They stayed at the Abbey for another week. On two other afternoons, Raoul went to sit with Damona but he did not continue Radenoc’s story and Damona did not remind him about it.
On the first of these occasions he told her about their performance in the market square the day before and how Pol Cudenec had got drunk and ended up falling in the Abbey water trough. He succeeded in making her laugh, which pleased him. On the second she was very much more like her former self.
She was sprawled on top of her covers, munching some grapes which her father had brought her from the market. Her rucked-up shift revealed a considerable expanse of shapely leg and her shawl, casually knotted round her shoulders, emphasised all too clearly her feminine charms. The young monk who insisted on escorting Raoul to her bedside was visibly both fascinated and embarrassed by her state of undress. He lingered for a few moments, glancing at her furtively then, muttering something incoherent, turned very red around the ears and hastily fled back to see to the other patients.
Damona laughed and sat up, tucking her legs underneath her and inviting Raoul to sit on the bed by her side.
“Poor lamb,” she said. “That boy needs to be shown what he’s missing.”
“I’m not sure the Abbot would approve,” Raoul said. He was all too aware again himself of the temptations which her body presented.
“That old hypocrite!” she said. “He came to see me and I knew exactly what he was thinking. Even monks are men – and they’re all alike.”
“Oh, come on, Damona. Isn’t that a bit unfair? Surely some...”
“Some prefer boys, certainly – like Cof Le Braz. But you’re all lechers.”
“Oh, you’re including me in this?”
“You’re a man, aren’t you?”
His heart lurched as she met his eyes. He hurriedly looked away, his gaze resting involuntarily on the curve of her breast, then her bare knee. He swallowed, cleared his throat and looked determinedly at the opposite wall.
“When do you think we’ll be leaving?” he asked, desperately trying to change the subject.
“Quite soon, I’d say. In two or three days. And then we’ll enter The Enchanted Forest. You know a story or two about that, I dare say.”
“Enchanted Forest?” He could risk looking at her again now.
“Mmm. Brocéliande. Where Merlin lies under Vivienne’s spell.”
“Is that near here? Do we go through it?”
“Indeed we do.”
As well as his own story, Anne Le Hir had told Raoul many tales about King Arthur and his wise and magical advisor. He had got the impression that they had taken place further west, however, nearer to where she herself came from.
“You won’t be able to find The Fountain of Eternal Youth, though,” Damona said, leaning forward and putting her hand on his.
“Why not?” he demanded. “I might.”
“Not even you are pure in heart, Raoul Bouillet,” she said, her eyes full of laughter, “and well you know it.”
Raoul grinned.
“Fair enough,” he said. “You’re a wicked temptress and I admit it. I’m going to go and do some more copying for Brother Stephen now. So you’ll have to find some other victim to lure with your wiles.”
“Coward!” Damona said.
“Total craven, yes. I’ll send the young monk to you, shall I?”
“Wretch!” she said, laughing with genuine amusement as he hurried away.
Apparently she succeeded in finding more than one victim to practise on. Later that day, Raoul learnt that the Brothers had declared (rather hastily) that Damona was sufficiently recovered to leave the infirmary and re-join her family. Young Brother Mark had been spending rather too much time at her bedside for the health of his immortal soul. That evening she somehow contrived to make the acquaintance of a rich wool-merchant who was stopping in the Abbey guest-house overnight. He, apparently, was not at all averse to her charms and she was discovered there, with him, by the Prior the following morning. It took Guennec some time and quite a few of their precious coins to pacify him and attempt to make reparation.
With angry words about abusing hospitality and the desecration of God’s house ringing in their ears, the mummers harnessed up the ox-cart and hastened on their way.
Maeve elected to walk and Damona, not at all chastened, perched on the seat beside her father.
“Master Blavet was most generous,” she told them cheerfully. “I got the gown-piece I wanted after all.”
Guennec snorted derisively.
“At some cost,” he muttered.
His daughter ignored him.
“And it’s a fine scarlet worsted, too. I think being thin and pale makes me look more refined; what do you think, Da?”
Daniel’s answer was inaudible but Damona reddened.
“I’ll ride in the back if you’re going to be like that,” she said.
“We’re going to Brocéliande, Damona says.” Raoul, walking by Guennec’s side, thought a change of topic might be welcome.
“Aye, that’s right. We won’t be there for some days, though.”
“Are you going to seek your destiny at the Barenton Fountain?” said Pol.
“What’s that? I don’t know about that. Damona only mentioned the Fountain of Eternal Youth.”
There was a chorus of scathing comments then Jean Kerjean explained that there was also another magical spring by a slab of stone under a great tree. If you went there on the right day, or if the spirits favoured you, you would be granted your heart’s desire.
“You should go there on All Hallow’s Eve,” Maeve suggested. “That’s a good day for such a jaunt.”
Everyone tried to calculate exactly when that was.
“It’s just right,” said Cof. “We can visit on that very day – if you don’t mind an extra night at Concoret, Daniel.”
“That wouldn’t matter.”
“So who’s to go? I’m keen,” Pol said.
“And so am I,” said Cof.
“Can I go, Mam?” Connell said eagerly.
“I don’t see why not,” Maeve said. “As long as you’re back before dark and you stay together. I think your Da and I are a bit too old to seek our destiny now. What about you, Damona?”
“I know mine,” Damona said with a happy smile. “Now that I’ll have a fine scarlet gown to wear when I see him, I’m sure of my heart’s desire. Can we cut out the dress tonight, Mam, then I can stitch it as we go along?”
“Why not?”
The two women started to discuss sleeves and bodice shapes and Raoul quickened his pace to catch up Jean and Pol.
“Is Damona betrothed to someone in Vannes?” Raoul asked.
Pol glanced round and lowered his voice so that the girl wouldn’t overhear.
“Not betrothed, no. But she’s got hopes, let’s say – in my opinion severely misplaced.”
“Aye,” said Jean. “She’s a fool. She’d be better off with one of us than chasing rainbows. Maeve doesn’t help. She appears to care only about money and then she fills the girl’s head with all manner of nonsense.”
“But who does she...?”
“Shh. Best you know nothing about it, Raoul, then she can’t accuse you of spoiling things. You know what she’s like by now.”
Raoul shrugged and fell silent. After all, it was nothing to him what Damona’s romantic ambitions were. He couldn’t help wondering how she would look in the irresistible scarlet gown, however. That, at least, was worth looking forward to.
In the morning of the last day in October, Pol, Raoul, Cof and Connell set out from Concoret in a jocular holiday mood. They had arrived in the village well before dark the day before and had been given an enthusiastic welcome there. They had performed tumbling and juggling – even Raoul did a little routine with the clubs this time – then they were given a good supper and a dry barn to sleep in. There were some songs at the tavern later on and Guennec had promised a longer entertainment the following evening, guaranteed to ward o
ff evil spirits, when the wanderers returned.
It was a bright crisp morning and they sang a roundelay as they marched along. At first they followed a clear track which led to the hamlet of La Saudrais. From there they turned off onto a smaller path which, after many twists and turns, led to the village of Folle Pensée. Despite its name, it seemed like a sensible place to stop for refreshments. They bought a jug of ale from a cottager and sat on a grassy bank nearby to eat the food they had brought for dinner.
“Come on, then,” said Pol, brushing crumbs from his tunic and getting to his feet. “There’s still some way to go and I don’t like the look of the sky.”
Away to the west great dark clouds were gathering.
“It’s Morgane le Fay summoning her forces,” Cof growled.
“Ooh, don’t say that,” Connell exclaimed. “Who’s she, anyway?”
“She was a wicked enchantress who ate little boys for breakfast,” said Cof, grabbing him in a bear-hug. The boy squealed and wriggled free.
“But I thought it was Vivienne who ruled Brocéliande,” Raoul objected.
“They both did,” Pol explained, leading the way out of the village. “Vivienne ruled over the northern bit.”
“And Morgane ruled in the west.”
“Where the black clouds are, I suppose,” said Connell.
“Quite right,” Pol told him. “We go up here now, if I remember rightly.
“You’ve been here before, have you?” Raoul asked.
“Years ago, yes.”
“And what happened?”
Pol chuckled. “Nothing at all,” he said.
There was no real path and they went on for a while in silence through thick furze and gorse bushes.
“We go north now, into the forest proper,” Pol told them after a short distance.
The ancient trees, their trunks gnarled and bent, grew surprisingly close together. Ducking under overhanging branches, they walked in single file as rapidly as they could, their previously jovial spirits daunted by the gathering gloom. There was another distant rumble of thunder and somewhere deep in the forest a wolf howled.
“I’m scared,” said Connell in a small voice.
“It’s not far,” said Pol. “Here, take my hand. There’s just about room for two as you’re only a little ‘un.”
“Are you all right, Raoul?” asked Cof.
“Of course,” said Raoul, refusing to admit that his heart was beating uncomfortably fast.
“Here we are.”
They came out of the wood into a small clearing. In the centre was one enormous tree, its leaves glossy and green despite the season, its girth unbelievably huge. Attached to it by a chain was a drinking cup made of iron. Below, within easy reach, was the fountain itself, a bubbling spring welling up from a rocky basin. Beside it was a flat slab of rock, almost coffin-like in shape.
“What do we do?” Raoul asked, speaking in a hushed voice.
“Fill the cup and drink,” Pol said, “then when you scatter drops on the rock the black knight appears and grants your request.”
“Does he really?” Connell breathed, eyes wide.
“That’s the legend. Oh, and it’s supposed to rain, too. Though that seems likely enough.”
Lightning flickered, followed by roll of thunder, much nearer now. The leaves on the great tree stirred in a sudden gust of wind.
“I’ll go first,” Connell said, running forward to grab the cup.”
“Then me,” said Cof. “What about you, Pol?”
“I’ve tried it once – I don’t want another disappointment.”
Raoul hung back. He wished he could be there alone. Only then would he be able to tune into what he felt to be the sacred spirit of this ancient place. The others were too boisterous and noisy.
“Raoul, you’ve got to try it,” Cof said after he felt he had waited long enough for the apparition to turn up.
“Yes.”
Hesitantly he took the cup from Cof’s hand and bent over the rocky basin. He scooped up some water and put the cup to his lips. It was very cold but tasted sweet and pure. He refilled it. He wouldn’t merely shake a few mean drops on the altar-stone; he would pour out a generous libation.
“Merlin, grant me my heart’s desire!” Forgetting the others, he proclaimed the words aloud, arm outstretched and head thrown back.
Almost simultaneously there was a searing flash as lightning struck the rock and a crash of thunder seemed to shake the ground. A deluge of icy rain followed a moment later and at the far side of the clearing, their eyes luminous in the sudden darkness, three wolves howled.
“Run!” yelled Pol.
He grabbed Connell’s hand and fled, Cof close behind him. Despite his terror, Raoul seemed quite unable to move. He stood holding the cup like a protective talisman. One of the wolves howled again and moving on their bellies, they started to inch forward.
“Angels and blessed spirits protect me,” Raoul whispered crossing himself.
The beasts crawled nearer. He could see not only their amber eyes but their rough grey pelts and slavering jaws. He clutched the cup tighter. If he moved, he was sure they would spring on him and tear him apart.
“All I asked was my heart’s desire!” he muttered aloud, as if in protest.
“Oh, that was all, was it?” said a thin, cracked voice from behind him. “A modest enough request!” There was a peal of outlandish laughter.
Into the clearing came a short hunched figure, enveloped in a dark cloak and leaning on a staff. It hobbled up to Raoul and took the cup from his slackened grip.
“The wolves!” he managed to gasp. “They’ll attack!”
“Not they.”
She turned – Raoul had realised by now that the speaker was female – and pointed her staff at the beasts. She pronounced some sort of incantation in a strange alien tongue and to Raoul’s astonishment, the animals got up and moved away, wagging their tails like domestic hounds.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Who indeed? You can call me Morgane.”
“Morgane le Fay?”
He gaped at her. She looked old, but not that old.
She cackled with laughter. “If you like.”
“But you can’t be...”
“Morgane, Vivienne, what’s the difference? I’m the Keeper of the Spring. Hereabouts I’m known as Meg. You may use what name you wish.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it. But now, as you may have noticed, it is very wet, so I would run along after your friends, if I were you.”
“Oh. Yes.” Raoul looked back into the dense forest. There didn’t seem to be a sign of the others. He stood uncertainly.
“Did you want something more?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“Not really, no. The trouble is, I don’t really know...”
“You don’t know the way to go, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better take shelter in my hut. It’s not far away.” She gave another cackle of laughter. “Perhaps you’ve found your heart’s desire after all.”
The woman moved away at a surprising speed and Raoul hurried after her. He certainly didn’t want to stay out in the open for any longer than he had to. Not only was he soaking wet but he was terrified of another encounter with the wolves.
She crossed the clearing and plunged back into the forest. They seemed to be following a path of sorts which led steeply up hill, the gnarled oaks giving way to ash and birch as they climbed. Eventually they emerged into another clearing, a high spot, rocky and exposed, where the rain lashed Raoul’s face and the wind tore at his clothes.
“Over here,” croaked the old woman.
Ahead Raoul could see a darker shape which might have been a bush but which he could just recognise as some sort of hut. The woman stooped to enter through the low doorway and Raoul, who had been following close behind her, paused, gagging on the fetid odour. He took another step and then froze. In the dark interior there were several s
ets of pale luminous animal eyes.
“Christ,” he gasped, shrinking back. “What are they?”
She chuckled.
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
Again she uttered a string of guttural foreign words and Raoul pressed himself back against the wall of the hut as the beasts pushed past him, out into the storm. In the darkness it was impossible to see the animal’s shapes but the eyes, their panting breath and their musky scent told him clearly enough what they were.
The woman lit a rush light, permitting Raoul to look around him. The dwelling was a small low room made from furze thatch over a rough timber frame. There was a central hearth formed by a ring of stones where the woman now kindled a fire. There was no single hole to allow the smoke to escape; it simply seeped out through the door-way and through the numerous gaps in the thatch. Hanging from the cross beam were bunches and bundles of what looked like herbs. In every corner stood lidded pots and basins of many different shapes and sizes.
Still muttering under her breath, the woman lifted a pot and hung it from a tripod over the flame. Raoul coughed as the smoke caught his throat. She looked up at him, then hobbled round, took his arm and drew him further into the room.
“You sit there.” She thrust him down onto a low stool near the hearth. “And get these wet things off. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”
“No. No.” He unfastened his belt and to his considerable alarm, the woman seized his new blue coat in her claw-like hands and dragged it, and then his tunic, off him.
“You can do your hose yourself, if you like,” she said, giving him a toothless grin.
“I’ll just leave them on,” Raoul protested, then changed his mind hastily as she reached out to assist him.
Once she seemed to be satisfied that he had removed all that was necessary, she went over and rummaged in a heap of stuff at one side of the room. Raoul felt immensely relieved to be free of the relentless scrutiny of her shrewd dark eyes. He felt a bit like a chicken being inspected for its plumpness. After a few minutes of selecting and rejecting lengths of cloth and bits of fur, she pulled out a long robe-like garment which she thrust at Raoul.
“Here, put this on while the other things dry,” she said.
She then collected up his sodden garments and draped them over piles of brush-wood which were propped against the far wall. Raoul was very doubtful whether they would dry there but he didn’t dare argue. He put on the robe and fastened his belt round it, telling himself that there was nothing to be afraid of; that this wizened old crone was frail and slight and so could do nothing to him. He wasn’t entirely successful in his efforts to put himself at ease. His throat was dry and he could feel the rapid pounding of his heart.
The Rightful Heir Page 12