The herald rode forward and blew three sharp blasts on his bugle. The first bout, he announced would be between two noble champions. The crowd grew restless as he went on to give elaborate descriptions of each man’s prowess and a list of his most notable feats in the field of battle. There was some booing and jeers and one or two shouts of “Get on with it!” which the mounted man stoically ignored. Before very long, however, he blew another loud trumpet blast, rode to the side of the arena, and gave the signal for the fight to begin.
As he watched the glossy horses galloping the length of the field, saw the two knights levelling their lances and closing together, Raoul longed to be out there with them. Around him the crowd called and cheered, jeering a poor hit, shouting for their man to do well. He was as good as that, better, Raoul thought bitterly. He could have unseated the Montglane knight in the first charge instead of making three attempts and then falling off himself. And as for their swordsmanship, why, he’d been better than that when he was twelve years old.
Bout after bout was staged, each with the same elaborate introduction from the herald. Some of the Bonnebosq knights were clearly popular with the people as they were cheered and applauded enthusiastically. One, who rode a powerful black horse, seemed to be a prime favourite. Certainly he beat his opponent without difficulty. To Raoul, however, his seat was poor, his lance imperfectly controlled and his swordsmanship lacking in both flair and style. Clearly Sergeant Bouchard had been a better teacher than Raoul, at the time, had appreciated.
Finally it was the last part of the contest, the mêlée. This, more than the earlier fights, really got the crowd excited. People were reminding each other of previous disasters they had witnessed – about how this young Lord had been trampled to death, how another had broken both legs and a third had lost his temper and slain four men before the heralds could intervene. Comments flew about Baron de Montglane – all agreed that he looked like a mounted flour sack and that if his skill with arms was no better than his table manners, his father-in-law would defeat him in the first clash. Initially each man was paired for the joust. Once dismounted any knight could fight any other. Their tunic badges and shields showed to which side they belonged.
Everything was ready. The bugle rang out, the crowd held its breath.
“Laissez aller!” the herald shouted, from a safe distance.
Raoul’s blood stirred as the ground shuddered beneath the flying hooves. There was a thunderous crash as lance met shield and the knights roared out their battle-cries. Félice’s father, broad and solid on a grey destrier, was unmistakable. To everyone’s surprise and disappointment the bridegroom parried his lance-blow with apparent ease and wheeled his horse unscathed for the second exchange. While all around them men were unhorsed and sword-fights raged, these two held everyone’s eyes. Raoul glanced at Félice. She was sitting forward in her seat now, her lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes avid. Even at this distance her excitement was palpable. This was the woman he had known. Who did she want to win? Raoul wondered.
“Hubert’s down!” came a cry.
Raoul looked back at the field. Sure enough, the bridegroom was off his horse and struggling to his feet. His future father-in-law swiftly dismounted and drew his sword. It seemed to have been agreed that these two should simply fight each other. On foot, however, Montglane was no match for his opponent. He appeared to be tiring rapidly and there were catcalls and increasingly lewd comments as his defence became more and more perfunctory. Before long, de Fresnay’s sword point was on his throat and he signalled his surrender.
Raoul joined in enthusiastically with the jeering abuse which echoed round the arena. Another glance at Félice’s face showed without doubt that she was far from happy at her fiancé’s humiliation at her father’s hands. She schooled her face into indifference as the herald rode forward to announce the final results.
Despite the courage and skill of all those who had taken part, he declared, the contest had been narrowly won by the knights of Montglane. There was a groan of disappointment from the crowd.
“Fix! Cheat!” came the disgusted cries.
Louis de Fresnay held up his hands for silence and rose to his feet.
“My friends, it is fitting that our noble guest should win the honours today,” he proclaimed. He waited while a murmur of discontent subsided. “As you know, the prize is his already.” He took Félice’s hand in his. “I give this cherished child together with her generous dowry to you, baron, as a pledge of love and life-long alliance.”
There was another trumpet blast and obediently the crowd cheered and applauded – with less than complete conviction, Raoul privately thought.
De Montglane mounted the steps up to the platform and took the girl’s hand in his, kissed it once then let it drop. A squire approached with an ornate golden cup and knelt to present it. Ignoring his bride completely, the baron drained its contents in a single draft. Poor Félice, Raoul thought, it was obviously meant to be a ceremonial loving cup. He hadn’t even offered her any! Raoul turned away and, along with most of the crowd, started to make his way back towards the castle.
In the courtyard, to his surprise, he found Guennec, Pol and Cof displaying their skills as acrobats and jugglers to an admiring and growing audience. Raoul hurried over to Maeve who, seated at one side, was holding a bowl for any tokens of appreciation.
“I’m sorry. Should I have been here?” he asked anxiously. “I thought we weren’t performing until tomorrow afternoon – apart from songs, that is.”
“You’re all right, lad. The boys here don’t think much to such sport. Jean’s still there and young Connell’s with him but the others aren’t so keen. And you can often get quite a bit from the folks once they’ve come away. Thank you, sir!” Maeve bobbed her head gratefully as someone dropped a handful of small coins into her bowl. “God bless you. Did you enjoy it yourself?”
“It was all right. The swordsmanship was poor.”
“Oh, it was, was it?”
Before Raoul could react, he was grabbed from behind and hauled backwards.
“Get his dagger,” snarled a voice and Raoul struggled helplessly as someone removed the weapon from his belt.
“Now then, you little toad, I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll be unlikely to forget!”
‘Why toad again?’ he thought fleetingly as he was flung viciously forwards, landing heavily on his hands and knees. A booted foot thudded into his ribs and he sprawled in the dirt. Before the next blow could connect he somehow managed to collect his wits, spinning hastily aside and springing to his feet. His assailant, Lady Félice’s groom, he suddenly realised, lowered his head and charged. Raoul side-stepped nimbly and swung round to face him.
“I see,” Gaston panted, “you still don’t know your place, is that it?”
He whipped out his dagger and advanced purposefully, eyes gleaming with fury.
“Raoul! Here!”
Acting almost instinctively, Raoul stretched out his hand and caught the weapon which Cof had sent flying towards him. Without hesitation he sprang forward to grapple with his attacker.
Around them Raoul was dimly aware that a circle of spectators had gathered. He could not afford to relax his concentration for a second. Gaston the groom was bigger than he was, heavier and more powerfully built. Raoul was very much more agile and seemed to be able to think faster than his opponent. They scuffled and wrestled, each trying to force the other to drop his weapon. For some time they were evenly matched, neither gaining the advantage then a thrust by Gaston caught Raoul in the upper left arm, missing his heart by a fraction of a second. He dropped to his knees with a cry of pain and Gaston leapt triumphantly to deliver the final fatal blow. With lightning speed, Raoul ducked and twisted round, pinning the other man beneath him. He pressed his dagger point against the groom’s throat.
“I win, I think,” Raoul said softly, the blade just breaking the skin so that a trickle of blood appeared.
“Stop there!” came an impe
rious voice.
Raoul looked round. Lord de Fresnay was addressing him.
“Get up, both of you.”
The two rose to their feet. Blood seeping from Raoul’s wound was starting to run down his arm.
“Bind that, someone.”
Maeve ran forward with a kerchief which she knotted tightly in place. Raoul murmured his thanks.
“Who started this fight?” Lord de Fresnay demanded imperiously.
“He did, my lord,” Gaston said. “I heard him slandering our noble warriors. He deserved a whipping.”
“A whipping? Perhaps. But since when has it been honourable to draw a dagger on an unarmed man?”
“He’s not unarmed,” Gaston muttered sullenly, fingering the graze on his throat.
“Do not lie to me. I saw what occurred, young man! This is your groom, my dear, is it not?”
Raoul now noticed Félice who was standing beside her grandfather, her face animated and amused. There was no sign of the baron. Presumably he was disarming and bathing with his knights.
“Yes, Grandfather. And I am deeply displeased with him. To pick upon the poor young minstrel boy who sang so sweetly in the Hall last night and kindly helped with the hunt this morning. It’s quite outrageous!”
Gaston’s fists clenched in impotent fury.
“Is that who the boy is? What do you wish me to do, my dear?”
“Send the wretched groom packing at once. I couldn’t bear to have him near me now,” Félice said.
De Fresnay gestured to two of the guards who immediately seized Gaston and led him protesting away.
“As for his victim,” Félice stepped forward and regarded Raoul with sympathetic concern. “I shall tend his wound myself.”
“Really, my dear, is that quite necessary?”
“It’s the least I can do,” she insisted. “Squire,” she turned to address one of the attendants, “bring the boy to my solar shortly, if you please.”
“Certainly, my lady.”
“Come inside now, my dear, and take some refreshment.”
“Of course, Grandfather.”
Félice took the old man’s arm and they mounted the steps up to the Hall.
“Do you know, my dear, that boy reminds me of someone,” Raoul heard him saying as they moved away, “but I cannot think who it can be.”
Chapter Six
“Are you all right, Raoul?”
Daniel Guennec came forward and put his arm round him.
“Yes, yes,” Raoul re-assured him. “I don’t think the wound’s very deep.”
The others had also gathered round including Jean and Connell who had evidently arrived back from the lists in time to see the fight. Only Damona was absent.
“You were great!” Connell exclaimed. “I wish I could do that!”
He danced around them, mimicking the movements of wrestling and stabbing.
“I owe my life to you, Cof,” Raoul said quietly. “Without a dagger I didn’t have a chance.”
“My pleasure,” Cof replied, holding out his hand with a smile. “Happy to help a comrade.”
“Thanks.” Raoul took his hand and clasped it warmly.
“Excuse me.” The squire whom Lady Félice had spoken to tapped Raoul on the shoulder. “Are you ready to accompany me now?” he asked. “Lady Félice does not care to be kept waiting.”
“Lead on,” Raoul told him with a bashful grin. The mummers exchanged laughing glances.
“I just hope she knows something about tending wounds,” Maeve exclaimed. “You let me look at it when you come back, you hear?”
“If he does come back,” Pol laughed. “She might eat him alive.”
“Have a care,” Guennec said to Pol. “Keep your wits about you, Raoul. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“This way, if you please,” the squire told him.
Raoul followed him up the steps to the Hall.
Félice de Fresnay’s solar was very different from that belonging to Raoul’s grandmother. It was a much bigger room altogether. There were two windows with painted wooden shutters, now closed, and red velvet cushions on the window-seats. There were also various chairs and stools, similarly cushioned, and a vast bed with red hangings and thick fur covers. Torches blazed in the sconces and there were numerous wrought iron stands for tall wax candles all of which had been lit. The walls were hung with colourful embroidered hangings which glowed in the bright light.
To Raoul’s surprise and discomfiture there were seven or eight women in the room besides Félice. Some looked like maid servants but the others were the expensively dressed matrons whom Raoul had seen at High Table – her mother? Her aunts? They were engaged in folding various garments into the ornately carved oak chests which seemed to be everywhere.
“The young minstrel, my lady,” the squire announced.
“Good, thank you.” Félice put down the gown she was holding. “Dominique, fetch warm water and a wash cloth. Marie, get some clean linen and Lady Isabelle, please bring the box of salves. The rest of you, go now.”
Instantly everyone stopped what they were doing and hurried out of the room. They all, whoever they were, seemed to obey Félice without question.
“Take your tunic off, Raoul, and sit there.” She indicated to a seat beside a large table.
He untied Maeve’s kerchief and began to remove his tunic and undershirt, wincing a little as he lifted his arm. Fresh blood began to flow from the cut as he sat down. The first girl had returned with a basin of water and Félice efficiently set about bathing the wound. She seemed to be wholly engaged in her present task. Raoul found himself wondering if he had misread her intentions.
When the lady brought the medicine chest Félice appeared to know exactly what was required. She thanked her and sent her away, then, having selected the appropriate pot, she smeared a piece of dry cloth with a noxious looking mixture and set it in place over Raoul’s arm.
“Hold that, please,” she told him.
She took a piece of linen from the other servant and using her sharp white teeth, tore it swiftly into strips which she bound tightly round Raoul’s arm and shoulder.
“That should do now,” she said.
“Thank you, my lady,” Raoul said, getting to his feet and reaching for his clothes.
“Don’t be in such a hurry!” She looked up at him with a wicked grin. “A little... rest... is needed now – just to make sure the bleeding has stopped.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I hope you do.”
Raoul’s heartbeat quickened in excited anticipation.
“Marie, take all this away,” she indicated to the water and wet cloths. “Dominique, the door.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the girls in unison.
One gathered up the soiled articles, the other held aside the curtain and opened the solar door.
“Dominique will ensure that we are not interrupted,” Félice explained.
“Oh.”
“Now, go over to the bed, little minstrel.” She propelled him gently across the room. “We’ll draw the curtains, to keep out draughts and prying eyes. You must just lie back and keep quite still. We don’t want you hurting that arm with any excessive exertions.”
He did as she told him, watching while she pulled the drapes closed, shutting them into a tent of ruby darkness. He could still dimly see her as she lifted her skirts and straddled him. Then, when he felt her reaching for the drawstring at his waist, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to pleasure.
“My lady.”
The serving girl’s voice jolted Raoul out of a light doze.
“What is it?”
Félice didn’t sound particularly alarmed.
“Squire Ricard is here. He says you told him to visit you at Nones.”
“So I did!” she said with a chuckle. “Tell him to make it Nones tomorrow instead.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Is it really only Nones?” That would make
it late afternoon. “It feels like night here in this cosy darkness,” Raoul said, pressing her close to him. “I wish I could stay with you all night.” He stroked his hand down the length of her body. “And I wish you could take this gown off.”
“You’re getting greedy,” she said, touching his lips gently with hers.
“Perhaps.”
“Careful, now,” she said, as he rolled her over onto her back. “You’ll make that wound bleed.”
“Then you’ll just have to bind it up for me again. I mean, it’s the least you can do.”
She gave a gurgle of laughter.
“All right then,” she said, “if you really insist...”
“My lady. It’s late.”
Again it was the serving girl’s voice.
“You’ll have to go now, Raoul.”
This time Félice climbed swiftly off the bed and pulled back the curtains.
Raoul roused himself with difficulty. She tossed his undershirt and tunic to him and he sat up to pull them on, fumbling as if his fingers were all thumbs. He felt as if he could sleep for a week.
“What a mess you are!” she exclaimed. “Here, let me.” She picked up a comb and briskly pulled it through his tousled hair. “There, that’s more like it. Who do you get your looks from, Raoul?”
“I don’t really know. My parents died soon after I was born. My grandmother, perhaps, though I can’t see it myself.”
“I should think she broke some hearts, then. Now, can you find your way back to your quarters?”
“If I say ‘no’ do I get to stay here?”
She laughed. “No, you do not! All the clucking hens’ll be back shortly and I must change my dress. Incidentally, Raoul, don’t dine with the others in the Hall tonight. I’ll send some food up for you. It’ll give me a reason to check on your wound in the morning. You don’t mind missing the hunt, do you?”
“No. If I can be sure of cornering the same quarry here in the castle.”
“Outrageous.” She bent her head and kissed him. “Yes, of course you can! One look from those wicked eyes of yours and I’ll just surrender. You’re a lucky boy!”
The Rightful Heir Page 8