The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  “My lady, hurry.”

  This time Dominique came into the room instead of merely calling from the doorway. She was frowning anxiously.

  “Don’t fret, he’s going now! Till tomorrow, little minstrel. You’ll do as I said?”

  “I shall endeavour to obey and please you in all things, most gracious lady.”

  Raoul swept a flourishing bow and backed towards the door. Her peal of appreciative laughter followed him down the stairs to the lower floor. In the Hall the servants were already setting out the tables and benches for the evening meal. Up a few shallow steps to the left, as he reached the end of the Hall, Raoul could see Lord de Fresnay, the baron and various of the other noblemen drinking and sampling various sweetmeats which were being handed round by pages. He hurried past the curtained entrance, hoping to escape notice.

  “Hoy, you there, boy!” Louis de Fresnay had spotted him.

  “Yes, my lord?” Raoul entered the room cautiously.

  It was a spacious richly furnished salon, like nothing at Valsemé.

  “How’s the wound? Has my granddaughter tended your needs?”

  “Yes, sir.” Raoul found himself unable to meet the old man’s eyes. He prayed that he wouldn’t blush.

  “Félice’s groom jumped the boy – attacked him unprovoked – it was a bad business.”

  “Unprovoked?” Baron de Montglane’s attention was caught.

  Raoul wished the floor would open up and swallow him.

  De Fresnay winked at him.

  “What was it? You were saying something about our noble warriors, weren’t you?”

  “Well, sir, I...”

  “He’s one of the minstrels, my granddaughter says. Do you belong to the local lot or the ones from Brittany?”

  “I’m with Guennec’s Men, sir – the Bretons.”

  “Montglane, help me out. Does the boy remind you of someone? He does me and I can’t place it.”

  To Raoul’s considerable dismay the baron roared with laughter.

  “I wonder you’ve a moment’s doubt, my lord! You heard the boy say he was Breton – he’s one of de Metz’s bastards – you know, Armand of Radenoc. No doubt about it! You’ve only got to look at him.”

  Knowing that protests and explanations would be equally pointless, and suddenly realising why his grandmother had latterly been reluctant to look him in the face, Raoul stood frozen.

  “That’s it, of course,” Louis exclaimed. “I only met Lord Armand once – when poor Prince Henri’s ship was lost back in ‘20.” He paused for a moment frowning. “But it’s not a face you forget and I had particular cause to observe him. There, now, the boy’s offended. Don’t worry, lad,” the old man continued kindly, “noble blood, whatever the source, is worth having even when it’s mixed with the baser kind. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” Raoul muttered.

  “Run along now, boy. And rest that arm. You’re looking a bit pale.”

  Needing no further prompting, Raoul fled.

  To Raoul’s relief, Félice kept her word about sending up provisions. Some of the mummers, especially Damona, had been sceptical and Raoul, inevitably, was ravenously hungry. Shortly after the others had left the loft to go across to the Hall, a scullion brought a basket of tempting foodstuffs from the kitchen, along with a brimming jug of wine.

  That night he had no difficulty at all in falling asleep. He had gorged himself on the most luxurious fare he had ever tasted, morsels of goose, venison and beef, each in its own spiced or piquant sauces, accompanied by the best white manchet bread and washed down with a smooth red wine. His arm hurt a little and there was a faint nagging worry about what Lord de Montglane had said about his great uncle Armand, but his body was so replete with sensual pleasure that it was easy enough to banish both and drift away into the depths of slumber. He was sleeping soundly long before any of the others returned.

  When he awoke the next morning, everyone except Damona was already up and gone, helping with the hunt as on the previous day. The girl lay asleep at the far end of the loft, her dark hair just visible above her coverlet.

  Raoul stretched. His arm felt stiff and the wound was sore although Maeve had been satisfied by his account of its treatment. Would Félice visit him? He went and relieved himself then lay wrapped in his blanket, remembering the extraordinary events of the previous day, aroused again just by the thought of them.

  He must have drifted back to sleep. The light in the loft was stronger and there were footsteps and voices on the stair outside.

  Félice and her two maidservants entered the room. One was carrying pieces of linen and a pot of salve, the other a tray containing a basin of something hot, several fresh white rolls and a flagon of drink. Raoul sat up hastily.

  “Good morning, little minstrel. How’s the wound today?”

  “It is a little painful, my lady, but I’m sure you will know how to ease it.”

  She met his eyes, the laughter in their depths mirrored by the twinkling demon in hers. She chuckled.

  “I will do what I can,” she assured him. “You two, set the things down by the boy’s bed then return to the packing. I don’t need you anymore.”

  The girls did as she had said then curtsied and left, closing the rough wooden door behind them.

  “Now then, Raoul, eat the pottage while it’s hot,” Félice said, passing him the basin and a spoon. “You must keep up your strength.”

  “Who’s there?” Damona’s sleepy face emerged from her nest of blankets. “Oh.” A look of astonishment and alarm replaced her frown of irritation.

  “Up you get, wench,” said Félice, “you can be useful to me.”

  Damona scrambled hastily to her feet. She was wearing only her shift, its neckline loose, her breasts almost fully exposed. Her hair tumbled chaotically down her back in a tangle of curls. Raoul paused, watching her, the spoonful of tasty broth momentarily forgotten.

  “Put a gown on, girl, and find your comb.” Félice glanced at Raoul and smiled knowingly. He quickly resumed eating.

  Damona pulled the russet kirtle from a heap of clothing and hurriedly dragged it over her head. A comb proved more elusive but she eventually unearthed one from among her mother’s possessions. Surprisingly, for Damona, she said nothing, merely obeying Félice’s instructions.

  “Now then, take some bread and go and sit on the steps outside. You may break your fast then comb and braid your hair. The morning is dry but a little chilly so I should take a shawl with you.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Put your shoes on first.”

  It was as if Damona was trying to get out of the loft as quickly as possible.

  “How long should I sit there, my lady?”

  “Until I have finished here, of course. If anyone asks for me, say that I changed the dressing on your friend’s wound then went out to join the hunt. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Damona shot a look at Raoul but it was impossible for him to read her expression.

  The girl shuffled into her shoes, grabbed a couple of the rolls and fled.

  “That was very fortunate,” Félice said cheerfully, pushing the door closed behind Damona. “One of my maids waiting outside would simply draw attention to my presence. This way we’re completely safe. Have you finished your pottage?”

  “I’ve had quite enough. I think I should concentrate on something else now.”

  He set the basin down and watched with growing excitement as Félice removed her hooded cloak; she then unlaced and pulled off first her gown then her shift.

  “Now, little minstrel, off with your shirt and let’s see if you can keep us both warm.”

  Shivering slightly, she slipped in beside him, under the blanket, and he took her into his arms.

  “Raoul.”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  Félice giggled.

  “You don’t need to be quite so formal at the moment.”

  She lifted her head from where it was pressed agains
t his smooth bare chest and regarded him with a little frown.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You’re a bit of a mystery to me, Raoul. You’re a minstrel. But you clearly haven’t always been one. In fact I’d swear you’re of gentle birth. Am I right?”

  “I told you before. My parents died when I was a baby. I was brought up by my grandmother.”

  “And who was she?”

  “You ask too many questions,” Raoul said. “It’s not fair. Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes. As long as it’s not about the baron.”

  “Who’s Squire Ricard?”

  “Just a friend of mine.”

  “The same sort of friend as me?”

  “Now who’s asking too many questions? Raoul, my lovely boy, I must leave you now, I’m afraid.”

  “Stay a little longer.” He took her hand and drew it down his body. “I’m sure I can find you something which will please you.”

  Félice chuckled appreciatively.

  “Your powers of recovery are extraordinary, my dear, but I really do have to go. And I’ve still to look at your arm.”

  “Oh, but my lady, there’s another sore part which needs much more urgent treatment.” He gave a realistic groan.

  “You’re incorrigible.” Félice sighed resignedly and kissed him. “One last time then, but this is really, positively the last.”

  A while later Félice reluctantly unwrapped herself from his arms and put on her clothes.

  “Now, let’s see that wound,” she said, kneeling beside him and unwinding the bandages. “Yes, that looks to be healing well.”

  She smeared some more of the salve onto a clean cloth and bound it back in place.

  “Ask someone to change the dressing every day or two but don’t wash it for a couple of weeks in case it becomes infected.”

  “Won’t you be doing it yourself, then?” Raoul asked. He pulled on his drawers and reached for his shirt and tunic.

  “No, my dear, I won’t.” She sat back on her heels and looked at him regretfully as he dressed. “When I said that was the last time I truly meant it.”

  Raoul caught her hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “Why?” he said. “Have I not pleased you?”

  She smiled into his eyes.

  “You know quite well that you have,” she said with a short laugh. “No, my dear, I leave at day-break tomorrow with all the most important members of my family to travel down to Chinon. Then on All Saints’ Day I shall marry the Baron de Montglane.”

  “I don’t like to think of it.”

  “I dare say I shall find...consolation. Perhaps I should take you with me as my own personal minstrel.”

  “Or one of your ladies in waiting.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Watch our play this afternoon and you’ll find out.”

  “How intriguing.”

  “Félice.” He stood up and took both her hands in his. “Will you tell me something?”

  “Of course. If I can. Don’t look so troubled.” She freed a hand and smoothed his hair back from his face.

  “You asked me who I looked like and said that I was lucky and that you couldn’t resist my wicked eyes or something.”

  “So I did – but I’m not coming back to bed again if that’s what you want.”

  “No, no. I mean, I’d love to, but that wasn’t what I was going to say.”

  “What then?”

  “Am I...quite pleasant looking? Attractive, even? Not too ugly? Not like a toad?”

  “Oh Raoul, Raoul.” She reached up and took his face between her hands. “You are the silliest, sweetest boy. Far from being ugly you’ve a face that women would kill for!”

  “I look effeminate, you mean? Like a girl?” He frowned and tried to pull away.

  “No! No, that’s not what I meant at all. I mean you could have any female you wanted just by...by giving her one of your lovely smiles. At the risk of making you big-headed I would say you’re the most handsome young man I’ve ever seen. And,” she paused to kiss him then continued with a naughty grin, “you can be certain that I’ve seen quite a few.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “My most solemn oath on it.” She kissed him again. “And now I must go.”

  She picked up her cloak and swung it round her shoulders. Raoul fastened it under her chin.

  “Are you still going hunting?”

  Under the cloak she was wearing the dark green full-skirted gown that she had worn the previous morning.

  “But, of course I am.”

  “Why ‘of course’?”

  “I’ve just chosen myself a new groom.” She looked up at Raoul with wide innocent eyes. “I have to try his paces, don’t I?”

  He hugged her to him, laughing.

  “And you called me incorrigible!” he exclaimed. “Off you go, you baggage! I hope you have a happy life.”

  “I mean to do my very best. And remember, if your troupe is ever passing near Chinon, you must come and entertain my household. And I can check on that arm and see if there’s a scar.”

  “If there is, my lady, I shall consider it to be an emblem of my service to you!” He swept one of his elaborate bows. “And yes, I will visit you if I can.”

  She touched his lips with her forefinger, her eyes suddenly full of tears.

  “Good luck, little minstrel. I shan’t forget you.”

  She pulled up the hood of her cloak and turned towards the door, opening it and hurrying through without a backward glance. He heard her say something to Damona but as the girl didn’t come back into the loft, Raoul lay down again on his bed. To think he had dismissed Félice de Fresnay as a potential wife because she looked boringly virtuous! Beautiful though she was, he still didn’t think he would like to marry her. He supposed she might be different with him but certainly if she behaved as she was doing at present you could never be sure that your children were your own. He could almost feel sorry for the baron.

  That afternoon, the play enacted by Guennec’s Men in the Great Hall of Bonnebosq was the Breton tale of King Gradlon and the fabulous city of Is. Publicly enacting the role of the beautiful dissolute princess for the first time, Raoul found a new understanding for the girl. Dahut was rather like Félice, if you thought about it. Neither relished the prospect of the respectable dynastic marriages in store for them and sought out their own pleasure instead. Dahut had been unlucky not to have realised that the handsome young man, played by Cof Le Braz, was really the Devil. And when it came to it, her father the King was prepared to sacrifice her without a thought in order to save himself.

  Women were just pawns, Raoul thought, as he came forward to take his bow at the end of the play. His eyes lingered on Félice who sat dutifully between her father and her fiancé. He caught the gleam of a smile and she raised a hand, apparently in appreciation of all their playing. Raoul bowed and, following the others, went off to remove the elaborate gown and long auburn wig which went with the part.

  “Well done, Raoul,” Guennec said. “You spoke your lines with great conviction.”

  “Thanks,” Raoul said, scrubbing his face clean of paint. He checked in the mirror to see that all the black stuff was gone from his eyes. It was awful to get off. Last time, as Cleopatra, he had only worn a mask.

  “Daniel...” Raoul had addressed Guennec by his first name without thinking.

  “Yes, lad?”

  Relieved that he didn’t seem to be annoyed, Raoul continued. “Are we singing in the Hall tonight?”

  “Aye. Will you be joining us then?” Guennec grinned.

  “If he’s ‘up’ to it,” Pol teased, digging him in the ribs.

  “Or will he be having some more personal attention from her ladyship?”

  Even Cof was joining in, not seeming the least upset or offended. Raoul laughed.

  “Unfortunately not. I just wondered if I could sing a ballad I know which seems sort of...appropriate.” He explained which song h
e meant.

  “It’s a bit dangerous, lad,” Guennec said. “Is it wise?”

  “That bridegroom can’t see beyond the end of his own nose if you ask me,” Maeve said, folding their costumes away. “You sing it, boy. Your lady’ll like it.”

  It certainly seemed as if she did. That night, in Raoul’s eyes, Félice de Fresnay looked lovelier than ever. She wore a low cut gown of wine-red silk with matching ribbons threaded amongst her braids. She didn’t wear a veil but round her brow a gold circlet was placed, set with rubies. More rubies glowed in a gold collar round her throat.

  ‘Like Princess Dahut,’ Raoul thought, remembering the bed with its red velvet hangings.

  By her side the baron seemed indifferent to his prize. He had obviously been enthusiastically emptying the wine jugs. By the time the banquet was finished and the minstrels called up to sing, he was snoozing in his chair, his head lolling onto Félice’s shoulder. She contemptuously ignored him.

  First Guennec’s troupe all sang together, roundelays and merry wedding songs. The diners joined in with the choruses and clapped their hands in time to the beat. Then after a while Guennec indicated to Raoul to stand in front and struck a melodic chord on his lute. Montglane snored on, oblivious.

  Raoul looked Félice straight in the eyes and began to sing unaccompanied in his sweet clear voice. The ballad told of the bored wife of a nobleman who went out on the first holy day of the year and spotted a young minstrel boy who took her fancy. She persuaded him home to her bed but they were unfortunately found there by the lady’s husband. He, of course, slew the minstrel but when he asked his wife which she preferred the answer was not at all to his liking.

  “I’d rather a kiss from the minstrel’s cold lips

  Than you and your fin-er-y,” Raoul sang.

  There was a murmur of laughter round the hall. When the song ended with the unfortunate lady also dead but with the dubious privilege of being buried uppermost, “for she is of noble kin,” there was a storm of applause and considerable laughter, not least from Félice herself. Ignoring where she was sitting or who could see, she smiled warmly at Raoul and blew him a kiss, to the obvious consternation of her father.