The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  “And you’re not either.” Cof reached across and patted him on the arm. “You’re learning stuff at an amazing rate. You’ve a good brain.”

  “Huh! What would you know about it,” Damona jeered, “with a sick one like yours?”

  “That’s enough!” Guennec protested.

  “Want to take a stroll, sweetheart?” Jean addressed the question to the girl who had left the fire and was moving back towards the wagon.

  Her answer was inaudible although its meaning was plain enough. Jean guffawed.

  “Don’t heed her – that’s my advice for what it’s worth,” Maeve said to Raoul. “And you, Jean, you only make her worse.”

  “But I worship her – I would give all I have for one touch of her cherry... lips!” The tall bearded man adopted a heroic pose and everyone laughed except the girl’s mother.

  “There’s no need to mock her. I know very well what she’s like but you’ve me to deal with if you insult her.” Maeve’s eyes flashed and Raoul was reminded of the first time he had seen her.

  “Sorry, Maeve. I was only jesting.”

  “Well don’t. I dare say you’ll find a wench to have ‘a stroll’ with at Bonnebosq. Till then, keep your hands to yourself.”

  This time no-one laughed as Maeve flounced off after her daughter.

  “Time to turn in, I’d say,” said Guennec drily. “Cof, take the first watch will ye? You might have a roof tomorrow, young Raoul, but I doubt if you’ll get a feather bed.”

  Raoul got stiffly to his feet, unsure whether to be alarmed or amused by the man’s ability to read his thoughts.

  “Unless he’s like Antoine and finds favour with the gentry,” Pol suggested, with a wry glance at Cof.

  “He’s got all the friends he needs with us,” Cof said warmly. “Isn’t that right, boy?”

  “I don’t think you can ever have too many friends,” Raoul said, ducking under Cof’s arm which was being laid round his shoulders.

  “Quite right, lad,” Jean commented. “You got your coverlet?”

  “Yes.” He picked up the blanket and wrapped it round him.

  “Perhaps you should bed down between Pol and me,” Jean continued. “The sky’s clear – it’ll be cold tonight.”

  “Do you mean to say it’s been warm so far?” Raoul asked in horrified surprise.

  “Aye – for the time of year.”

  Cof was still watching Raoul. For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something, then he shrugged and turned away.

  Raoul followed the other two who ducked under the cart and settled themselves, leaving room for him in the middle. He hesitated briefly, and then lay down in the narrow space. Jean and Pol were less effusive than Cof but somehow he felt more relaxed with them; he didn’t know why.

  That night, despite the cold, he slept soundly for the first time. The next day, shortly after the sun had passed its highest point, the mummers came in sight of the castle of Bonnebosq.

  Compared with Valsemé, the castle was huge. Instead of being sunk into a tree filled hollow, it stood proudly on a low hill. The oldest part, a vast square keep, was built on top of the mound, visible for miles around. Lower down, high walls in pale honey coloured stone linked four massive towers and a substantial gatehouse. The village was separated from the castle by a deep ditch and an outer wall with its own impressive gatehouse. Raoul noticed with interest that not only the church but a few of the larger houses in the village were built in the same, presumably local, stone. It was a far cry from the mean cluster of wattle huts which he knew from home.

  There was a holiday mood about the place. Men and women, dressed in their best, were standing about laughing, talking, eating and drinking. Raoul’s stomach growled as his nostrils caught the fragrant aroma of roasting pork.

  “Greetings,” Guennec called to one of the villagers. “What’s happening, friend? We’re strangers in these parts.”

  “It’s the betrothal of our young lady at the castle,” the man explained, wiping his mouth and coming up to the cart. “Lord de Fresnay’s called for three days of feasting and jollifications – so of course we’re doing our best to oblige!”

  “Good timing then,” Maeve exclaimed. “Could they use more minstrels, d’you think?”

  “Oh, aye, sure to welcome you, I’d say. Just you go on up to the castle. The steward will look after you. They’ve a score of visitors there already. A few more can make no odds.”

  Nearer the castle a group of brightly coloured tents had been erected. Young men wearing a red and gold badge on their white silk tunics were lounging around polishing armour and weapons. A roped off enclosure and a covered stand indicated that a tournament was planned. Raoul’s heartbeat quickened as he searched eagerly for their horses – magnificent destriers, their attendant grooms and all the fancy trappings of chivalry. He was so excited that he forgot to look where he was going and stumbled into Jean Kerjean who, with the others, had stopped to speak to the guard in the outer gatehouse.

  At Raoul’s hasty apology, Jean grinned.

  “I don’t wonder you’re a bit bemused if you’re used to life in an Abbey,” he said. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Will we be allowed to watch, do you think?” he asked breathlessly.

  “Oh, aye, I’d say so. Bound to be. Like to have been a knight, would you?”

  “More than anything!”

  “You could wear Lady Damona’s favour into battle.”

  Jean reached out and gave the girl an impudent squeeze. She turned and glared at him.

  For once, at this time in the day, Damona was fully dressed, and in her best, Raoul suspected. She wore a close-fitting tunic in russet red wool with a narrow belt wound tightly round her hips. Far from concealing the curvaceous promise of her body, the thin fabric emphasised her shape. Her dark hair, loose and uncovered, fell to below her waist.

  “What are you looking at?” she demanded, catching Raoul’s eyes on her as she adjusted the laces at the neckline of her dress.

  “Nothing! Sorry!” He hastily looked away then glanced back. Was she doing the gown up or undoing it further, he wondered.

  The discussion between Guennec and the guard was brief and after a few minutes they proceeded on their way. To Raoul’s surprise, the drawbridge was already down and the portcullis raised. In a very short time and with no further challenge they entered the inner courtyard.

  Here too everything was very different from Valsemé. This was not a muddy yard around a well but the centre of an ordered and efficient community. The wooden buildings which lined the walls were not temporary or dilapidated in appearance. Everyone seemed to be cheerfully busy with his or her allotted task.

  “Is the steward about?” Guennec demanded of a boy.

  “One moment, if you please,” he replied.

  He was a page, by the look and sound of him, Raoul thought. Resentment welled up in his heart. He should have come here at that age. His grandmother had cheated him of his birth-right.

  The boy returned followed by a portly man in a long, lavishly decorated robe.

  “Good day, good day!” he beamed, rubbing his hands together. “What – you are minstrels, are you? Most welcome! Most welcome! Let’s see now – oh yes, I know – you’ll not object to the upper storey above the stables, I hope – see there’s an outer stair – no need to disturb the noble beasts! Out at present of course – hunting, you know.”

  With the steward barely seeming to listen or pause for breath, Guennec and his troupe were led over to their allotted quarters, told where to leave the wagon and graze their beasts, invited to sing and eat at the feast that night, help the beaters at the hunt the next morning, watch the tournament, perform a suitable play and to stay for the duration of the festivities.

  “Whew! I feel as if I’ve been caught up in a whirlwind,” Guennec said as the steward left him. “Did you catch all that, my dear?”

  “I think so!” Maeve laughed. “We’re to perform above the stables, help with the
tournament, sing to the beaters and be gone before sunrise! That right?”

  “It’ll do,” Guennec chuckled. “If I didn’t know you better I’d be worried you’d got confused.”

  “Who me?”

  “Come on, Raoul, you can help me lead the oxen over to the common,” Cof said. “We can find some ale and get a taste of that pork if you’d like.”

  “With pleasure,” Raoul agreed, thinking he’d have another chance to look at the lists and the squires’ preparations.

  “Well, don’t be too long,” Maeve said. “You’ll need to get yourselves ready for later. And I want to check your fingers, Raoul.”

  It was a strange experience for Raoul to sit at the lowest table in the Great Hall, surrounded by menials, page-boys and the other entertainers who had been invited to Bonnebosq for the celebrations. He could eat little of the food, partly through nerves at the thought of performing to so huge a gathering and also because he had stuffed himself almost to bursting point in the village. Luckily he had restrained himself with the ale otherwise he might have found himself unable to do his part in their songs.

  His gaze was irresistibly drawn to High Table. It was easy enough to work out who everyone must be according to where they were seated. Lord de Fresnay, at the centre of the table, was a thin rather stooped old man with white hair. The son who was evidently the bride’s father, two seats away to his left, was a blonde giant with a bellowing laugh and powerful carrying voice. The bridegroom, two away on the right, seemed to be older than his father-in-law. He was immensely fat with a mass of grizzled hair and, according to Raoul’s critical assessment, boorish and slovenly manners. They were all sumptuously dressed in rich vibrant colours. The various ladies too were a magnificent sight, light flashing from their many jewels.

  The bride herself, as Raoul had originally pictured her, seemed to be a modest, virtuous girl. As a symbol of her maidenly purity she was dressed, unlike the others, in pale blue and white. Her hair, a rich golden colour, was simply braided and left uncovered. She seemed to speak little, keeping her eyes down-cast. Yes, Raoul decided, she would have been a thoroughly boring wife and he was glad that someone else was getting her.

  At length, the feast drew towards its conclusion and Guennec’s men were invited up to sing. They rose obediently and came into the centre of the Hall. On either side, Raoul was conscious of the mass of people at the tables. Many wore the de Fresnay green and white badge on their tunics, others the bridegroom’s red and gold. Raoul was conscious of his shabbiness despite wearing the better of his two tunics and linen which was almost clean. At least Maeve had deemed it time to remove his bandages and his shoulder-length dark hair was, for once, neatly combed.

  While they sang, the bride looked up from her trencher. She appeared to examine each of them in turn. To his embarrassment, her gaze lingered on Raoul for some time. He tried to ignore her but felt his colour rise. She seemed to notice his discomfiture as she gave a half smile, then, to his relief, she looked away.

  When they finished there was enthusiastic applause and they resumed their seats. Another group of musicians were called upon now to play dance tunes. Everyone was welcome to join in; the dogs scuttled to safety under the tables as benches emptied and feet flew; soon the Hall was a laughing, dancing throng. Maeve hauled Raoul to his feet and swung him round enthusiastically. It was great fun. No-one appeared to care that the movement of the dance separated partners so that squires and scullions twirled round grand ladies and lords jigged with kitchen maids. Everyone whooped and stamped equally. At one point Raoul found himself again being critically examined by the lady from High Table. Did he imagine that she squeezed his hand as they passed in the chain? Surely not. He tried to catch her eye but she was gone now, at the far end of the Hall and the music was ending.

  “Phew!” Cof mopped his brow. “Do you want to go out and cool off?”

  “I’m not sure – can we?” Raoul asked, uncertain of the rules that applied to lesser folk in a gathering such as this.

  “Aye – no-one will notice. You can see, there’s a few missing from the side tables now. Their lordships’ll not notice and we’re done for tonight.”

  “Fine, yes.”

  “Bring your cup.”

  Raoul reached across for it and turned to follow Cof out of a side door. Maeve seemed about to protest but Guennec laid a hand on her arm and said something to her. She shrugged and Raoul moved away.

  Several of the revellers had come out into the courtyard. Most, Raoul noticed, were couples who seemed to have found convenient corners for kissing and cuddling – and in some cases rather more than that. He tried desperately not to look. Cof sat on the steps and patted the space beside him.

  “Give us a drink then,” he said.

  Raoul passed him the wine, feeling uneasy for reasons which he couldn’t explain. He continued to stand.

  Cof took the cup and drank deeply.

  “I’m glad you’re with us, Raoul,” he said. “Here, sit down – it’s your turn now. A shared cup, you know, is a pledge of friendship and I hope we’re going to be friends – very good friends.”

  Reluctantly, Raoul sat.

  “Of course we’re friends,” he agreed, a little too heartily.

  “There, put your lips where mine were and drink.”

  “I think I’ve had enough, actually. We’re to be up before dawn tomorrow to help the beaters with the game.”

  Cof laid his hand gently on the boy’s knee. Raoul froze.

  “One more little sip won’t hurt you,” he murmured, his lips close to Raoul’s cheek.

  “Thanks, Cof, but no.” He stood up hastily and ran back up the steps.

  A peal of mocking female laughter made him pause at the top. Damona was standing in the courtyard a short distance away.

  “What’s wrong with you two? Had a lovers’ tiff?” she jeered.

  “Shut up, stupid wench!” Cof flung down the cup and strode off towards their quarters, pushing her so viciously out of his way as he passed that she staggered and almost fell.

  “Are you all right?” Raoul hurried anxiously down to her.

  “Yes, no thanks to you.”

  “I’m sorry, it was my fault he was angry. I...I upset him somehow. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Better run after him then. Kiss and make up.”

  “Damona, I don’t understand what you mean. What are you saying?”

  “Are you really that innocent? Come on, now, who are you trying to fool? You monks are always at it.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Damona, will you please explain to me what you are talking about?”

  She sighed heavily and spoke as if she was speaking to a very small child.

  “Cof doesn’t like women. He likes other men. He wants you to be his special friend like Antoine was. Now let me go.”

  “No, wait a minute. What’s wrong with that? I like other men too – I had plenty of special friends at Valsemé: Brother Mark and Sergeant Bouchard and...”

  “Congratulations! I’m delighted for you. Personally I think it’s disgusting. But you have sex the way you want and I’ll have it the way I want.”

  “Sex?” he echoed, his grip on her shoulders tightening.

  “Yes, you know, what you do with your pizzle besides making water.”

  An exclamation of horrified surprise broke from him; his hands dropped and he backed away from her.

  “Do you mean....? Is that what...? Oh, my God!”

  Damona laughed uproariously.

  “You really didn’t know?”

  “I had no idea! Do you mean that there are really people who want to do that with other MEN?”

  “Plenty of them! And lots in Abbeys. I’m really amazed you haven’t noticed it before.”

  “Well I...I...I was at the castle more than at the Abbey, to tell you the truth.”

  “And the idea doesn’t appeal to you?”

  “No!”

  “You were keen eno
ugh to be Cleopatra.” She was watching him with a malicious grin. “We just assumed...”

  “That doesn’t mean that I...that I.... And poor Cof, what am I going to say to him? I like him, I really do; but how can I explain, without hurting his feelings, that I really don’t want to...be that sort of friend?”

  “Who knows?”

  She took a couple of steps towards him and looked up into his face, her eyes still full of amusement.

  “And you say the others – oh God, does everyone else think that I want to...want to...do that… with men?”

  “I expect they’re waiting to see what happens between you and Cof.”

  “Is there nothing I can do to convince them? Quickly?”

  “I suggest that you show us all that your interests lie elsewhere.”

  “Good idea, yes.”

  “And you can start by coming back into the Hall and dancing with me. Unless I get a better offer, of course.”

  “Right, yes, willingly. Thank you.”

  She took his hand and led him back up the steps into the noise and smoke. Maeve and Guennec smiled and waved from their bench. The High Table was empty now; the family had retired to their own apartments.

  “Come along, then.”

  Raoul was all too aware that in the dance he would be holding her, pressed against her, putting his arm round her waist. He swallowed hard and hoped that his hands weren’t sweaty. He must remember she was Guennec’s daughter, must consider her as a sister. He reached out to take her hand.

  “Too late!” she exclaimed cheerfully.

  A bold faced young soldier wearing the de Fresnay badge seized her arm and swept her away.

  “Another time,” she gave a mischievous grin, “Bye-bye... toad-face!”

  He blushed hotly as she called him her favourite name. He stood and cursed his naivety and stupid sensitivity.

  “We’re turning in now, Raoul, are you coming?”

  Jean, Pol and Maeve were heading for the door. Guennec waited by Raoul.

  “Yes, fine. Will Damona...?”

  “Leave her, lad,” Guennec said. “She’ll be out half the night and she’ll sleep half the day. There’s no point in fretting about her.”