen the like of it. Guennec! Guennec! Come and look at this!” She rushed off towards the barn doorway.
Raoul felt himself blush. He had obviously exceeded what was usually given in such cases. Well, for the moment he was one of them. Why shouldn’t they have generous fare?
“Set the stuff down and get back to the castle,” he told the servants as they reached the edge of the clearing. “And make sure the benches are set out in the bailey as I told you.”
“Yes, sir.” The boys did as they were bidden, bowed and started to walk away.
Raoul turned to greet Guennec who was watching with a puzzled frown.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Raoul asked.
“I’m not sure. Just who are you, young man?”
“Cleopatra, I very much hope – if there’s enough time to effect the necessary changes!”
“Aye, aye.” Guennec shook his head as if banishing troublesome thoughts. “We’ve no time to waste.”
After a couple of hours’ intensive practice, Raoul was pretty sure he could play his part acceptably if not brilliantly. He’d been amazed at the difference in the others. Gone was the surly temper and roughness of the previous day. Each was transformed by the roles they were to play. Jean Kerjean would be Caesar, stately and commanding. Cof played the suave, charming Mark Antony. Guennec himself was Brutus, the elder statesman, with Pol Cudenec and the young boy as soldiers, messengers and servants. Cunningly, they had adapted the scenes where Cleopatra appeared to make Raoul have a distinctive move – usually either to rise from or sit on the throne – when it was someone else’s turn to speak. Thus he could convey the gist of the long speeches but the other actors always knew when they should take over.
“Well done, lad,” Guennec said when they finished a second run through. “That’s enough for now.”
Raoul struggled out of the long tunic that he’d worn for the part.
“What will the whole programme consist of?” Raoul asked, squatting on the ground and gratefully accepting a drink from the flagon of cider being passed among them.
“Well, at the castle we’ll do a few songs, then ‘The Glory of Rome’ and we’ll conclude with a recitation – something that’s requested, if we can.”
“And later? Tonight?”
“Simpler fare. Juggling, acrobatics and some ballads where they can all join the refrains.”
“Will we do the pyramid, Da?” Connell asked.
“I don’t see how we can,” Guennec said.
“What’s that?” Raoul asked.
“We three begin...” Guennec indicated to himself, Jean and Pol. They got up and faced Raoul, placing their arms on each other’s’ shoulders and bracing their legs.
“Then I start the next layer,” Cof said, running round them and springing athletically onto their shoulders from behind.
“And I go on top!” Connell ran forward, swarmed up the men’s bodies and moments later he was standing on top of Cof’s shoulders, his arms outstretched and a gleeful grin on his face. “But we’re one short, you see!”
“Can I try?” Raoul demanded eagerly.
“Why not?”
Connell sprang down, turning a somersault in the air as he did so; Cof followed, in the same way, and Guennec came forward to explain to Raoul what he should do. Minutes later he was flying through the air and then balancing with surprising ease, one foot on Guennec’s shoulder and one on Jean’s. He then had to brace himself firmly as young Con scrambled up and balanced between himself and Cof.
“Now break!” Guennec commanded.
Down leapt Connell, Cof sprang after.
Guennec’s hasty, “Not you, Raoul!” came just too late as the boy launched himself into the air, executed a neat somersault and landed daintily on his feet.
“That was stupid,” Maeve exclaimed from her seat by the fire. “You could have hurt yourself!”
“I have done a little before,” Raoul confessed with a laugh. “But there’s a limit to what you can achieve in the branches of a beech tree!”
“Are you sure you can’t stay with us?” Cof said mournfully. “There seems to be no end to your skills. How are you at fire eating?”
He ignited three long brands in the fire and quenched each in turn by what appeared to be swallowing them.
“I think it looks a bit painful,” Raoul said with a shudder.
“Or juggling?” Jean drew a set of brightly painted clubs from a sack and whirled them round with dazzling skill.
“I’d like to try!”
Jean caught the clubs and tossed three balls to Raoul.
“Go on then.”
Slowly at first but with steadily increasing confidence, Raoul passed them from one hand to the other until he could maintain a reasonable speed without dropping them.
“Now add in a fourth!” Jean threw him another ball.
Starting hesitantly and with frequent misses, Raoul again built up speed.
“You’re a natural, boy,” said Pol Cudenec. “You’ve real talent!”
Raoul grinned delightedly.
“Who’s got talent?” said a sulky female voice. “None of you, surely.”
Raoul turned abruptly. A girl with long dark curly hair had emerged from the barn. The low neck of her rumpled shift revealed the generous curve of her breasts and she had wisps of straw in her hair. Everything about her appearance suggested sexual pleasure and Raoul felt his body stir.
“This is Damona, my daughter,” Guennec said dryly.
“Who’s he?” She looked Raoul up and down, her full red lips pouting, her dark eyes holding a mixture of curiosity and contempt.
“This is a clerk from the Abbey who’s helping us out today.”
“Oh, a monk, is he?” she said scathingly. Her mocking gaze dropped to Raoul’s crotch. He went scarlet.
“Go and dress yourself, girl. You’re embarrassing our young friend.”
There was a general laugh.
“That’s not my fault, is it?” She moved languidly over towards her mother. “Is there pottage, Mam?”
“Aye, over the fire,” said Maeve, flinging a shawl at her, “but for Heaven’s sake cover yourself!”
Raoul dragged his eyes away from the girl and picked up his discarded tunic. He cleared his throat.
“Do you want me to practise anything else, or shall I go now?”
Guennec gripped his shoulder reassuringly.
“It’s all right, pay her no heed,” he said in a low tone. “Go now, lad. Meet us at the castle at midday.”
“Right.”
Feeling as if he’d had a narrow escape, he raised his hand to the other mummers and fled.
By the time the show for the villagers was finished, Raoul felt full of reckless excitement.
He had acquitted himself with credit at the castle and no-one had even s
uspected the true identity of the wily Queen of Egypt. The mummers had found ways of guiding and supporting him so that the appreciative audience would never have guessed that it was his first ever performance. He had been complimented by Jean on his voice – he had adopted a slightly husky tone, higher than his own but not a squeaky falsetto. It had given the Queen dignity, the mummers agreed, an attribute she had severely lacked with the departed Antoine.
There had been a slightly awkward moment when Guennec had asked Raoul about the young squire that he recalled from his previous visit.
“There was a boy, I remember, lively but attentive. Now who was he – a nephew of Lady de Metz? He sat between her ladyship and Mistress Le Hir, I seem to remember. Be about your age, I reckon.”
“He’s probably around somewhere,” Raoul said airily, “or perhaps he’s busy! Look, here’s Master de la Tour coming to thank you...I must go and change.”
He slipped quickly away to the lean-to which was being used as a robing room, aware that Guennec had been somewhat suspicious. Fortunately, Lady Eleanor had maintained her determination to keep away.
Just as Sergeant Bouchard was starting to ask amongst the castle servants whether they had seen him, Raoul had been able to emerge, in his own clothes, claiming that he had merely been organising the players’ refreshments.
By promising to stay with Marcus Le Gros, one of the most easy-going soldiers, he had managed to persuade the Sergeant to allow him to go to the feast in the village that evening. It had been easy enough, once there, to ply Marcus with drink and set on Madame Courbin, a garrulous fun-loving widow, to ensure that the old soldier wanted Raoul out of the way. Marcus might not be getting any younger but he was still a man of strong appetites. Raoul also suspected that Bouchard himself was glad of being let off his watchdog’s leash, for once. With amusement he noticed him disappearing into the back room of the tavern with Anne-Marie, ‘The Soldiers’ Friend’ as she was affectionately called.
Confident that even if he was recognised, no-one would now report him to his grandmother, Raoul willingly took part in the pyramid and lustily joined the mummers in all the songs he knew. His heart thrilled at the thunderous applause and loud cheers, twice the volume of those at the castle.
The Rightful Heir Page 3