“Feels good, lad, eh?”
“I should say so,” Raoul agreed. “I feel as if I’m floating on air, as if I’m ten feet high.”
“That could be on account of all the cider you’ve been supping,” Maeve chuckled.
She and the others had settled themselves on benches outside the tavern. Cof, nearby, was playing on a pipe and the younger villagers danced to his lively tunes.
Maeve drained her cup and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.
“Oh, Mary and Joseph, I’d quite forgot!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Lad, you know the folk round here. I’ve just recalled that I’ve a message that I should have delivered. Is there a man called...now what was his name?... Oh, aye, I have it now, Lenain, Pierre Lenain. Would he be hereabouts?”
Raoul sobered suddenly.
“I expect so. Why?” Lenain was Sévrine’s family name. Pierre was her father.
“I told you, I’ve a message for him. Could you find him, d’you think? Or send someone else to, if you like.”
“No, I’ll get him.”
He spotted the man across the street, chatting with a group of fellow cotters.
He approached them and explained why Pierre was wanted. The man scowled at Raoul but obediently touched his cap and moved off towards where Maeve was sitting. It was hardly surprising, Raoul acknowledged, if Pierre regarded him with some resentment: because of him, Lady Eleanor had sent his daughter away. He followed at a slight distance, curious about the message. Pedlars and minstrels often carried news from one part of the country to another. Probably it was nothing to do with Sévrine.
“So your sister was surprised when she heard nothing from you or your wife,” Maeve was telling the man. “Of course she’s had to bury her now – and the little one.”
“But I don’t get it. What do you mean, she heard nothing?” Pierre Lenain stood stupidly, frowning at the woman.
“Look, sit down, I’ll go through it again,” Maeve said in a kindly tone. “Your sister had the priest write a letter which she sent to Lady de Metz at the castle. Your daughter worked there, did she not?”
“Aye.”
“She asked for her to tell you and your wife about what had happened and then for you to send word whether you wanted her body and the babe’s sent back here – she thought the castle would pay, the young master having caused her trouble. All that was three months ago now. When she heard we’d be...”
“Are you saying my girl’s dead?” Lenain demanded.
“Well, yes. You knew that, surely?”
The man shook his head; tears filled his eyes and he crumpled onto the bench. He looked round, pointing wildly at Raoul.
“He didn’t see fit to tell us,” he cried. His chest heaved and he sobbed.
Torn between a wish to comfort the man and a furious need to speak to his grandmother, Raoul stood hesitantly. He could hardly believe it himself. Sévrine had had a child – HIS child – but they were dead! Poor Sévrine, he had ruined her and then allowed her to be cast off to die. It was his fault! How could he speak to her father now? How could he face him? But had his grandmother known? If she did know, how could she have concealed it?
He must find out whether the letter had gone astray or whether this tragic news had been deliberately suppressed. And, despite the lateness of the hour, he must find out now. Turning abruptly, he ran back towards the castle.
Chapter Three
Raoul pounded fiercely on the door of his grandmother’s chamber.
“Who is there?” The maid’s voice was a nervous whisper.
“Raoul de Metz. I wish to speak to Lady Eleanor. Open this door at once!”
He waited impatiently as he heard the girl fumbling with the heavy wooden bar then tentatively lifting the latch. As it opened, he pushed the door back, almost knocking her out of the way. The flame of the candle in her hand danced crazily in the draught.
“She’s sleeping,” the girl hissed. “She won’t like to be wakened.”
“I do not care.”
Raoul seized the bed-curtains and dragged them apart to reveal the old woman, now struggling to sit up and gasping for breath. He paused, abashed by the sight of her. So slight under the fur covers, it was as if her body in its thin white shift had shrunk, losing all its autocratic bearing and authority. Her hair, normally completely concealed by veils, was in two thin plaits, and it was virtually white. He felt a sudden rush of pity for her age and her frailty.
“What is the meaning of this,” she panted. “How dare you disturb me at this hour?”
“I’m sorry, but it couldn’t wait until morning.”
“Hmmh! Well, pass me my shawl, girl, and help me. Don’t just stand there. And put that candle down before you set the hangings ablaze.”
Raoul rescued the candle and used it to light the torches in the brackets beside the bed. Between them, he and the maid settled the old woman back against her pillows.
“Now off to the closet, Barbe, but stay awake. I may need you again.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.
“Can I pour wine for you, my lady?”
“Hmmh. Very well. And pour one for yourself.”
He ignored her invitation but passed her a cup and waited for a moment while she drank and composed herself. A little colour returned to her pale cheeks.
“Well, what is so important that you must barge in here in this boorish manner?”
“Lady Eleanor, I...”
“Sit down, for the love of Heaven. Do not tower over me like that. Get the stool.”
He obeyed her aware that somehow he had lost any advantage he might once have had in the conversation. She had made him feel like a graceless schoolboy.
“Did you know that Sévrine Lenain was dead?” he asked abruptly.
She held his gaze for a moment then looked away.
“Yes,” she said. “What of that?”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“You would have been upset. Is this the matter which could not wait for morning? You ridiculous boy! She has been dead three months.”
“I know – now. The players brought a message for her father. But even if you didn’t want to tell me, why did you not tell her family?”
“It would have caused a fuss. What does it matter? She was only a tiresome little laundry maid.”
Raoul sprang to his feet.
“She was more than that to me!”
“Oh, I see,” Eleanor regarded her grandson with a look of withering scorn. “You wish you had married her like your father and his peasant whore.”
He clenched his fists.
“I want to be honest with you,” he said, trying to curb his temper, “and no, I do not think I would have married her. But she had a child – do you know if it was a boy or a girl?”
“I neither know nor care. It may or may not have been yours and it died – so that is one less bastard in the world – so much the better.”
“How can you speak like that?”
“Why not, if we are trying to be honest?”
Tears sprang to the boy’s eyes.
“Romantic young fool. I suppose you think you loved each other!”
“I was fond of her.” He forced himself to sit down again and meet her eyes. “It was more a physical attraction than love, truthfully, but I can’t expect you to understand that.”
“You mean it was lust.” Her voice was harsh and full of bitterness. “Lust is a disease, boy, it is evil. Fight against it or it destroys you. I know all about that...” her voice dropped, “to my cost.”
“But surely you should have let her parents know, allowed them to bury her. It was cruel, sinful.”
“Bah! Father Anselme said that when he read the letter to me, but I forbade it. You cannot afford sentiment if you want to survive. Do you think I want them talking miles away about this girl? Mistress of the young squire from Valsemé? It was the same with Smith Bouillet. Could I have let him go off to St. Lo with tales of his grandson, t
he Lord of Radenoc?”
“What do you mean?” He looked at her in growing horror. “Did you...do something to my...my grandfather?”
“Grandfather! Ha! He was a greedy peasant who thought he could better his lot. He had to die to keep your secret safe. The castle garrison is sworn to secrecy. Everyone else thinks you’re my nephew: my brother Robbie’s son.”
Raoul stood, stunned by the utter ruthlessness of this slight elderly woman.
“I’m sorry, Lady Eleanor, I cannot bear this.” Something in his tone made her look at him sharply. “Are you proposing to kill everyone who might mention my existence?”
“Do not be ridiculous...” she began then stopped abruptly. There was a new maturity in his voice. “It was all for you,” she insisted weakly. “Necessary for your survival.”
“I cannot accept life on such terms. I shall leave Valsemé in the morning.”
“You most certainly will not!” She seemed to rouse herself. “Barbe!”
“Madam?” The girl stumbled hastily from the curtained closet, her eyes bleary with sleep.
“Fetch whoever has charge of the guard this evening. And quickly!”
“Yes, madam.”
Raoul crossed the room and poured a cup of wine, noting with anger that his hands were shaking. What did she propose to do now? He could hear the rapid rasping of her breath but refused to look at her in case he weakened.
Moments later there was a sound of running feet. Barbe returned to the room followed by the burly lumbering Jacques Pétain. Raoul could almost have laughed.
“My lady,” he panted, “you...wished...to...see me.”
“That is correct.”
Raoul could venture a glance at his grandmother now. She was sitting bolt upright, totally in command despite where she was and how she was dressed. She was a remarkable woman, he admitted grudgingly.
“No-one is to enter or leave this castle before noon tomorrow,” she told Jacques. “In the morning Steward de la Tour and I shall draw up a list of those who are permitted to come and go, but only during the hours of daylight. The gates are never again to be opened after dark.”
“But, my lady,” he hesitated, looking towards Raoul, “Master de la Tour is not...” He was clearly uneasy about the absence of the steward who was still in the village, as indeed was most of the garrison.
“You need not turn to Master Raoul for support,” Eleanor continued sternly. “I should inform you, perhaps, that his name will not be on the list.”
“Do you mean...” Jacques looked bemusedly at the old woman.
“My grandson will not be leaving the castle again, for any reason whatsoever, until I leave it for my burial. You and all the others who keep the gates shall swear, by all that you hold sacred, that you shall never permit him to do so.”
The soldier gaped at her.
“For tonight, I hold you personally responsible to ensure that he does not leave. Draw your sword.” Bemused, Pétain obeyed. “Now kneel and swear on your allegiance that you will do as I say.”
Again the soldier’s eyes were drawn to Raoul who stood rigid, appalled at her severity.
“Make the vow!”
Stumbling over the words, he gave her his promise.
“Now leave me, both of you.”
Her eyes blazed in her chalk white face, her lips were compressed into a thin taut line. Raoul sensed that exhaustion was close and was almost tempted to see if he could break her. What stopped him was the horrified realisation that this action of hers, perverse and obsessive as it was, was a display of love.
He followed Jacques Pétain from the room. Instantly they heard the bar being put in place across the door.
“Lad, I’m sorry.” The soldier put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Did she find out you’ve been truanting?”
“No. It wasn’t that. Jacques, couldn’t you let me slip out – tonight? Now? Say I’d gone before you returned to your post.”
“You heard what I swore. It’d be my life, for sure. I’m fond of you, lad, but I daren’t disobey her. I’ve seen her like this before – after Master Robert was killed. Madness you could call it but she’ll go to any lengths to be obeyed. She’ll kill a man herself if she has to – I’ve seen her do it.” He shuddered. “You must make the best of it.”
“I know, Jacques, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just...I don’t think I can bear it.”
“I know, I know. Sky-lark in a cage – that’s what you are.”
Shaking his head sadly he made his way down the spiral stairs into the darkness and Raoul went to his own room, for tonight, his alone. The single wall-mounted torch cast huge flickering shadows as he opened the door then closed it behind him. His door had no lock or cross-bar.
What should he do in his one night of privacy? Cut his throat? She’d be sorry then. But no, he wanted to live, not to die! But the thought of never leaving the castle again until she died – it was unbearable! How long would his grandmother survive – five years? Ten? Fifteen? Three score years and ten was Man’s allotted span. Eleanor de Metz had been fifty-five on the last day of September and she was not ill, had had merely a single child. She could reach eighty!
Disgusted with his own thoughts and the terrible prospect of years of virtual imprisonment, he unbuckled his belt and threw it across the room, flinging himself onto the bed. There was a muffled clinking. He paused, momentarily distracted. Of course, it was the silver pieces he had been told to give to the mummers. In all the excitement of performing he had totally forgotten. They would consider themselves to have been shabbily treated, even with the foodstuffs he had given them.
He rolled off the bed and retrieved his pouch from the corner. Was there nothing he could do? They would be long gone by the time he could send someone to take a purse after them. Weighing up and rejecting a hundred options he took out the coins and spun them in the air one by one.
Eight...nine...ten... But what was this? Astounded that he could have forgotten it, he stared at the small iron key in his palm, then let out his breath in a shout of joyful laughter. He could leave Valsemé. He could leave now, and, he could even prevent anyone from coming after him.
He thought rapidly, then seated himself at the table, found a piece of parchment and trimmed a pen. He chuckled to himself as he unstoppered the ink. His grandmother could not read – few ladies could. No-one at the castle could read Greek. He wrote rapidly, filling the page with neat indecipherable letters. He was going to seek his fortune in the Crusades, he explained, and would initially introduce himself to his cousins at La Tournerie in the hope that they would equip him for his expedition. He asked for a message of apology and farewell to be given to his grandmother, whose well-being he would daily pray for. He signed his name with a flourish, blew on the ink to help it dry then folded the letter and sealed it.
Now, what could he take with him? He bundled a few items of clothing into a knapsack, put on a light cloak, then took his father’s sword from the garderobe and buckled it on. He would have to conceal it somehow once he had managed to get away from Valsemé but he would not, could not, leave it behind. The hilt was set with a massive ruby and the Radenoc arms; Eleanor had had it made for her son to wear when he won his spurs – he had never received it.
He looked round swiftly. This was enough. It would all get soaking wet in any case. He arranged the bed covers as if someone was sleeping there and removed the torch from the sconce.
There was no-one in the Hall. The scullions were either in their own quarters or in the village. The courtyard too was deserted; a light showed in the gate house and two guards were silhouetted as they talked quietly on the battlements which overlooked the drawbridge. Raoul slipped unseen through the unlocked door of the north tower and descended the narrow steps to its basement, used for storing the most perishable items. To the left, behind a pile of barrels, was another flight of steps.
Raoul remembered when his grandmother had brought him here. He had been quite young, eight or nine years old.
She had shown him the tiny steep stairway and explained how, in case of siege, this exit might save his life. He had never forgotten her description of what he would find down there.
Moving cautiously, encumbered by bag, sword and torch, he made his way down until he reached the black water which seeped in from the moat. The steps continued below it, slippery and treacherous. It filled his boots, soaked through his hose and crept up his thighs as he descended. It was not especially cold but it seemed slimy and smelt foul. When it reached his waist he found his way was barred by an iron grille. Above his head, so that it was always out of the water, he knew there was a lock into which the small key fitted. How was he to open it with no hands free? He raised the torch and looked round him. He could see the lock, within easy reach, then noticed an iron bracket on the wall to his right. He inserted the torch into it then slung the bag round him, thus freeing both hands. He felt carefully in his pouch until he found the key – dropping it now would be disastrous. He reached up and fitted it into the lock. It was quite stiff but after a few moments he persuaded the key to turn and then removed it. He pushed firmly and the little gate, its hinges audibly protesting, swung inwards, giving him access to the water-gate.
Raoul was about to replace the key in his pouch when he thought the better of it. By descending a further three steps, up to his chest in the water, he could clear the gate, close it and lock it shut behind him. The torch would have to stay where it was, but it would soon burn itself out. His grandmother would know that he had left by this route but he doubted if she would reveal its existence to anyone else.
Once he had re-locked the gate, he paused. The last part would be the hardest. It had been utterly foolish of him to imagine using this exit from the castle for nightly romping with local beauties! It was clearly only to be contemplated in a crisis. Well this was a crisis so he had better get on with it. It felt as if hours had passed already since he had left his grandmother’s chamber.
At the bottom of the steps was a small barred door, under water, which opened into the moat. He would have to remove the bar, open the door, then swim through it and get to the far bank. Raoul could swim. He had been taught at an early age, on his grandmother’s orders. Swimming had saved her life and that of his father, according to Anne Le Hir’s account of their desperate escape from Radenoc. It was not surprising therefore that she had insisted that Raoul must learn, however mad everyone else considered it to be. It was ironic that he must now use this skill to escape from her.
The Rightful Heir Page 4