The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  “How did you first meet Maeve and Daniel?” he asked after a moment.

  Mathurin had picked up the blood-stained cloth in which the bird had been wrapped. He looked at it ruefully.

  “Isn’t that your altar cloth?”

  “Yes. It was the first thing that came to hand. It’s ruined, I’m afraid.” He crumpled it and put it on the fire. “I daresay Lady Isabelle of Josselin will embroider me another! But you were talking about the Guennecs. Set the bird on the candle stand – that will make a good perch – and I’ll get you some breakfast.”

  He set a pan to heat over the fire then sliced thick rashers from a piece of bacon, putting them to fry on a blackened skillet.

  “It was about twelve years ago. There had been an outbreak of the plague and they had lost all four of their sons. Maeve caught it too but she recovered. Their little girl and Daniel escaped altogether.”

  “Did you look after them?”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  Mathurin spooned porridge from another pan into a bowl, added milk from a clay crock and a generous dollop of honey. He set it in front of Raoul, who began to eat. Mathurin returned to the bacon.

  “Daniel felt guilty for being well and surviving when his children had not. One had been a boy of seven, a strong, well-grown lad, then there’d been twins aged four and a baby of just a year old. He wondered whether to leave Maeve and their daughter and go off by himself, not caring much whether he lived or died. He spent some time with me – and then decided to stay with them after all.”

  “And then they had Connell.”

  “Right.”

  Mathurin brought over rounds of bread topped with the bacon. Raoul ate it appreciatively.

  “Now, if you’re ready, let’s go down and see your friends. I shall take a bottle of honey-wine for Daniel and you must bring the merlin; you’d better take my gloves too. I’m sure Maeve and Daniel won’t mind if you keep her. What will you call her?”

  “Guinevere. It just came to me. It seems apt somehow.”

  “Indeed yes. Very good.”

  As Mathurin predicted, Guennec had no objection to the falcon, provided Raoul took responsibility for catching mice or other sources of raw meat. Connell volunteered to help. Even Damona admitted that the bird was pretty though she was somewhat dubious about having a perch rigged up for it inside the wagon.

  “We’ll only be on the road for about four days more,” Maeve reminded her.

  When they had loaded everything up and moved off down the road, Mathurin stood and waved until they were out of sight.

  “Better, lad?” Daniel asked Raoul as he walked along beside the cart.

  “Yes, thanks. He’s a strange man, isn’t he? But I really liked him. If anyone was in trouble I’m sure he’d know how to help.”

  “Quite right.”

  “And I’m sorry, Daniel – about what happened to your family.”

  “Thank you. With Mathurin’s help I learned to accept that I was not to blame for our tragedy. That made it possible to bear.”

  “I understand,” Raoul said.

  The day that they parted from Mathurin, they only travelled a short distance before stopping for the night. The next day they passed within sight of the massive towers of Josselin castle. They didn’t approach it, however, as all the mummers were anxious to get home as soon as possible. As they went by, Raoul thought about Mathurin and his unthinking sacrifice of the gorgeous altar cloth in order to help the trapped bird. He hoped the lady would not object to its loss and wondered whether the chapel’s guardian would tell her what had become of it.

  Although it was not very easy to keep her supplied with meat, the merlin seemed happy with her new owner. Raoul was sure she had come to recognise his voice. For part of the day he would leave her hooded on the perch in the wagon, loosely attached by the jesses on her uninjured leg. Mathurin had had to cut the others to get her free. At other times he would sit her on his gloved hand or, as he had taken to wearing his sheep-skin jerkin now that the weather was colder, on his shoulder. Even with the hood off she showed no inclination to take fright or to attack him. She appeared to understand that he was her friend. Increasingly she stretched out and flapped her wings as if exercising them but so far she had made no attempt to fly.

  “Guinevere is too long a name for such a neat little bird,” Maeve remarked one day as she walked along beside Raoul.

  The bird turned her head to look at the speaker and gave her high-pitched “kee-kee-kee” cry.

  “Hush, sweetheart, she’s not insulting you.”

  Raoul stroked her dappled breast with his finger.

  “I shall call her Gwen,” Maeve continued. “I think it suits her.”

  The bird stretched her wings out and almost seemed to be nodding her head.

  “She agrees with you,” Raoul said with a laugh. “Gwen it is!”

  On the fifth day after they left the Green Chapel in the Argoat, they arrived in the village of Sarzeau. Raoul hadn’t quite known what to expect. Some people working in the fields nearby were the first to spot them and they rushed over to the wagon, greeting them all with hugs and kisses and wringing Raoul’s hand when he was introduced. Two young boys then ran ahead to tell everyone else that they were coming and by the time they reached the first dwelling-houses, the whole population, even the local priest, was gathered to welcome them.

  Daniel’s sister Marie was married to the local miller and on his land, to one side of the village centre, was a tumbledown cottage and a barn which would be the mummers’ winter homes. The barn had been kept snug and weather-proof as it had housed the miller’s mule and his three docile cows. A loft which ran the length of it, roughly divided into three by hurdles, was the sleeping area for the single men, Daniel explained. Cof Le Braz had a mother living nearby and he elected to stay with her this time, at least for a while. Raoul guessed that formerly Cof had shared his quarters with Pol’s nephew Antoine.

  Raoul lugged the chest which contained his belongings up to his section of the loft and set about making it as comfortable a bedroom as could be managed. It was not very clean and as the barn was windowless, it was very dark, but there was nothing he could do about that. Even a single candle would be a hazard with all the hay and straw lying around. He resolved simply to sleep there and spend the rest of his time elsewhere. It was not a suitable dwelling for Gwen, that was for sure.

  Against one end of the barn he discovered a small lean-to shed which contained various tools. He sought out Daniel, who was discussing the state of the cottage with his sister and her husband, and asked their permission to rig up a perch for the merlin in there.

  “I don’t see why not,” said the miller. “But you’d better not let the Count catch you with her.”

  “Why is that?”

  “De Courcy reckons falcons are only for the gentry,” he said. “He’d make you hand it over to him. And maybe accuse you of stealing it as well.”

  “You’re right, Mathieu, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Daniel. “Don’t take her too far afield, eh?”

  “Who is de Courcy?”

  “Our lord and master,” Mathieu said with an ironic grimace.

  “Morbihan Castle is only about a mile away – in the marshes at the edge of the sea,” said Marie, the miller’s wife.

  “Do we go there to perform?”

  “Aye. At Christmas and on feast days.” Daniel laughed and slapped his bother-in-law on the back. “Do you remember Lady Cecile’s wedding to that young knight from Vitré?”

  “I might,” laughed Mathieu, “but I don’t believe that you do!”

  “Use the shed and welcome,” Maeve said to Raoul. “Once those two get started on reminiscences nothing more’ll get done today.”

  “Is your house very bad?”

  He looked doubtfully at the cottage which had lost a lot of its thatch and seemed to be leaning askew.

  “It won’t take long to put right. In the meantime we’ll carry on in the wagon until i
t’s mended.”

  Later on, when Raoul had tidied the shed and rigged up a perch for Gwen, he went out to find food for her. Connell hailed him triumphantly as soon as he appeared.

  “I’ve been looked for you,” he exclaimed. “We won’t have any more trouble catching stuff now!” He proudly displayed several mice which he was holding up by the tails. “Tibs will help us.”

  “Tibs?”

  “Uncle Mathieu’s cat. He keeps her in the grain store to stop mice from eating the corn and she catches dozens of them every day. Even she can’t eat them all.”

  “That’s splendid, Con. You did well to think of that.”

  “Once we’ve fed Gwen, you’d better put your best tunic on – there’ll be a feast and dancing later. And I’m going to wrestle with Jean Cloarec. He beat me last time but I’m sure I’ve grown since then. His sister Berthe is Pol’s sweetheart. They’ll be kissing: it’ll be revolting, I warn you.”

  Raoul laughed and asked Connell to tell him more about his new neighbours. He would never remember all their names, he was sure, but after a while he had established that Mathieu Bizien, the miller, was the most prosperous villager. The priest, Pierre Champlain, was a Norman, distantly related to the de Courcy family who had been Counts of Morbihan for more than two centuries. Father Pierre spoke fluent Breton and lived simply enough to be popular with the more humble folk in his parish, however. The blacksmith was a one-legged giant called Gallouédec whose right leg had been crushed under the wheels of a cart. He had apparently astonished everyone by surviving its amputation and continuing his work as before. The most popular family names seemed to be Cloarec, Arzel and Floch but at present Raoul was hazy about just who belonged to whom and in what capacity.

  By the time he had changed his tunic and combed his hair, everyone had assembled by a blazing fire on the open grassy area in the centre of the village. Damona, he noticed, was wearing her new red gown – and it looked just as wonderful as she must have hoped. The fine stuff clung to her, emphasising the curve of her breasts, her slender waist and rounded hips. She looked animated and excited, her eyes searching beyond the crowd of villagers as if she expected someone to appear. When she saw Raoul, she waved and came over, smiling warmly. For the first time since they had left Brocéliande, Raoul felt a stir in his loins. Sternly reminding himself of his vow, he gave her an answering smile.

  “Are you waiting for someone, Damona?”

  “Yes. I sent Raymond Arzel up to the castle with a message. I wanted you to write me a letter but you were busy with Gwen – I could almost be jealous of the attention you give that bird!” She tossed back her hair and grinned flirtatiously. “But I’m sure Bertrand will be here soon.”

  “He’s a fool if he isn’t,” Raoul said. “You look lovely.”

  “Flatterer! Off you go now and get some food before it’s all eaten. And watch out for the apple spirit – it’s dangerous stuff, believe me. If you don’t want to feel as if your head’s about to fall off tomorrow, stay well away from it.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  Some time later, once everyone had gorged themselves on roasted mutton, the dancing began. This time Guennec’s Men weren’t responsible for providing the music. An old man, who was the blacksmith’s father if Raoul had understood it correctly, played the tin whistle with great energy. Someone else played a square, box-like stringed instrument. Everyone threw themselves into the jigs and reels with great gusto except Damona. She lingered for some time on the edge of the gathering and then disappeared. Raoul assumed that she’d gone off with her lover. Various young women grabbed Raoul as a partner as the sets formed up. Dimly seen in the flickering firelight, they were dark-haired, round-cheeked and sturdy – typical country girls, in fact, who threw themselves enthusiastically into the unexpected jollifications.

  While taking a much needed breather, Raoul was sitting on a bench drinking a cup of cider – mindful of Damona’s words he had avoided the apple spirit – when Pol approached him, a girl on each arm.

  “Enjoying yourself, Raoul?”

  “Yes! But it’s warm work.”

  “This is Berthe.” Pol gave the girl on his right a squeeze. She giggled and smiled shyly. “And this is Celie, her little sister – except she’s grown up a bit since I was here last year. Celie needs a dancing partner, Raoul. Perhaps you’d oblige?”

  “Of course. I’m delighted to meet you.”

  He stood up and gave an exaggerated bow. The two girls giggled.

  “You said he was special!” Celie tittered to Pol. Her local accent was very strong. “D’you always greet girls like that?”

  “No. Sometimes I just pick them up and squeeze them. I’m feeling polite today.”

  The girls giggled even more.

  “We’ll leave you two to become acquainted, then,” said Pol. “Berthe and me have got some catching up to do.”

  “Want to dance?” Celie regarded him archly, her hands on her hips.

  “Yes. Look, there’s a new set forming.”

  He took her hand and led her to it. Glancing down he met her eyes. They were big and dark in the firelight, possibly dark blue rather than brown, he thought. Her nose was little and tilted, her chin pointed. Her dark hair, in a single plait, hung down to below her waist. She was more slightly built than many of the village girls with a graceful neck and slender shoulders. Her gown laced at the front, partially displaying small firm breasts. She was a very pretty girl. As she smiled up at him Raoul felt again the familiar stirring of desire.

  They danced for some time. She laughed as he whirled her round and galloped her about. He enjoyed the feel of her slim waist between his hands and her arms round his neck. After the galloping finale of a particularly energetic reel, he suggested that they should have a rest.

  “’Bout time, I reckon.”

  She preceded him away from the dancers, glancing back over her shoulder to check that he was following. Her plait swung from side to side as she walked.

  “Don’t you want a drink?” Raoul called as she passed the refreshment table.

  “I want something else first. Come here.”

  They had reached the end wall of one of the cottages. Celie took Raoul’s arm and pulled him behind a large tree which grew nearby and which blocked the dancers from their view. Away from the fire, the moonlight was bright.

  “Now then, Pol’s new friend – whatever your name is, d’you see anything you want?”

  She took both his hands and stood with her back against the massive tree-trunk.

  “Lost your tongue, have ye?”

  Confident in her prettiness, she smiled temptingly up at him, then when he still said nothing, releasing his hands, she began to unlace the gown to expose her breasts. He took a step towards her and caught her wrists.

  “Want to do it yerself, eh?”

  “No, no, Celie, I don’t. And you mustn’t either.”

  He bent his head and kissed her gently on the forehead. She freed her hands and wound her arms tightly round his neck, searching for his lips with her own and probing his mouth with her tongue. He lifted his head away and loosened her grip on him.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  “Go on. Course you can. I’ll help you if you don’t know what to do.”

  “That’s not what I meant. What I’m saying is that I don’t intend to make love to you.”

  “But you wanted to! I could feel you in the dancing. Big and hard and panting for it, you was.” Her voice was sharp with anger and hurt.

  “I’m not denying that I desire you.”

  “Well, come on then!”

  She flung herself at him, her hands roaming over him.

  “I’m sorry. But I will not.”

  Again he detached himself.

  “Thank you for the dances. Good night.”

  “There’s plenty others’d be glad to sport with me!”

  “Yes, I’m sure there are. Please don’t be upset. I would still like to be your friend.�
�

  “Friend! Huh!”

  She spat contemptuously, the gobbet of spittle splattering onto his boot and he turned hurriedly away, making for the barn. He felt remorse at having upset her. But it wasn’t as if he had had to force himself to keep his vow of celibacy. Her desire had been so overt and her approach to him so blatant, so demanding, that his own desire had simply disappeared. She had become almost like the creature in Meg’s hut. He shuddered at the thought of it. Poor Celie; he had insulted her dreadfully – she was unlikely to forgive him, he feared. He hoped that Pol would.

  He opened the barn door and went inside. Then he paused, listening, his heart sinking. From Pol’s section of the loft came the unmistakeable sounds of enthusiastic love-making. This, evidently, was what he and Berthe needed to catch up on. Raoul went quietly to the far ladder, found his cloak then slipped out of the barn again. He would spend the night in the lean-to with Gwen. At least there was one female he needn’t be afraid to love.

  Chapter Eleven

  Over the next two days all of Guennec’s troupe, including Damona and Connell, were fully involved in making the cottage habitable. Not that Damona’s contribution amounted to a great deal. Much to her mother’s disgust, she continued to wear her new red gown, taking every opportunity to linger outside, gazing wistfully in the direction of the castle. She hadn’t said anything more about her lover to Raoul, and he didn’t like to ask.

  Pol was clearly offended by Raoul’s rejection of Celie, treating him with coolness. As soon as she could escape from her own duties, Berthe would join them in the repair-work. Through pointed remarks and sneering looks, she made it plain that she thought Raoul stuck-up and undeserving of the offer he had received. Celie herself came frequently to see her sister, supposedly bringing messages from their mother. Raoul had the impression that she was still trying to attract his attention, however much she might appear to be annoyed with him. He simply ignored them both.

  Fortunately, with so many willing helpers, Guennec’s cottage was soon snug and weather-tight. Three days after they had arrived, a storm swept in from the west. For several days the wind howled round the cottage and the rain lashed down. Cof spent the time at his mother’s; Pol went to the Cloarecs’; Jean and Raoul joined Daniel’s family, only returning to the barn to sleep and sometimes not even then. Daniel let Raoul set up Gwen’s perch in a corner and more than ever he blessed Tibs the cat for providing her food so efficiently.