From having fought defensively, Raoul now began to press his opponent with an array of attacking aggressive strokes. They had moved through a full circle by now and Raoul was confident that he remembered where the solid ground was. His agility and athleticism could now come into play. Despite the weight of his sword, he forced the pace of the fight to quicken, leaping, wrong-footing and confusing Bertrand time after time.
De Courcy was tiring visibly, his face wet with sweat and his breath coming in heaving gasps. Blood dripped steadily from his left arm.
Raoul knew that he would soon be able to defeat him. He scarcely felt tired at all. His arm muscles would ache tomorrow from unaccustomed use, but he wasn’t even sweating. He swung his blade wide, slashed back and feinted, catching Bertrand unawares. It was Sergeant Bouchard’s cleverest trick, one with which he had frequently defeated his pupil and which Raoul had never yet been able to try. De Courcy’s sword fell from his weakened grip and Raoul prepared to deliver the winning blow.
As he swung his sword, hands caught him from behind, one wrenching the weapon from his grasp, others savagely pinioning his arms.
“No!” Bertrand roared. “Let him go!”
To Raoul’s astonishment, he was instantly released.
“Do you think...I am so feeble...that I need your help?” de Courcy panted, glaring furiously at his friends. “Leave Ricard...with my horse...and go back to the castle!”
“But sir, he was beating you!”
“That’s right, sir. A churl with a stolen weapon and clownish tricks...”
“Do you know nothing about honour?” Bertrand demanded, his breathing more controlled now but his anger still blazing. “This is a fair fight, one against one, whoever he is. Now go!”
The young men, muttering in protest, returned to their horses, mounted up and rode off. The groom and two horses remained. Raoul rubbed his wrist and picked up his sword.
“On guard!” de Courcy snapped.
“Bind your cut first. It’s still bleeding.”
With a snarl of impatience, Bertrand took a kerchief from his pouch and wound it round his arm, pulling the knot tight with his strong white teeth.
“Now, peasant, you’ll learn to regret your impertinence!”
At first Bertrand de Courcy fought with the redoubled strength of savage fury. But like a straw fire, it quickly burnt itself out. The vivid memory stayed in Raoul’s mind of the casual obscenity with which he and his friends had treated Damona. His anger burned steadily, fuelling his renewed efforts to subdue his opponent. He also found pleasure in pitting his wits and skill against the other man. At Valsemé he had sometimes avoided weapons-practice; a real fight was different – exciting, exhilarating.
Inevitably it was not long before Bertrand was gasping for breath once more. Fooled by a lightning move of Raoul’s, he lost his footing and crashed to the ground, his sword easily struck from his hand. Raoul stood over him in triumph, his sword point pressed to Bertrand’s throat, his muddy boot on his velvet covered chest.
“Go on then...kill me. What are you...waiting for?” He glared up at Raoul.
“And give you a reason to hang me? Certainly not. I have no intention of injuring you further. Unless you still refuse to apologise, of course. Then I shall have to cut your throat.”
Bertrand hesitated, perhaps assessing whether this peasant really meant what he had said. Raoul pressed the sword point more firmly against his throat, green eyes meeting blue unflinchingly.
“All right, I agree. Let me get up.”
“You can apologise from there.”
Bertrand hesitated again, steeling himself to say the humiliating words.
“I apologise for what I said – and did – to the girl. Is that it? Are you satisfied?”
“It will do.” Raoul sheathed his sword. “Now you may get up.”
Bertrand struggled to his feet, his rich clothing slimed and splattered with mud. Raoul handed him his sword. Brief anger flared again in de Courcy’s eyes as he took it.
“I can assure you that I am not in the habit of allowing myself to be worsted by scum like you. If I ever have the misfortune to see you or that little slut again I shall have you put in the stocks. Now get out of my sight.”
Raoul suppressed a smile and turned away. He could, of course, make him feel better by telling him that his birth was as noble as his. But why should he ease the man’s pain? He could even afford to overlook, now, that he had again called Damona a slut. It was hardly surprising that he wanted a sop to give his pride. He also understood, very clearly, why Bertrand rode his horse, at speed, almost straight at him, forcing him to jump out of the way and showering him with muddy water. He just hoped Guennec and the others wouldn’t be made to suffer through vindictiveness on de Courcy’s part. The man was obviously some relative of the Baron’s.
When he reached Sarzeau this time, the whole village seemed to be assembled on the green.
“Raoul! Are you hurt?” Pol was the first to notice him.
“No. Not at all.”
“Did you fight with him?” Jean Kerjean demanded incredulously.
“Yes.”
“With a sword? And he let you live?” Maeve was equally astounded.
“I won easily. He’s not very good.”
“”Oh, God! Daniel! Raoul’s beaten Bertrand de Courcy in a sword fight. Had we better pack up now and take to the road again?” White faced and anguished, Maeve clutched her husband’s arm. “Raoul, you didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. I wounded him slightly in the arm and made him apologise for what he did to Damona. That’s all.”
“Will he be bringing a troop to raze the village?”
“No!” Raoul’s tone was sharp. He hadn’t realised they would all be so scared of the consequences of what he had done. Were they really so vulnerable?
“Raoul, you mustn’t blame them for fearing for their homes,” Daniel said quietly. “Are you quite sure de Courcy doesn’t plan some act of retribution against us?”
“Apart from being Damona’s friend, I don’t think he really knows who I am. I didn’t mention you at all. I personally want to keep out of his way for a while – and so should Damona. But he threatened no-one else. Who is he, anyway? Is he so important?”
“Do you really not know?”
“I know his name, that’s all.”
“He’s the eldest son of the Count of Morbihan – heir to this barony and several others in Vannetais. One day he’ll be the richest, most powerful man in southern Brittany.”
“Make that just “in Brittany”,” Pol amended dryly.
“So you can see that it is a little unfortunate that you crossed him,” Daniel said.
“I couldn’t just stand by and watch while they treated Damona like...like...”
Guennec interrupted. “Your defence of her honour was brave – though somewhat rash! I am grateful to you for your...chivalry? Even if it was a little misplaced. Powerful lords like Morbihan consider they have a God-given right to do what they please, especially on their own land and with their own people.”
“Well I disagree,” Raoul snapped.
“Go to our house, Raoul, and speak to Damona,” Maeve said, hastily intervening in what seemed likely to become a new fight. “She’s fretting over your safety.”
“She had no need,” Raoul muttered.
“Just a moment, Raoul,” said Daniel. “Let me see your sword. It was your father’s, was it?”
“Yes.”
He drew it from the scabbard and handed it to Guennec. The older man tested the weapon’s balance and weight then examined the crest set into the hilt before handing it back to Raoul.
“Radenoc, you said.”
“That’s right.”
As he sheathed the sword he met Daniel’s thoughtful gaze. “You’re not the baron yet,” his eyes seemed to say. After a moment, Raoul turned away and headed towards the cottage. As he went, he saw Pol whispering something to Jean Kerjean. Jean look
ed at Raoul suspiciously, shook his head and murmured an inaudible reply.
Damona was alone in the cottage. Her spindle and wool lay abandoned beside her low stool and she seemed to have been crying. The windowless room was lit by two smoking rush lights, the glow of the fire and the daylight which slanted in through the open doorway.
She leaped up as soon as she saw Raoul.
“Thank God! You’re safe.”
She flung herself towards him and he caught her in his arms, holding her close, feeling the frantic beating of her heart.
“Oh, Raoul, I was so afraid of what Bertrand and the others would do to you!”
“It’s all right. They didn’t hurt me.”
“And Bertrand?”
“Said he was sorry.”
“What?” She looked at him aghast.
“I made him apologise for what he did to you.”
“Raoul...I was very stupid about Bertrand. When I was last here he was so loving and tender and made such promises...And I believed him.”
“I’m sure he was very convincing. But you’d better stay away from him now.”
“Yes, yes, I will. Don’t worry.”
“Good girl.” He gave her a hug and released her.
“Raoul.”
“Yes?”
She hesitated, twisting her hands together, eyes lowered. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing rapid. Raoul wondered why she was so agitated and so strangely shy. He fought the desire to take her back into his arms again. If he did what his body would like him to do, he would be as bad as Bertrand de Courcy.
“Raoul, my parents like you, don’t they?”
“I hope so, yes.”
“I don’t think they would...object...if you wanted to marry me.”
“Marry you?”
Damona winced visibly at Raoul astonished exclamation.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hanging her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just, you told Bertrand I was yours and...I thought perhaps...”Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re so different from the others.”
“Oh, Damona, love.” Raoul drew her into his arms with a groan. “I’ve no money at all and I’m really not ready to marry anyone yet – and I’d be a bad bargain, in any case. I’ve been told that an early grave is all I have to look forward to.”
His excuses sounded feeble even to his own ears.
“Never mind, then.” She looked at him with a soft glow in her eyes. Raoul felt a surge of intense desire. “Forget about the priest. I’m yours anyway. Take me to your bed.”
“Damona, I can’t.” He fought against his body’s weakness. “Your father’s been good to me – he’s taken me into his family and into his home. You’re like a sister to me. It would be a betrayal of his trust if I lay with you.”
“You’re a liar and a coward!” She wrenched herself free. “You can be oh so brave when it comes to fighting noble lords like Bertrand but you think you’re too good for me! That’s the truth of it! I know you’re some baron’s bastard! I heard you telling my father. Well I’m glad you don’t want me! You make me sick!”
Raoul grabbed her arms, stung to anger by the truth of her accusations.
“I never said I didn’t want you!”
He crushed her body against him, one hand forcing her head back, his lips on hers, his tongue invading her mouth. After a moment’s struggle, she acquiesced, melting into his kiss, then she pulled herself free.
“So are you going to love me or not?”
“No!” he cried, turning away, desperately trying to master himself.
“Then don’t you ever so much as look at me again!”
“Damona, I made a vow that I...”
She pushed past him and ducked out through the low doorway.
Raoul struck his head with his fist. What was he doing? First Celie – whom he truly hadn’t wanted – and now Damona. Perhaps he should marry her. Who did he think he was saving himself for? Some noble bride fit to be Baroness of Radenoc? As there was no hope of that – or any other glorious future – he should just make the best of what was offered to him. She was so beautiful, so immensely desirable – she’d make the perfect wife – for a minstrel. He must call her back.
“Damona!” He crossed the room and went outside.
Some yards away, to Raoul’s surprise and horror, Jean Kerjean was holding Damona in a close embrace. She was sobbing and Jean was soothing her, stroking her hair and murmuring endearments. He bent and whispered something to her; she looked up and nodded. Helpless, unnoticed, unable to say or do anything, Raoul stood and watched as Jean lifted Damona in his powerful arms and carried her towards the barn.
Chapter Twelve
Over the next few days it became clear that Jean Kerjean and Damona were to be regarded as a couple. Gone was the teasing banter which Jean had so often indulged in. He was possessive and devoted, much to Maeve’s obvious annoyance. Jean was not at all the sort of prize she had hoped her daughter would win. Although Damona had taken to sleeping with Jean in the barn, she managed to avoid speaking to or even looking at Raoul.
He felt a curious mixture of emotions. Part of him was pleased that they were happy together. Another part of him regretted his own lost opportunity, especially when he heard their energetic coupling merely yards away from him in the barn. Much though he tried to repress it, a knot of jealousy formed in his mind, souring his friendly feelings towards them both.
He took refuge in Gwen, often sleeping in her lean-to and spending hours each day down in the marsh, flying her. Connell went with him and the boy appeared to be as fond of the merlin as he was himself. They always kept a careful look-out for horsemen and either hid or ran away as soon as any were spotted. The bird had fully regained her strength. Raoul was dazzled by the grace of her gliding, swooping flight and the ease with which she out-flew larks, pipits and other small birds. Occasionally she would snatch small animals but in general she seemed to delight in pursuing the marsh birds, pitting her wits and aerobatic skill against them.
Maeve muttered sometimes that it would be a lot more use if Gwen were able to catch game for them rather than simply feeding herself. Raoul disagreed; he wouldn’t have swapped the neat little bird for the most accomplished gyrfalcon. It would have been more difficult, too, to keep a bigger bird secret. Raoul had trained the merlin to return to him or Connell in response to a long note on a whistle that the boy had made. That way they could quickly conceal her from hunting parties from the castle. A bird with a longer range would have been harder to control.
No dire consequences had resulted from Raoul’s fight with Bertrand de Courcy. No punishments were meted out to the inhabitants of Sarzeau and Raoul wondered whether the young lord was deliberately trying to forget his humiliating defeat at the hands of a supposed peasant. His lack of retribution suggested that he wanted no-one but his groom to know the outcome of the fight, and the groom, as a servant, could easily be bought off. Raoul was sure that he had recognised Bertrand on several occasions when he had rode past in the distance but he was careful not to attract his attention.
Some days before Yule-tide, a messenger from the Count commanded Guennec to bring his troupe up to the castle to perform for his guests on Christmas night.
“What shall I do?” Raoul asked Daniel. “I daren’t risk being recognised. I’m sure Bertrand won’t have forgotten me. Perhaps I should stay behind.”
“Damona will have to, certainly, but it’s not a problem for you, lad – and after all, we need you. I’d already thought about it, as it happens. For the songs and the tumbling we can all wear painted festive masks – Maeve and Damona can make them. And for the drama, well, I’d defy anyone to know you once you’ve got your gown on.”
Raoul still felt anxious and his anxiety increased as the day of their visit drew closer. He confided his fears to Cof who had returned to the barn from his mother’s house as Pol was now living with Berthe at the Cloarecs.
“Will we just go in and play and then com
e home?” he asked him.
“No,” Cof said. “Not if it’s like other years. There’s generally feasting first and dancing after.”
“Am I to keep my mask on all the time? It’ll just draw attention to me if I do.”
“Is the great fighter scared, then? Take your sword with you. You and Bertrand can entertain us with a re-play of your duel after we’ve eaten.”
“Don’t tease, Cof. Yes, I am scared, funnily enough. And not just for myself. Bertrand didn’t know I was connected with Daniel’s troupe before. I don’t want to bring trouble to everyone now.”
“You didn’t think of that last time.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
Cof suddenly laughed. “I know. Why don’t you go up to the castle dressed as a girl? You can slip out to the privy to put your mask on and take your gown off when it’s time to perform. There’ll only be one difficulty.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll have to do the girl’s steps in the dances. Can you manage that, do you think?”
“It might be wiser if I sat them out! Cof, that’s a brilliant idea. What do you think I should wear?”
They both laughed at the feminine question.
Raoul wasn’t quite so sure about the brilliance of the idea when they were walking up to the castle two days later. They had agreed that, if anyone asked, he was Eileen, Maeve’s young cousin who was visiting for the festive season and spoke little of the Breton language. Maeve had found him suitable clothes: a somewhat shapeless tunic in light brown stuff, embroidered round the neck and the edges of the long sleeves, and a flowing head-veil which he fastened well down over his forehead. He shaved especially carefully before they set out and Maeve insisted on checking the smoothness of her cousin’s cheeks, announcing after a playful pinch that she supposed “Eileen” would do. For the sake of credibility Raoul had padded out his chest but inevitably he had to endure ribald comments from the others about his voluptuous contours.
Despite his nervousness about encountering Bertrand, Raoul was interested to see inside the castle whose magnificence he had so much admired from a distance. It was just as grand as he had pictured. Hundreds of torches in the outer and inner courtyards illuminated the massive towers and soaring battlements. The Great Hall, which ran the full length of the inner keep, was vibrant with colour. Huge tapestries covered the walls, portraying life-like scenes of battle and hunting. Bright silken banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, explaining several generations of de Courcy genealogy through their varying designs.
The Rightful Heir Page 18