Raoul bowed, turned and walked straight out of the Hall, not waiting to see if the baron had stirred in his drunken slumber.
The next morning Raoul did not go down into the courtyard to wave off the cavalcade which left soon after dawn. He would rather cherish the final picture he had had of her, resplendent in her crimson gown.
A little later the minstrels packed their wagon, hitched up the oxen and set off once more on their way. They had reached the village when the castle steward came hurrying after them.
“My lady asked me to give the young man this,” he said, handing Raoul a fat leather purse. “And also to express her warmest thanks.”
Raoul blushed scarlet.
“I don’t want...I don’t need...”
“Don’t be a fool, lad.” Seeing that Raoul was about to angrily refuse the purse, Guennec laid a hand on his arm. “You’re not the young master now, you know. Pride’s a luxury folks like us can’t afford. Fat purses buy good dinners.”
“Sorry.” Raoul hesitated for a moment and then took the bag from the steward. “Thank you.”
He waited until the man was out of earshot.
“Daniel, will you take this, please. You should have had more than you got in Valsemé. It was my fault you didn’t, don’t ask me why. Please take it.”
“Very well. Thank you. But here...” He fished a coin from the purse and handed it to Raoul. It was a gold one, they both noticed in surprise. “I reckon you’ve earned this.”
There were laughing murmurs of agreement from everyone except Damona as they set off up the road.
Chapter Seven
Over the next few days, as they travelled slowly through the densely wooded country south of Bonnebosq, Raoul found himself thinking about his future. When he had escaped from his grandmother’s oppressive rule at Valsemé, that, at the time, had been an end in itself. Joining the mummers had been a convenient way of disappearing, of eluding possible pursuit and capture. While he had thoroughly enjoyed performing and singing with them, had he seriously expected to stay with them for more than a short while? He hadn’t thought about it then, but now he did.
The weather turned wet the day that they left the castle. Following the others’ example, Raoul draped a length of sacking over his head and shoulders and plodded stoically along beside the slow moving ox-cart. Everyone’s spirits seemed to be subdued. Cof, for obvious reasons, no longer courted his attention and Damona avoided him completely. This left him alone with his reflections.
Félice had said he was a puzzle, a misfit, and so he was. Her grandfather had mentioned the benefits of noble birth – he wasn’t exactly experiencing them now, was he? Was he demeaning himself by being in this company? Should he in fact go to La Tournerie and claim kinship as he had said he would in the letter to his grandmother? Etienne de Buci might welcome him with open arms. Raoul was unsure exactly where the castle lay, somewhere in southern Normandy, he thought – perhaps Guennec’s Men were even now on their way there – in which case making himself known to his cousin would seem to be God’s will.
On the afternoon of the third day a brisk breeze broke up the heavy grey clouds and the rain stopped. While the sun was out, Maeve elected to walk rather than ride beside her husband, and Raoul asked Guennec if he could sit in her place for a while.
“Of course you can, lad,” he replied, stretching down a hand to help the boy climb aboard.
He waited until Raoul was settled and a few moments had passed then gave the boy a searching look.
“Are you just being companionable or did you want to ask me something?” he said.
“Well...” Raoul hesitated, unsure how to begin. “There is something I’ve been wondering about...If I decided that I wanted to leave the troupe, you’d be able to find someone else to take my place, wouldn’t you?”
“I expect we should have to.”
“What I mean is, I’ve signed no agreement – there are no vows or contracts or anything that I’d be breaking, are there?”
“You are under no formal obligation to stay with us, no.” Guennec’s tone was stern. “We work as a team with mutual regard and mutual trust. To me that is a stronger bond – perhaps to you it is not.”
Abashed, Raoul sat silently for a while.
“If you were thinking of going after Félice de Fresnay, I should reconsider, if I were you. That would be a good way of losing your head, in more ways than one.”
“No, no. I wouldn’t want to do that,” Raoul protested. “I’m not that stupid.”
“So what are you considering?” Guennec’s voice, while not unkind, held a note of cynicism. “Running home to your auntie?”
“Who?” He met Guennec’s quizzical look. “Oh. You know who I am, then.”
“It was pretty obvious, lad. I remembered you from earlier visits – a bright boy, keen to learn all our tricks, that dark hair and green eyes, suddenly missing this time. Who else could you be? If the young master had died, somebody in the castle would have told us. You’re Lady Eleanor’s younger brother’s boy. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Er...yes. I suppose they all know, then, do they?”
“Maeve does. No-one else. The others don’t notice as much; Pol’s only been with us three years, Damona has...other concerns. We can keep secrets – if we wish to.”
“So why do you think I left, if you know so much?” Raoul demanded rather aggressively.
Guennec put a hand on his arm.
“That’s your business, boy. You did what you felt you had to do. If you now feel you must go back, do it. You must follow your own conscience, Master Bouillet.”
“Bouillet was my mother’s name,” Raoul muttered. “My real name is de Metz like Lady Eleanor.”
“Fine, lad. But don’t expect me to start bowing and calling you “sir”. As far as I’m concerned you’re a boy who sings well and shows some talent for acting – and who is the most junior member of my troupe.”
“Yes, of course...I didn’t mean you should...I just wanted you to know...And I’m not going back to her, not ever.”
“What then?”
“Do you ever visit a castle called La Tournerie?”
“We have done, yes. It’s not that far from here.”
Raoul gripped his hands tightly together.
“Are you...we... heading there now?”
“Why? What’s so special about the place?”
“It’s...I’ve relations there.”
“Well, of course you have! I should have remembered. Etienne de Buci’s your uncle, isn’t he? He’s Lady Eleanor’s older brother.” He looked at Raoul narrowly. “That is right, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.” Raoul swallowed hard. “So are we going there?”
“Not now.”
Raoul rounded on him. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “You won’t go there because of me?”
Guennec chuckled. “You must stop thinking of yourself as so important, young Raoul. When I said ‘not now’ I meant that we do not visit there at this time of year – it’s off our route, you see. La Tournerie is south-east of here. At present we are heading due south to the Abbey at St. Hilaire, then we go somewhat towards the west to Rennes and eventually to our winter home near Vannes. If we visit La Tournerie it’s on our way into Normandy, in the spring.”
“Oh. I see.”
Another silence fell. Raoul gazed at the broad backs of the oxen without really seeing them. He felt overwhelmed with disappointment. For a moment he had thought that everything was going to fall into place. But it wasn’t so, at least, not yet. Could it in the spring?
“What did you have in mind?” Guennec asked gently, breaking into Raoul’s thoughts.
“Well, I would like to be...a knight.” Guennec glanced towards him with raised brows. “I know it sounds unlikely. But I thought that if we...when we went to La Tournerie I could ask my...my uncle if he’d give me...let me...”
“Take you in as one of his household, help you to win your spur
s under his command?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s it. Exactly.”
“Tell me, Raoul,” Guennec’s voice was quiet and gentle, “why were you being reared at Valsemé? Wouldn’t Lord de Buci allow you to come to La Tournerie?”
Raoul glared at him. “It’s not that at all. Lord de Buci knows nothing about me. You think I’m Uncle Robbie’s bastard, don’t you, being hidden away by his kindly sister? Well I’m not. Lady Eleanor is my grandmother, not my aunt. Her son was my father and to keep me safe, all my life, she’s kept my identity a secret.”
“Is that a fact?” Guennec looked sceptical.
“Yes it is! I am the legitimate child of Robert de Metz, Lady Eleanor’s son!” Raoul protested. “In fact, rightfully, I’m Lord of Radenoc. Lord de Buci wasn’t told about me because I was in great danger and ...”
Guennec cut him short.
“If Lord de Buci doesn’t know that you exist, how do expect him to believe that you are who you claim to be?”
Raoul frowned.
“I’ll tell him...”
“What? How are you going to convince him?”
The solution suddenly occurred to Raoul.
“With my father’s sword!” he cried delightedly. “I have my father’s sword. I’ll show you!” He moved as if to climb into the rear of the wagon.
“No, hold on. Look, it’s not me you have to convince. Just think for a minute. You appear with a band of travelling players – shabbily dressed and, er, none too clean. You claim to Lord Etienne, the baron, that you’re his... cousin – is that what you’re claiming to be? – whom he’s never heard of. He asks for proof. You show him a costly sword set with jewels...” He broke off at an exclamation from Raoul. “I’m only guessing, lad, keep your hair on. Now what do you think he’s going to do?”
The fire died out of the boy’s eyes. “Call me a thief and throw me in the dungeons,” he said slowly.
“Quite so. Your claim to be rightful Lord of...wherever it was, wouldn’t be all that plausible, would it?”
“No,” said Raoul sadly.
“So perhaps you might like to stay with us for a while longer?”
Raoul considered his options.
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes. I haven’t much choice really, have I?”
“There’s always a choice, lad. But I don’t know that I’d make that one if I were you.”
“No, I expect you’re right. I hadn’t really thought it through.”
“Down you get, now, Raoul!” Maeve strode up to the cart. “It’s going to rain again in a minute and I’d prefer that you got wet rather than me!”
“Right!” Raoul grinned and jumped down from the wagon. “Thanks, Daniel,” he said. “There you go, Maeve.” He assisted the little woman back up to her perch.
Cof, Pol and Jean were some way ahead, young Connell with them. Damona, as usual, was asleep in the wagon. Raoul fell back behind the cart and resumed his reflections as the rain again began to fall.
Of course Daniel Guennec was right. As Lady Eleanor had never revealed Raoul’s existence there was no way that Lord de Buci would believe his claim, especially dressed as he was, and travelling in this company. Not only that, but there was what Lord de Montglane had said. If they visited La Tournerie in the spring he would be coming from Brittany with a group of Breton mummers, looking, it seemed, just like the Breton Lord who was famous for the number of his bastards. The fact that his surname was de Metz and the Radenoc crest was on his sword made it worse, not better. However unlawfully, Armand de Metz was currently Lord of Radenoc. And if Raoul ran off to La Tournerie now, alone, it would be even more likely that he would be thrown into gaol as a vagabond and a thief. For the present at least he must remain with the mummers and learn what he could from them.
Having made his decision, Raoul spirits rose. He was young and healthy and among friends. As if reacting to his more cheerful mood, the weather also improved. Although the wind was brisk and the sky rather cloudy, there was no further rain for the next few days and they made good progress.
The abbey at St.Hilaire provided secure lodgings for one night and it was pleasant to be able to sleep under cover again, even though the outhouse they were allocated was somewhat malodorous. Two days later they crossed into Brittany. After that, where possible, Guennec chose their route so that they stopped in hamlets or villages along the way. To Raoul’s surprise, although there were many castles (because of the frequent disputes between Norman and Breton Lords) Guennec avoided them.
“There’s only soldiers there,” he explained when Raoul questioned him. “And often there’s trouble. They get bored, you see, waiting for orders from their absent Lords, and they think it sport to torment travelling folk like us.”
“People have been thrown down wells,” Cof said.
“Or used as the quarry in a hunt,” said Maeve. “They’re barbarians, these garrison soldiers.”
“At least they’ve money,” Damona said sulkily, “unlike the peasants here!”
They had stopped that night in a little village which boasted a tavern, a smithy and a stone-built church in addition to the usual collection of thatched wattle huts. In return for a bit of juggling and some songs they’d been given a supper of bread, sausage and cheese and a barrel of somewhat watery ale. They were sitting by the wagon now, by a good fire, finishing off their meal.
“We all know what you want, Damona,” Jean said. “And I’d be happy to oblige you – if you’ll defer payment, that is.”
“I’d have to wait until Doomsday for you to have money!” Damona sneered.
“Raoul’s your man,” Pol laughed. “Money AND considerable skill, by all accounts.”
“Shut up,” Damona muttered.
“What do you say? Will you oblige the lady?” Pol continued, nudging Raoul in the ribs.
“I see no lady,” said Jean. “And anyway Raoul has such refined tastes! You’re better off with me, sweetheart.”
Damona got to her feet.
“I’ve warned you before,” Maeve snapped at Jean. “Get back to the wagon, my girl. We’ll be in Rennes before too long. There’s money enough there to please you.”
“It’ll be weeks yet at this speed,” said Damona. She flung the dregs from her cup into the fire which spluttered and turned to acrid smoke, then she moved angrily away.
“Time to turn in, I’d say,” Guennec announced, quelling the chorus of protest. “It’ll be dark soon.”
“Will you get some more water, Raoul?” Maeve said, handing him a pair of buckets. “We’ll need it for the morning.”
“Fine.”
The river ran nearby and Raoul went upstream for a short distance away from the village. The water would be cleaner there. He was quite close before he spotted Damona sitting on the bank, her arms clasped round her knees. He put down the buckets, crept silently forwards then placed his hands over her eyes.
“I’ve got you now,” he growled in what he thought was a passable imitation of Jean Kerjean’s deep voice.
He was totally unprepared for what happened next. He had expected an angry protest but not that she would turn into a writhing, shrieking fury. She twisted sideways, grabbed his legs and brought him crashing helplessly to the ground. Instinctively, he tightened his hold on her so that now she sprawled across him, her head on his stomach. She wrenched herself free, slapping and kicking, and then raised her fists to pummel his chest and head.
“For God’s sake,” Raoul croaked, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you! Stop it, for the love of God!”
She paused, frozen, one hand still raised. In the dim light he saw her expression change.
“It’s you!” she said. She scrambled up and stood shakily, pushing her hair out of her face.
“Well, who did you think it was?” Raoul said crossly, sitting up with difficulty and rubbing his injured arm. “I’m not exactly built like Jean Kerjean, am I? You might have checked before you attacked me!”
“Huh! I like that! You think
a woman should wait to see who is raping her before she defends herself, is that it?”
“No of course not...anyway, I wasn’t raping you, I...”
“Then just what were you playing at, toad-face? Unlike your noble lady, I am not going to pay you to do it with me, you can be sure of that!”
Raoul blushed and turned away, hoping that she wouldn’t notice his embarrassment. He made sure that his arm wasn’t really hurt then got cautiously to his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was just a foolish joke.”
“Foolish is right.” Damona dashed angry tears from her eyes. “A girl like me can’t afford to give herself to anyone who just wanders along, you know.”
“No, of course not.”
“So keep your hands to yourself in future!” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Damona, I’m truly sorry.” He took a step towards her. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Don’t you come near me!”
“Here, take this to wipe your eyes.” He took a crumpled kerchief from his pouch and handed it to her.
Grudgingly she accepted it, dried her eyes, blew her nose and handed it back.
“There, are we friends again?” he said, giving her his most winning smile.
She looked at him for a moment, her dark eyes meeting his with an unreadable expression. Then her breath caught in a sob, she pressed her hand against her mouth and she turned and ran back towards the dark shape of the wagon.
Raoul sighed. Was it ever possible to understand women? He picked up the buckets and climbed down the bank to fill them. One minute she was screaming and punching him – the next...she almost looked as if...but who knew what that look had meant?
A further five days passed. Away from the border country there were fewer castles and fewer villages also. In two days, Guennec said, they should reach Rennes. They would stay there for a short while, making a bit of money by performing in the market-place and in the taverns before setting out on the road again.
At their stop that night, in a good flat clearing just off the track, they ran through most of their repertoire of juggling and tumbling in order to be ready for the crowds in the city. Raoul was getting quite good at some of it. He was naturally agile and his arm was sufficiently recovered by now to allow him to take part in the more straightforward acrobatics. They all agreed, however, that he wasn’t a skilful enough juggler yet to perform in public. But he would be before long, Jean and Pol assured him.
The Rightful Heir Page 10