The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  Maeve and Damona set to work at once to spin a large quantity of wool. Where it had come from, Raoul didn’t know. Damona was still restless and ill at ease and still wore the red gown. Every now and again she would set down her spindle, unlatch the door and peer out into the rain. She persisted despite being shouted at by the others when the smoke billowed and the rush-lights spluttered, almost extinguished by violent gusts of wind which forced their way in through even the smallest crack.

  Apart from brief forays to collect firewood and water, the men played dice and told stories, sitting round the fire. Sometimes they told traditional tales, ones which Raoul had heard Anne Le Hir tell. At other times they told tales of their wanderings – of the broad rivers they had crossed, the cities they had seen – of fights and love affairs. Connell loved these. He sat whittling away at his latest carving, demanding more whenever the speaker paused for breath.

  After nearly a week of such confinement, everyone was glad when the storm finally blew itself out. One morning they woke up to find everything quiet, the air still, the sky cloudless and blue.

  The night before, Raoul and Jean had slept wrapped in their cloaks on the floor by Daniel’s fire. Guennec too had slept where he sat, as had Connell, only the women having bothered to climb to their lofts to go to bed. There were two, one at each end of the cottage: one for Daniel and his wife, the other for their children.

  “Wake up now, Damona,” Guennec called up to her when he saw that the storm had passed. “Get the fishing lines and go down to the marsh. It’s a perfect day for it.”

  “I’ll take them if you tell me what to do,” Raoul said. “It seems a pity to disturb her.”

  “No-one’s as good at it as she is,” Guennec said. “She always knows the right spot to set them – has since she was a little girl. And his lordship doesn’t mind her taking his fish!” He laid a finger on his nose in a knowing gesture.

  “All right, I’m coming,” came a sleepy voice from above.

  “And don’t you dare wear that good gown,” Maeve said, scrambling down the far ladder and beginning to stoke the fire. “Have the sense to wear an old kirtle for splashing around in the mud.”

  There was a disgruntled mutter which might have been agreement.

  “We should go down there with Gwen,” Connell suggested. “Her wings are getting stronger I’m sure.”

  “Good idea. She might be able to fly by now.”

  Raoul removed the bird’s hood and stroked her ruffled feathers. She put her head on one side and cheeped at him.

  “Shall we feed her now?”

  “No, Connell. Let’s take her hungry – but bring some food with us. We can throw it into the air and that might encourage her to fly.”

  Before long the three of them were on their way. Damona had taken her mother’s advice and was wearing a dull greyish gown, kilted up to her knees. Her hair was covered and tied back with a scarf and she wore a shawl crossed round her shoulders and knotted behind her. Raoul wore Mathurin’s leather gauntlets and Gwen perched on his shoulder. Connell held the bag of chopped meat.

  The bird seemed to know that something different was happening. She often gave her “kee-kee-kee” cry, flapping her wings and lifting her feet.

  “You should have a string attached to her jesses,” Damona said. “That’s what they do with young birds; I’ve seen them when we’ve been at castles.”

  “That’s right,” Connell agreed.

  “But she’s already passed that stage of her training. There was no line attached to her when Mathurin found her. I don’t want her to think I don’t trust her to return.”

  “Well don’t blame me if you lose her!”

  “I’m glad it’s so flat round here. At least there’s no trees for her to get caught up in.”

  “That’s the sea, just over there.” Connell pointed beyond the marshland to a line of greyish blue.

  “And that’s Morbihan Castle.” Damona’s face was suddenly flushed.

  The distant battlements and towers, pale golden in the morning sunlight, looked ethereal despite their bulk, seemingly floating on the mist-swathed reed-beds.

  “What an idyllic place,” Raoul breathed. “Now that’s what I call a castle.”

  “You two stay here. I’ll set the lines.”

  Damona appeared to know exactly what she was doing. Leaving her brother and Raoul, she turned to the right and walked for a few hundred yards. She then took out the first of her lines and waded into the shallow water.

  “Don’t stray off the solid paths, Raoul,” Connell said. “It’s dangerous unless you know what you’re doing. There are bogs and quicksand.”

  “Thanks for the advice. It’s pretty marshy in the place where I grew up so I’ve a fair idea of the tell-tale signs. Now let’s feed Gwen.”

  He took her onto his gloved right hand and murmured encouragement to her.

  “Come along now, sweetheart. Let’s see what you can do. Throw a piece of the meat, Connell.”

  The boy took out a piece and threw it up in the air. Before Gwen could do more than squawk, it fell with a plop into the nearest pool.

  “Try and throw it a bit harder.”

  Connell tried again. This time he gave a mighty heave and the meat flew backwards over his head to land just behind him. Unbalanced, he gave a loud yell and nearly fell over. Gwen cried out in alarm, her wings beating wildly.

  “This isn’t working,” Raoul said. “Here, you take the left glove and put it on. Now give me the meat and you take Gwen.” They swapped over. “It’s all right, my beauty. No need to be frightened. You’re hungry, aren’t you, my dear?”

  Guided by Raoul, Connell now held his gloved fist high in the air. Raoul took a piece of the meat and threw it, not very high, but straight past the bird and as hard as he could. With no perceptible hesitation, the merlin swept into the air, her wings beating rapidly as she dived, catching the meat just as it started to fall. She glided for a few yards, turned and flew straight back, landing on Raoul’s outstretched fist.

  “Well done, Gwen!” Connell exclaimed excitedly.

  Raoul, flushed with pleasure, whispered endearments and stroked the bird’s head as she devoured her catch.

  “Shall we do it again?”

  “Yes. Take her, Connell. That’s it. I’ll throw the meat. Now!”

  Off she went again, her “kee-kee-kee” like a cry of battle as she swooped on the food. Again, as soon as the catch was made, she came straight back to Raoul.

  “Do you think she can hunt live prey yet?” Connell asked as she set off for the third time.

  “I’m not going to try it today. She’d find it a lot more tiring as she’d have to fly much further and much faster. We’ll stick with this for now.”

  The bag of meat gradually emptied.

  “Let’s see if she’ll come back to your hand,” Raoul said as he took out the last piece.

  “Do you think she would?” The boy sounded excited at the thought.

  “I don’t see why not. I think it’s just that I’ve been holding my hand up for her to perch on. You try it this time.”

  To Connell’s delight, Gwen caught the meat then landed neatly on the gloved fist he had held up for her.

  “That’s a good girl,” Raoul stroked her head. “I think you’re tired now. We’ll take you back and you can rest.”

  “Oh no!” Connell gave a cry of alarm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Over there. Horsemen. I think they’re from the castle.”

  Raoul took Gwen’s hood from his pouch and put it over the merlin’s head.

  “You run home with Gwen – I don’t want them seeing her. Your Uncle Mathieu said they don’t like folk like us owning falcons. I’ll make sure Damona’s all right.”

  Connell hurried away and Raoul watched as the riders drew level with the girl. He expected them to go straight by, perhaps with a gesture of greeting but they did not. The leading rider drew rein and stopped, followed by the others. All but
one dismounted and they moved towards her. Feeling uneasy, Raoul began to run in their direction.

  Even at this distance, Raoul heard Damona’s delighted greeting. She splashed towards the bank where the men were now standing, dragging the scarf from her hair. When she reached them she flung her arms round the one who appeared to be their leader – her elusive lover, presumably. She would be sorry, Raoul thought, to be wearing her oldest clothes. But if the man loved her, he wouldn’t care. Raoul hesitated. He had no wish to interfere where he wasn’t wanted. He would wait for just a moment to make sure all was well.

  The man had detached himself from Damona’s embrace now and was speaking to his companions, who seemed to be laughing. Raoul started to move closer again as he heard an angry exclamation from the girl. He was near enough now to be able to see him clearly and to hear what he was saying. The leader’s clothes were rich, too rich for him to be a steward’s clerk or a member of the guard as Raoul had previously assumed. He wore a blue velvet tunic trimmed with fur, a jewelled sword-belt and a voluminous cloak flung back to display its lining of turquoise silk. He had light brown hair, worn long, a neatly trimmed moustache and an air of swaggering arrogance. He was keeping Damona at arm’s length, gripping her by the shoulders. The sun glinted off various rings on his hands.

  “It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” he was saying in a bored, disinterested tone.

  “You promised me! You said when I came back you’d make me your official mistress! With silk gowns and maids and my own rooms in the castle!”

  “But why would I do that if I’ve already, er, enjoyed you?”

  “You said you loved me!”

  “That’s easy to say, isn’t it?”

  There was laughing agreement from the man’s friends who were all well-dressed, handsome young men. One, the groom by the look of him, had stayed with the horses.

  “I’ll tell you what, wench; I’ll give you to Guillaume. I’m sure he’ll appreciate you.”

  He spun Damona round and pushed her towards one of his companions, a dark-haired young man in a red cloak. He caught her by the shoulders then pushed her away again, to be caught by one of the others.

  “She looks too muddy for my liking!”

  “And for mine!”

  Damona was flung from one man to the next, too breathless with fury to protest.

  “No, really, gentlemen, you’re not being fair. She does have her good points, I assure you.”

  Their leader intervened and seized her, holding her against him, facing outwards. With one of his arms pressed against her throat she was powerless to move or speak. He grasped the neckline of her gown in his other hand and tugged hard. The worn fabric ripped easily, exposing her full white breasts.

  There was a growl of excited approval as they clustered round, eager to look and touch.

  “Take your filthy hands off her!” Raoul’s furious bellow jolted them all into stunned silence.

  They looked round, amazed, to see who had spoken.

  “I said ‘take your hands off her’!”

  The others had moved away from her but their leader still had Damona in a strangle-hold.

  “Who are you to tell me what I may do?” he snapped, tightening his grip on the girl.

  Her anguished eyes sought Raoul’s. They seemed to plead with him to give up, to abandon her, to run away. It made him angrier than ever.

  “I am someone who knows how to treat a lady. Let her go and apologise at once.”

  The young man laughed.

  “A lady?” he repeated incredulously. “I think you mean a whore. Yours, is she?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And if I won’t let her go and apologise?”

  “Then I shall demand satisfaction of you.”

  “You will, will you? You may speak like a squire but you look like a peasant. The only satisfaction you’ll get is from your slut! Now be off before I have you flogged. And you too!”

  He thrust Damona viciously from him. Clutching the neck of her gown together as best she could, she stumbled towards Raoul, sobbing pitifully.

  “Quickly, quickly,” she gasped as he took her into his arms. “Let’s get away while he’ll let us.”

  “While he’ll let us?” How dared anyone behave in this arrogant, insensitive manner towards a woman?

  Without pausing to think, Raoul stripped the leather gauntlet off his hand, marched up to Damona’s tormentor and struck him hard across the face with the glove. There was a stunned pause and then the rasp of many swords being drawn.

  “Wait!” The young man’s blue eyes were alight with cold anger. “This is my fight. Since he is so determined to be taught a lesson, I myself shall teach it.”

  “But, sir, you said yourself he was a peasant.”

  “He should be spitted where he stands.”

  “Raoul, this is madness,” Damona shrieked. “Let’s go, for the love of Heaven.”

  “Well?” The young man rubbed the weal which reddened his cheek. “Do you intend to run away now with your tail tucked between your legs?”

  “Certainly not. I am waiting for you to apologise.”

  The contemptuous eyes travelled slowly over Raoul.

  “As he appears to be rather ill-equipped for a fight, someone lend him a sword.”

  “No, thank you. I have a sword of my own. If you will give me leave for half an hour, I shall fetch it here or to whatever place you would prefer.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a lance and a destrier as well by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “Here will do as well as anywhere, in that case.”

  “Very well.”

  Raoul bowed, turned and began to walk away.

  “Shouldn’t one of us go with him, sir, to keep an eye on him? He might be planning to bring an army of peasants back with him.”

  “If he does I daresay we can deal with them.”

  “But sir, shouldn’t we go after him now – we could give him a good thrashing.”

  Many other voices joined in, urging punishments, demanding that they shouldn’t leave him unscathed.

  “Silence! He’ll return, and alone, I’d swear to it. And I shall fight him myself. Anyone would think you had no confidence in my ability to beat the whelp.”

  Their raised voices faded as Raoul increased the distance between them.

  “Raoul?” Damona’s tearful voice came from just behind him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s all right, Damona.” He took her hand and drew her to him then continued towards the village. “I couldn’t let him treat you like that.”

  As soon as they reached Sarzeau, Damona rushed into her parents’ cottage. Raoul went inside the barn, mounted to his portion of the loft, then dug deeply into his coffer to find the sword. By the time he had buckled it on and come outside, a knot of agitated villagers had gathered.

  “Is it true what Damona says?” Pol asked, barring Raoul’s way. “You’re going to have a sword fight with Bertrand de Courcy?”

  “I don’t know who he is but I certainly intend to fight him! Did Damona tell you what he did?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “Then get out of my way.”

  “Oh Holy Mother!” Raoul heard Maeve wail at the back of the crowd. “This’ll be the death of you and the ruin of us all!”

  “Can we come and watch?” Connell demanded.

  “Just stay here, all of you. It’s nothing to do with anyone else! It’s between me and him.”

  “But you’ll be killed for sure!” It was Maeve again. She pushed her way through to confront him face to face. “If you beat him with the sword, they’ll hang you!”

  “That’s a chance I must take. Now make everyone stay here and I’ll return when I can.” Or if I can, he mentally added.

  He dropped a kiss on Maeve’s forehead and put her gently aside. Old Meg had shown him that Death was his ultimate destiny. If it was to be now at least it would be in a good cause.

  Ber
trand de Courcy was waiting with his followers where he had left them. They gave an ironic cheer when Raoul came into view and his fists clenched.

  “You have your weapon now, do you?” Bertrand said with a sneer.

  Silently, Raoul drew it from its scabbard and assumed the “on guard” position. With a frown, Bertrand did the same. He did not seem to have expected his opponent to know the opening stance.

  “I should point out to you that as I am not wearing a hauberk, I have no advantage over you in that respect,” de Courcy said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now then, if you are ready: on guard.”

  The heavy swords met with a jarring clang. Bertrand was probably four or five years Raoul’s senior and he was more powerfully built. He had removed his cloak so it could not impede his movements – these were swift and sure-footed. He seemed to be working round steadily in a large circle and Raoul was sure he had a reason for it. Mindful of what Connell had said about the terrain, Raoul was cautious about where he stepped. Bertrand knew these marshes. If Raoul stepped in a bog he doubted if the other would be chivalrous enough to pull him out.

  At first, Raoul contented himself with parrying his opponent’s swings and thrusts. It gave him a chance to study his technique and assess his weaknesses. If de Courcy thought Raoul lacked skill it would be a good thing – he would become over-confident and that could give Raoul a chance.

  After some time, during which neither man had gained any clear advantage, Bertrand swung short and stepped sideways, apparently off guard, presenting his opponent with what looked like an easy target. Just ahead, and a second before he moved, Raoul spotted the tell-tale green of one of the most prolific marsh plants, notorious for luring the unwary onto treacherous ground. He leaped across it, catching Bertrand a vicious swipe across the forearm with the edge of his blade as he turned to face him again. A look of shocked surprise crossed de Courcy’s face as he raised his sword for the next blow.