The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  He took a deep breath and ducked under the water, feeling for the doorway. It was as Eleanor had described; and here was the crossbar. Raoul tugged and pushed at it but it did not move. He stood up again and breathed deeply. This was impossible. Even if he could have opened his eyes under the water it was too dark to be able to see what he was doing. It felt as if the wood had swollen so that the bar could not be lifted. He sucked in another breath and went under again. Gripping the beam with both hands he pulled at it with all his might. It was useless. He surfaced again, gasping, filthy water pouring from his face. With a growing feeling of panic he tried again, thumping at the bar and tearing at it with his fingers. Feeling as if his lungs were going to burst he tried again and again to make the bar shift but nothing would budge it. At last, hammering desperately at the bar, he took an involuntary sobbing breath, still under the water, and emerged coughing and choking. He must try to calm himself. He was achieving nothing. He must think.

  He staggered back up the steps as far as the grille and leant against it, still coughing and wheezing. To drown ignominiously here, while failing to escape from the castle, was worse than enduring his grandmother’s tyrannous regime for a few years longer.

  Once his breath was pretty much under control he again descended to the bottom of the steps. Brute force was not succeeding; he must try logic and stratagem. He breathed in and went under once more. There was the bar, stoutly wedged into two brackets set in the doorframe. What were the brackets made of? Did it feel like metal or wood? Wood, he decided. Although thick, they were very much thinner than the bar itself. Perhaps this was the weak point in the door. He surfaced again and breathed steadily several times. Was it possible that after years of immersion that the wood was starting to rot? Could he lever them away from the crossbar? How? With what? With the sword! It was almost as if someone had told him what to do – was it his father’s spirit watching over him? Dismissing the thought for the moment from his mind, he drew the blade from its scabbard and held it aloft. The flickering red light from the torch above glinted off its polished surface. He would try; it was all he could do.

  Raoul offered up a silent prayer, filled his lungs, and submerged himself. He felt for the bracket with his left hand and placed the sword tip into the angle formed by the crossbar. He then took the sword hilt in both hands and drove the blade down with all his strength. It was inserted for a few inches between the two and Raoul felt the wood give fractionally. He pulled the sword free, surfaced, took a deep breath and went down again, this time locating the left bracket. He repeated the process. This time as he launched himself onto the sword with a grunt of effort, the wooden bracket splintered and sheared off, whether because it was previously weakened or through the force applied, Raoul neither knew nor cared. Relief surged through him. It was an easy task now to pull the bar free of the remaining loosened bracket and toss it aside.

  He sheathed the sword, promising votary candles and hundreds of future prayers to show his gratitude. He was nearly free. Hoping fervently that the door would now open – he did not think that he could bear yet another struggle – he took a final deep breath.

  He grasped the ring set in the centre of the small door and pulled. It swung inwards easily. He ducked through and pushed off from the ledge, moments later he surfaced in the weed-grown waters of the moat, much to the astonishment of a group of ducks which had been sleeping peacefully close by and which now swam squawking away. Raoul shook the wet hair from his face and trod water. It must be nearly dawn. Already a thread of paler sky could be seen in the east beyond the trees. There was no time to waste; he still had a lot to do. He struck out strongly for the bank, pleased that, of course, this secret exit was the other side of the castle from the gatehouse. He would not be spotted here from the battlements.

  As soon as he had crawled onto dryish land, he emptied the water out of his boots and wrung out his cloak, slinging it back round his shoulders once he had shaken off the worst of the weed. Now for the sluice gates. With any luck the feast in the village should mean that the usual guards would be absent. He must be careful, however, and make no assumptions.

  He moved as quietly as possible through the trees which skirted the moat, conscious that every footstep squelched wetly. This was where the first stream ran in, and here was the gate, deserted completely. Good. Raoul ran towards it, drawing his sword. At present only a small amount of water was permitted to trickle through into the moat. The flow could be increased by raising the gate’s level and fixing it in a new position. Raoul sliced through the retaining ropes and the water from the broad stream gushed eagerly forward.

  A total of five streams had been diverted to allow Eleanor de Metz, when the need arose, to isolate herself completely in her castle. Her guards knew that, at the least threat of attack, their first duty was to release the flood-gates. And of course she made sure that her grandson knew exactly how the system worked.

  Gleefully now, he ran from one gate to the next, dealing with them as he had dealt with the first. On any other night, watchful guards would have been at each, requiring overpowering or persuading. Tonight there was no-one about at all. Had anyone wished to attack Valsemé, this would have been the ideal opportunity!

  As he released the final gate Raoul noticed with astonishment how rapidly the water was rising. He should run to the village and give the alarm as the houses there would be flooded too – and soon. He was loath to draw attention to himself though. His escape would hardly be secret then. He grinned ruefully – what had his grandmother said? That sentiment was misplaced if you wished to survive? Right, for once he would follow her advice.

  He unbuckled the sword belt and took off his cloak. It was still damp but it would have to do for the present. He wrapped the sword up carefully, bound the awkward bundle with a pair of garters and tucked it under his arm. Its contents weren’t too obvious, he devoutly hoped. He then set off towards the village. No-one was awake. The only fire was that in the central fire-pit which smouldered gently, the well-stripped pork carcasses still hanging from the spits above it. Discarded items of clothing, flagons and drinking cups lay around. Under a table in front of the tavern a villager snored in drunken slumber. He would be wakened soon enough, Raoul thought as he hurried by.

  In front of the Long Barn, Raoul was pleased to see a wisp of blue smoke rising into the grey dawn sky. He could hear snatches of conversation. They were preparing to depart. Good. It was as he had hoped.

  The oxen had been hitched up to the cart and the men were stowing various items into it.

  “Good day, Master Guennec,” Raoul said.

  He approached their leader cheerfully then stopped in alarm. The men had all drawn their daggers and were poised, ready to attack.

  “It’s me, Raoul,” he protested, falling back a step. “Cleopatra, you know. What’s the matter?”

  “Merciful heavens, young sir! That was a shock you gave us!” Guennec exclaimed.

  “Holy Mary and all the Saints preserve us,” Maeve cried, leaping from the cart and running to him. “Whatever happened to you? You look like a Devil escaped from Hell!”

  “What do you mean?” Mystified, Raoul looked down at himself. Weed and filth from the moat clung to his tunic and hose. His hair hung in tangles and knots round his face. His boots were black and sodden.

  “What have you done to your hands, boy?” Cof was staring at him appalled.

  Ready to reply cheerfully, Raoul looked down and froze. Blood was caked on them. Each nail was broken, two on his right hand were hanging off and the ends of each finger was split and torn. With the realisation came a wave of pain. He whimpered and his knees buckled.

  “It’s all right, lad, it’s all right.” Guennec caught him in a strong comforting grip as he swayed and would have fallen.

  “Damona, Connell! Bring a basin and the box of salves!” Maeve’s voice held brisk authority.

  Raoul was dimly aware of a flurry of activity around him then his tunic was stripped off and flung
aside. Someone took his hands and lowered them firmly into warm water which smelt of aromatic herbs. Pain flooded his senses and everything went black.

  When he came to, he found that his hands were bound in clean linen and Maeve was holding a steaming cup to his lips.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I did not mean to be a trouble.”

  “What did you come to tell us, lad?” Guennec was looking down at him with wry amusement on his weather-beaten face.

  “Not tell you, ask you.” He drank some of the liquid and felt stronger. “I wondered whether I might join your troupe after all – on a permanent footing.”

  “And if I say no?” Guennec still looked amused.

  “I...well...I...”

  “Don’t tease the boy, Dan, it’s not kind.” Maeve wiped Raoul’s face gently with a clean damp cloth. “You know very well we can use him!”

  “I’m just worried – he’s obviously run away from the Abbey. I don’t want the good Brothers chasing after us.”

  Raoul struggled to his feet and looked round. The other mummers were out of earshot, packing up the last of their belongings.

  “Not the Abbey, the castle,” he said softly. “And you needn’t worry about pursuit. There’s going to be a flood – very, very soon. So if I can come with you, I strongly suggest that we leave now.”

  “I thought so before,” Guennec nodded, “there’s more to you than meets the eye.” Guennec picked up Raoul’s bundle containing the sword, felt it, then handed it to him. “But I’m not one to pry. And if bad weather’s coming,” he winked, “we’d best be on our way.”

  “Come on, lad, I’ll find you dry clothes.” Maeve picked up his discarded tunic with distaste. “You can travel in the cart today. The draft I’ve given you will make you sleep.”

  “Thank you,” Raoul said, stumbling after her. He felt utterly weary, incapable of thought or action.

  “Damona! Get out of there!”

  A sulky face with a dark cloud of hair peered out between the heavy curtains.

  “You can walk today, my girl. This young man’s been hurt and needs to rest.”

  “What’s that?” the girl said, shrieking with laughter and regarding Raoul incredulously. “Give up my place to the stinking cleric? What happened, toad-face, did someone throw you in the midden? Mam, you can’t mean it, he stinks!”

  “Stink or not, he’s come to join us! And you’ll do as you’re told!” Maeve grabbed her arm and dragged her daughter, still protesting, out of the cart.

  Raoul dimly registered that she was, again, wearing very little.

  “Do I smell?” he said to Maeve, appalled.

  “You are a little...high! But Connell won’t care – and we’ll get you cleaned up later on. Don’t let it worry you.”

  Raoul allowed himself to be assisted into the wagon’s snug interior where he was helped into a coarse shirt, shown a mattress and given a hairy woollen blanket.

  As he lay down and felt the cart start to move, he attempted to compose a complicated and gallant speech of thanks. Somehow the words seemed to get muddled and his thoughts grew confused. Moments later he was sound asleep.

  Chapter Four

  Four days passed. After the first, Raoul walked alongside the ox wagon and slept under it at night with the other single men, Cof, Jean and Pol. On the first occasion that he did this, Raoul barely slept at all. To one used to a well-stuffed mattress, the ground seemed unbelievably hard. It was also freezing cold. His thin clothes, washed by Maeve at their evening camp the day he had joined them, were totally unsuitable for life in the open air, even in a mild October. He daren’t use the cloak in which he had wrapped the sword, now stowed safely away in the bottom of the chest which had been Antoine’s and now was his. Guennec loaned him an extra tunic and Maeve permitted him to keep the rough blanket. He resolved to use some of his silver coins (originally intended for the minstrels) to buy what he needed when they eventually arrived at a market town.

  To his own chagrin, Raoul also found himself to be afraid of sleeping out of doors, unprotected by the castle’s strong walls and the solid bulk of the faithful Sergeant Bouchard. The mummers (with the exception of Damona) were all friendly and welcoming towards him, but he was unsure how far he could trust them. The nights seemed full of unexplained noises and Raoul lay as far from the others as he could with his dagger unsheathed in his hand.

  Since they had left Valsemé they had travelled on a rough track through thick woods. They had seen little sign of life. Occasionally a startled pheasant flew up, uttering its raucous chattering cry. There were footprints of deer and some droppings, but their cart was ponderous and slow, allowing ample time for animals to elude the travellers. Once they passed a charcoal burner’s hut, but its inhabitant was off about his business. A pilgrim with cockled hat and staff in hand had shared their simple midday meal one day before continuing on his solitary way.

  The food was another problem for Raoul. Whilst they did not live in luxury at Valsemé, the fare served in the Hall was the best available in the area. It was only in the worst winter weather, when hunting was impossible, that there was no fresh meat at all. On meat-free days a good variety of fish was available in the local streams and Eleanor de Metz kept a well-stocked fishpond. Both cows and goats were owned by the manor so cheesecakes, custards and possets were plentiful. Eleanor could not afford to buy exotic spices, but locally grown mustard, potherbs and root vegetables added flavour and interest to the dishes. Of course they ate pottage at Valsemé, everyone did, either for breakfast or supper, and Raoul realised why it was impossible for the mummers to have a supply of the fresh vegetables which often had formed its main ingredients at the castle. But barley broth thickened with dried peas was dull fare and Raoul suffered boredom as well as physical discomforts. Sometimes Maeve would cook a thick pancake over the fire – baking bread was clearly impractical – and this, greasy though it was, came as a welcome change.

  Guennec had sternly reminded him of the punishments meted out for poaching when Raoul had tentatively enquired about hunting for game. He asked Maeve, somewhat wistfully, whether they had enjoyed the supplies which he had brought from the castle. The dried and salted foods, she told him, had been packed away for times when food was in short supply. He was shocked to realise that at present they considered themselves to be well fed.

  What made up for these privations, however, was the actual mumming itself. Each day they made camp some time before sundown. Maeve, reluctantly assisted by Damona, would light a fire and get out the cooking pot while the others practised scenes from an enacted history, juggling and acrobatics. Because of his hands, Raoul could do nothing at present which required dexterity. His fingers were healing but were still extremely painful; the two loose nails on his right hand had actually come off. What he could do was try to learn the female parts in several of their dramas. He regretted bitterly having failed to bring pens, ink and parchment in his flight. Had he been able to write down the speeches, he was sure he could have conned them faster. These were items that Guennec had no use for. All the material that they used was stored in the minstrels’ compendious memories and none of them could read. Baulked of familiar methods, Raoul eagerly adopted any tricks they suggested in order to memorise as much as possible as quickly as he could. Cof offered to rehearse the lines with him as they walked along and Raoul gratefully agreed.

  After they had eaten and before they slept, the mummers sang. On Guennec’s instructions, Raoul’s true clear voice was easily blended with the other harmonies.

  “That’s good,” Maeve said. “He’ll do well, the boy. Didn’t I say so from the first?”

  “You’re right, my love, as always!” Guennec put an arm round her and gave her a smacking kiss.

  “Get off!” she protested, cuffing him.

  “Where will we be performing next, Master Guennec?” Raoul asked.

  “We’ll reach the castle tomorrow,” he replied, throwing another log on the fire, “so I expect it will be the
day after that.”

  “Which castle, sir?”

  “Does it matter to you, lad?”

  “Not at all. I’m just curious, that’s all. I’ve never travelled, you see.”

  “Lucky you,” said Jean Kerjean. “It’s my dream that is – snug little cottage, my own fireside, a plump little wife...”

  “Nagging you to death!” Cof laughed. “You’d hate it!”

  “That’s true,” Maeve said. “I once stayed on a farm for a whole year – at the end of it, I couldn’t wait to get on the road again.”

  “Please, which castle are we going to?” Raoul asked, impatient at the interruption.

  “Bonnebosq, that’s its name. Do you know it then?” Guennec looked askance at Raoul’s delighted reaction.

  “No! Well, I haven’t been there. But I know of it. I didn’t realise it was so close, that’s all. It’s...it’s... Lord de Fresnay is the baron there, isn’t he? Will we stay in the castle?” The prospect of sleeping in a bed was almost more tempting than the thought of seeing his grandmother’s oldest friend – and the girl he might have married.

  “Hark at him!” Damona said with a sneer. “You’ll not be an honoured guest, toad-face. We’ll be lucky to get a shack in the bailey. But I’m sure they’ll reserve a corner of the midden just for you.”

  “Hush now,” Maeve admonished.

  Damona had delighted in taking every opportunity to bait the boy, casting his filthy state in his teeth on frequent occasions.

  “I’m sorry,” Raoul muttered. “I just don’t know, do I? I don’t mean to be stupid.”