Near the hut was a flat rock, almost like a platform, emerging from a tangle of bracken and gorse bushes. Raoul fought his way through them and scrambled up. It was obviously the highest point for miles around, rising like an island from the forest whose hollows and valleys were swathed still in veils of pearly mist. Concoret, where they had set out from, was in the north-east, he thought. According to the position of the sun, that must be over there. Was it likely that Guennec would wait to see if he returned? He didn’t think so. Their route must lie the opposite way – over there. He turned to face it. There was a faint line running in that direction, a break in the trees which might be a track. Some way beyond it was a flat stretch, glinting silver in the light – a lake or river, maybe. Had Daniel said anything about a river? He couldn’t remember but that seemed like the right way to go. As if in confirmation, faintly borne on the south-westerly breeze, came the sound of bells ringing out for Prime. There must be an Abbey there, a village too perhaps. He should be able to find his way. In a sudden rush of emotion, Raoul knelt and said a prayer of thanks for his delivery from evil spirits, recollecting only as he finished that it was All Saints’ Day. He felt humbled and ashamed.
He crossed himself and stood up, carefully mapping his route with his eyes. He was thirsty now and a little hungry but he would touch nothing from Meg’s hut. He would wait until he reached some Christian habitation and he must leave now, without delay.
He sprang down from the rock and set off, fast, down the hill, quickly reaching the trees, birches and red-berried rowans, which grew sparsely amongst tussocks of heather and gorse. In a few minutes more he reached the ancient oaks, a dense dark mass through which he would have to go in order to reach that line which he prayed would be a road. He would need to be careful if he was to keep heading south-west. He paused to check that he had walked straight down from the high rock. Yes, he was all right so far.
He was about to turn away when something caught his eye, holding him rigid and motionless, his throat suddenly dry with fear. A great silver wolf, its coat shimmering in the pale morning sunlight, had leapt onto the rock. It seemed to be looking straight down at him with its alien, amber eyes. To Raoul, now, their unblinking gaze seemed uncannily familiar. As he watched in fascinated horror, the beast lifted its throat and uttered a wailing, desolate howl. As if freed from the spell of its stare, Raoul flung himself forward into the wood, not waiting to see what would happen next. Almost, he could have sworn that the creature up there, transformed in shape, was the same being that had driven him crazy with lust last night. But that couldn’t be. Such things were merely legend. What had his grandmother said all those weeks ago? That lust was a disease, evil, to be fought against. Perhaps now he understood what she meant.
Determined not to lose his way and also to reassure himself, Raoul drew his dagger, marking the tree-trunks as he went by. He had had to slow down, of course, but before very long the trees ahead seemed to be thinning and after walking for little more than an hour, he stepped out of the gloom onto – a road, deeply rutted and almost flooded in places from the previous day’s torrential downpour, but nevertheless, a road – an unmistakable sign that the ordinary civilised world still existed. For the second time that day Raoul thanked God and his saints, then resumed his rapid march.
By early afternoon he reached the water he had seen from the hill-top. It was a lake, surrounded at its northern end by a stretch of marshy ground. The road passed close by it and when Raoul spotted some men in the shallows cutting reeds, he hailed them.
“Can you tell me if a wagon has passed this way today?” he called to one, a thin dark man, who put down his sickle and waded closer.
“Might have – I don’t rightly know,” the man replied, scratching his head. “Who’d it be, then?”
“A company of minstrels,” Raoul said. “They’re called Guennec’s Men. There are four men, a small red-headed woman, a boy and a pretty dark-haired girl – though you’d probably not have seen her.”
“Sounds like I’d remember her if I had,” the man said with a grin.
He waded back to his companions and conferred with them.
“I don’t reckon they’ve passed,” the man told him after a while. “We’ve been here since first light.”
“Is this the route you’d travel if you were going from Concoret towards Vannes?” Raoul asked.
“I don’t know nothing about foreign parts,” the man said, looking doubtful. Then he brightened. “But as it’s the only road through the forest, I should think you’d have to!”
The others, all of whom had stopped work and gathered round by now, agreed. Raoul thanked them courteously, secretly amused at the slowness of their wits.
“Is there a village ahead? And an Abbey, perhaps?”
“That’s right, young sir. It’s five mile or so – Paimpont by name.”
“Might I be able to get something to eat there, do you think?”
“Yes, I’d say so,” said the oldest looking of the reed-cutters who had grey hair and broken stumps for teeth.
“But you can have a sup and a bite with us if you ain’t too proud,” offered another, a small bald-headed man.
“Thank you. I’d be most grateful,” Raoul said. “I’ve no money with me now but when I catch up with my friends...”
“Have some and welcome,” said the bald man. “We don’t mind giving you a share.”
Raoul followed them as they led the way up the road for a short distance. By the far side of the track, away from the lake, was a small hand cart half loaded with reeds. The man that Raoul had spoken to first pulled out a sack of provisions which he shared among them all.
Perhaps an hour later, much heartened by the reed-cutters’ friendly chat, his hunger and thirst appeased, Raoul set off towards the village, a chorus of cheerful farewells echoing in his ears. He could almost banish the wolf-girl from his mind. Almost, but not quite.
As the Abbey bells were ringing out for Nones, he reached Paimpont. It looked prosperous, he thought, and would certainly be easy to defend. On one side of the village was the lake and behind it rose the high stone walls of the Abbey. Around the perimeter, a stout wooden palisade had been erected and a ditch had been dug which was currently half full of muddy water. The gates still stood open but Raoul guessed that they would be firmly barred at night. He shuddered. He could understand why the villagers might feel they needed protection from the forest and its inhabitants.
Raoul went in through the gates and looked around. There seemed to be at least one tavern, a large smithy and a good collection of well-built dwelling houses. There was a small stretch of common grazing which at present contained a noisy flock of geese and a couple of goats. Bisecting the village green and flowing down into the lake was a stream, crossed near the smithy by a bridge. On the far side was a deep pool, used by the women for washing clothes, Raoul imagined.
As it was deserted at this time of day, he approached this now. Unfastening his belt, he stripped off everything except his drawers. Then, wading up to his knees into the pool, he plunged his head and torso into the water, energetically scrubbing off any last traces of the stench in Meg’s hut. Shivering with the cold but feeling cleaner, he returned to the bank and pulled back on his shirt, hose and his boots. He was just picking up his tunic and coat when he heard a shouted greeting in a well-known voice.
“Raoul! Lad! We’d given you up for lost!” It was Pol Cudenec.
Grinning broadly, Pol rushed over and enveloped the boy in a crushing embrace.
“I’m so glad to see you!” he cried, pummelling him joyfully. “We thought the wolves had got you!”
“I’m glad to see you too,” Raoul said. “Are you all safe? You found your way back in the storm?”
“Aye, aye; no trouble.”
Pol kept his arm round Raoul’s damp shoulders and led him over to the area just inside the gates where Maeve was now unharnessing the oxen from the cart.
“Look who’s here!” Pol called to
the others.
To Raoul’s astonished delight, everyone surrounded him, clapping him on the back, greeting him warmly. Tears sprang to his eyes and he found himself quite unable to greet them coherently. When the hubbub had died down Damona came up to him.
“You’re still with us, then?” she said touching his arm with her hand. “I thought maybe Vivienne had way-laid you.”
“Morgane le Fay, more like,” Raoul said with a shudder, moving away from her and pulling on his tunic.
“Did she tempt you to the False Lovers’ Rock?” asked Maeve, holding out a water pail to her daughter with a speaking look.
“The False Lovers’ Rock?” Raoul repeated, putting on his coat.
“She sits up there at the highest point in the forest and entices foolish young men to their doom,” Maeve chuckled. “That’s what the story says. You saw her, did you?”
Raoul laughed shakily.
“I’m not quite sure. I think perhaps I did!”
Maeve looked at him quizzically but refrained from further comment.
That night they sheltered in an outhouse behind the tavern where they had played for a cheerful crowd during the evening. The reed-cutters Raoul had met earlier were there and he was able to repay their kindness with a flagon of good ale and some excellent venison pasties. Poaching laws were not strictly enforced in Brocéliande, it seemed.
Not long after he lay down to rest, Raoul awoke drenched in sweat from a dream of suffocating terror. He lay in the darkness with his heart hammering, trying to banish from his mind the image of avid yellow eyes and pale writhing limbs. But whenever he drifted back to sleep again, she returned to haunt him. Finally, long before dawn, he got up and went outside, still wrapped in his thick cloak, leaving his companions peacefully snoring.
It wasn’t raining but a chill wind was blowing. After a moment’s hesitation he went back down to the washing pool by the bridge. There he laid his cloak on the stone parapet then having removed all his clothes, he immersed himself and them in the icy water. When he climbed out, his body felt numb all over but his mind felt fully awake. He could control his thoughts now; he wouldn’t be a prey to demons.
He wrung out his garments and spread them over the bushes nearby. Naked still, he then began doing somersaults, cartwheels and back-flips to the surprised consternation of the various animals whose sleep he had disturbed. Fortunately, there were no human witnesses. Anyone watching would have thought him mad, Raoul realised. Before long, however, he was warm, dry and feeling better. He wrapped himself in his cloak and walked back to the tavern just as the first grey light began to creep into the sky. A few moments later a bird started to sing. Others joined the chorus, but their song was soon drowned by the deep hollow boom of the Abbey bells. When Maeve sleepily emerged from the wagon, she found that the fire had been kindled and pottage was bubbling in the pot which hung above the flames.
By the time the bells rang again for Prime, they had all, including Damona, broken their fast and packed up their belongings. Raoul was dressed in his other set of clothes and they had harnessed up the cart ready to leave once the gates were opened. As far as he was concerned, the sooner they left Brocéliande the better.
Over the next few days Raoul became gradually more tired and strained. Each day they travelled eight or ten miles, at first through the forest and then over more open marshy country, sparsely inhabited. Once they camped, Raoul was keen that they should practise their most strenuous acrobatic routines. It was he who chopped the firewood and went to fetch water for cooking. When they were eating – and he found he had less and less appetite – he drank as much ale or cider as Guennec would allow him in the hope, somehow, of finding a few hours’ rest. But once he went to bed, it was always the same. He would fall instantly asleep but then less than an hour later would wake up, gasping with terror. After that he wouldn’t dare to sleep again as he knew that the dream, that same dream, would return every time his eyes closed. It even got to the stage where, as he walked along by the wagon, he seemed to be drifting into a sort of doze. And even in this semi-waking state the lurid vision of his orgy with the wolf-girl was starting to torment him.
Five days from Paimpont, as they were walking up a long incline, Raoul suddenly collapsed to his knees with a cry of pain. Guennec halted the wagon and Maeve jumped down to see what was wrong. The boy’s face was white and his hands were shaking.
“Are you hurt, boy?” Maeve demanded, assessing his symptoms dubiously.
“No, no, I don’t think so,” Raoul muttered. “It’s all right. I can go on again now. Don’t worry.”
He shook off her hand and struggled to his feet.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “You had almost nothing last night and not a drop this morning.”
“No. I can’t eat anything. It would choke me.”
She brought him some water which she insisted he drank.
“You ride by Daniel for a while,” she told him brusquely. “We don’t want you falling down again.”
Shamefacedly, he climbed up onto the seat. Guennec clicked his tongue and urged the oxen forward; they resumed their slow plodding pace, the cart wheels rhythmically creaking. Raoul sank his head into his hands, near to tears.
“What is it, lad?” Guennec said after a while. “I fear you’re not well. Is it the fever?”
“No. It’s nothing!” Raoul’s tone was sharp.
Guennec shrugged and an uneasy silence fell. The summit of the hill was reached and they started to descend again, into another wood. Most of the leaves had fallen by now, only a very few, yellow and brown, were clinging tenaciously to the bare branches. It started to rain but Maeve didn’t come back to reclaim her seat.
“Daniel, what would you do if you thought you were going mad?”
Guennec glanced at the boy by his side, noting his strained face and clenched fists.
“I expect I should seek out a church and make my confession,” he said slowly. “If it was the thought of something I had done which was tormenting me, that is.”
“Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“You didn’t murder the Lady Eleanor, did you?” Guennec said with a note of mock anxiety in his voice.
Raoul laughed, something he hadn’t done for days.
“I haven’t murdered anyone! You don’t know where I can find a priest, do you?”
“We’ll be stopping tonight at the Abbey of St. Dominic. You should be able to find one there.”
“Thanks, Daniel. That’s a comfort.” He leaned out of the cart and called up the road, “Maeve, you’re getting wet! Do you want your seat?”
“That’s kind. You could sit in the back with Damona, perhaps. She’d enjoy some company.”
“No, Maeve, it’s all right. I can walk now.”
He jumped down and helped Maeve aboard then let the wagon pass, eager to think in solitude about this possible solution. Damona parted the rear curtains of the wagon and stuck her head out, smiling at him in a way that once would have set his pulses racing.
“Come and ride with me, Raoul,” she said. “If Mam doesn’t object, I’m happy. There’s plenty of room. And we can push Connell out.”
There was a muffled protest from the boy.
“Thanks, Damona, I appreciate the offer. But I’ve something on my mind just at present.” He attempted to smile. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Suit yourself.” Damona sniffed and ducked her head back under cover.
They arrived at the Abbey in the late afternoon, just as it was going dark. As usual, shelter and a supper were provided for a small price. Raoul was able to eat a little of the barley broth and coarse brown bread. As soon as he had finished he sought out the chaplain and was conducted to a screened closet in the impressive high-ceilinged chapel.
Raoul felt overwhelmed with guilt even as he admitted how long it had been since his last confession, knowing that the priest’s rebuke was fully justified. He then began to recite the catalogue of his sins: lack of respe
ct towards his grandmother, feeling anger, practising deceit, telling lies, having unclean and lustful thoughts, committing repeated fornication. What else? Was paying to have his fortune told a sin? It was: it was not a Christian act. And what about his encounter with the wolf-girl? Could he tell this solemn austere priest that he thought he had had carnal knowledge of a female demon? And that he was haunted by it constantly, reliving the act in every dream? His courage failed him.
“Is there anything more, my son? I sense that you are still troubled.”
“Isn’t all that enough?” Raoul groaned in anguish.
“Indeed, my son, you have sinned most gravely.” The priest began to list the penances after which absolution could be granted. He must say so many of this prayer and so many of that in an all-night vigil, here in the chapel.
“Have you money, my son?”
“I have a little, Father.”
“A present of gold to assist in our charitable work, and as you are a traveller, the purchase of an image of St. Christopher might indicate true repentance on your part.”
“Very well, Father.” Raoul had not spent the gold coin he had kept from the purse Félice had given to him. This seemed an appropriate way to use it.
He went and fetched it from his coffer along with the additional piece of silver which was the cost of the Holy medal. He now only had one silver coin and a handful of coppers left.
That night, bare-headed, dressed only in the thin white shift supplied by the priest, he knelt on the hard stone floor in a corner of the chapel, endlessly repeating the rosary. At various times during the night, a procession of the black robed silent-footed monks came in to repeat their prayers.
Once, Raoul found his mind floating into a world of spinning darkness. Even as he heard an anguished voice saying that he must not go to sleep, the fur-clad figure was swaying towards him, her naked breasts thrust out, her legs spread, the slavering deadly jaws seizing his throat with razor-sharp teeth even as he thrust himself into her. He jerked awake, his fingers clutching the beads, his forehead bathed in sweat despite the numbing cold. Even here he wasn’t free of her. He should have told the priest everything.
The Rightful Heir Page 14