“I’d say!”
She almost snatched the money from his hand and rushed over to a man in a greasy tunic who was standing by the fire watching a carcass being loaded onto the spit. After a brief conversation she returned to Raoul and took his hand.
Strangely, Raoul felt no guilt later as he lay in the stable loft, the girl now asleep in his arms. He had originally only intended to kiss and fondle her, whiling away the time until Armand left Radenoc. But she was pretty enough to have aroused his desire, eager and enthusiastic in a wholesome and straightforward sort of way and there had seemed to be no point in self-restraint. He wondered whether he had been a fool to stay celibate all this time, torturing himself at times with frustration. Now his lust had been quenched – repeatedly – in a simple and pleasant enough way and he felt better for it. The day-light was starting to fade and Raoul’s stomach growled with hunger.
He kissed the girl on the forehead and she stirred.
“Could you get me something to eat, sweetheart? I’m famished.”
The term of endearment reminded him of Gwen and he hoped that Connell had remembered to feed her. He would have. These days he tended her as often as Raoul did himself.
“Aye, surely.” She sat up, fastened her bodice and pulled down her skirt.
“You’ve got straw in your hair.”
Raoul removed the wisps and made her tidy.
“Anyone’d think I’d been rollin’ in the hay all the day long,” she said with a laugh.
“Thank you. It was good.”
“Maybe later...?”
“I’ll have to go after my friends, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, well. I’ll get you some supper, though.”
“Here, take this.”
Raoul fished into his purse for some more coins. The girl frowned and shook her head.
“I’m not a whore. I just goes with who I likes. And you lot generally make good lovers.”
“You lot?”
She giggled.
“You know what I mean! I’ll be back soon.”
Puzzled, Raoul lay back and waited for her to return. Did she mean minstrels? Acrobats? He would have liked to question her further but she simply brought him a dish of pottage and a loaf of bread then returned to her duties. It was meal-time now in the Hall so she couldn’t be spared any longer. During the afternoon Raoul had been aware of grooms leading out the sleek horses which he had glimpsed when the girl – he still didn’t know her name – had brought him up here. It was clear that Armand had now left. As soon as the Hall was empty he could go to the West Tower. His problem was that there was no way of entering it except through the keep. That was part of its strength.
Once he had eaten, Raoul crossed the courtyard and went up the steps to the Hall door. Too late he noticed that there were guards flanking it but to Raoul’s surprise and relief they made no move to stop him entering. It was almost as if he was a familiar member of the household. He entered the Hall itself and lingered just inside. The High Table was empty and those at the sides – squires, men-at-arms and menials, seemed well gone in drink, boisterous and noisy in their lord’s absence.
“Have some wine, lad!” someone called to him, waving an overflowing cup. “Drink to Lugh, God of the Harvest.”
There was an undercurrent of excitement as if everyone was impatient to fill their bellies and get as drunk as possible as fast as they could. It suited Raoul very well. To his astonishment he was able to walk the length of the Hall unchallenged, behind the diners, unobtrusively walk up the unguarded steps at the far end and slip through the curtain into the room beyond.
It was a handsome chamber, furnished in a colourful exotic style like nothing Raoul had ever seen before. The contrast to the bare shabby Hall was remarkable. There were low round stools and inlaid tables, huge silk cushions and bright wall hangings showing men and women in loose flowing robes. Several bowl-shaped lamps were set on tall iron stands with twisted intricate stems. There was also a strange heady fragrance which Raoul didn’t recognise.
Two doorways led out of the room, both heavily curtained. The one to the left led up a spiral staircase which was lit by flambeaux in wall sconces. The other led up a short straight flight of steps. Raoul chose this way, emerging at the top onto a section of the battlements. He could hear the sea surging against the rocks to one side of the parapet. The other side overlooked the courtyard. Ahead there was the dark shape of the Western Tower and the solid studded door leading into it. It was shut.
Raoul swallowed his disappointment. Had he really expected to walk straight into the castle’s inner fastness? Unable to resist the temptation, he grasped the great handle and turned it. To his surprise, the door swung open and he was able to step inside.
A narrow flight of spiral stairs led both downwards and upwards. He must go up, of course. After a short distance there was a landing with a room leading off it. From beyond the curtain he could hear the low murmur of voices. This couldn’t be the Lord’s chamber. It was still too low in the tower. It was a guard-room perhaps. He tiptoed past the entrance and continued upwards, his light shoes making no sound. The stairs wound round and round, steep, badly worn in some places. Eventually Raoul emerged onto another landing which contained a single, ancient door. This was it! There was a key hole but the key was missing. Surely it was bound to be locked.
As before, Raoul turned the handle and incredibly, the heavy door swung open. Heart thudding, blood racing, he walked into the empty room.
Chapter Fourteen
He had been here before! With the exception of the exotic furnishings, similar to those in the chamber behind the Hall, everything about this room was familiar – even the sound of the sea against the rocks far below the windows. How could this be? Then he remembered. It was in the old crone’s hut in Brocéliande years ago – he had dreamed about this room. Along with the memory came an intense wave of emotion – love and longing for the lovely red-headed girl who had been here with him, and fear of a narrow dark tunnel leading endlessly downwards into smothering darkness. What did it mean? Had the dream truly been a vision of the future or just a drug-induced hallucination as he had thought at the time?
But he must remember what he was here for. Raoul dragged his mind back to the present. Was it possible for someone to climb up the tower and in through a window? He went across to one and peered out. The answer was no. Even he, skilful climber though he was, could not possibly attempt an ascent like that. The base of the tower was under water, apart from anything else, and even if it was exposed at low tide, it would be impossible to get from the headland out onto this exposed promontory. And if you could, there were no windows in the walls lower down, and the sheer surface looked amazingly smooth. As everyone had said, his grandmother must have imagined it. Armand de Metz was not so evil as to murder his own brother, merely evil enough to deprive his nephew of his inheritance. But perhaps Eleanor had been wrong even about that.
“And who are you?”
Raoul spun round with a gasp. A small elderly man with a face like a wizened monkey’s was peering in through the doorway. He wore long loose robes and a head covering like those in the wall-hangings downstairs. He spoke Norman French but with an unfamiliar accent. Had Eleanor or Anne mentioned some foreign attendant that Armand had brought back from the east? Yes, surely they had. Raoul thought frantically. What could he say to explain his presence?
“I...I...wanted to see Lord de Metz...” he stuttered, wondering if he should push past the man and run away.
“Oh, yes, yes. Of course you did. No need to say why!”
To Raoul’s total bewilderment, he grinned knowingly and came into the room. He crossed to a long low chest which stood against the wall, pulled the cushions off it, and flung back the lid.
“How old are you?” he said, starting to rummage through the coffer’s contents.
“Um...twenty. Nearly twenty-one.”
“Right. So you were born in...Let me see...”
“Eleven twenty-four.”
>
“Good boy! You know all the answers. Very good. Save work for Ahmed. You sit down there, boy.” He gestured to a cushioned window-seat. “Can you read and write too?”
“Yes, I...” Bemused, Raoul sat down, watching in fascination as several thick books were lifted out of the chest and set on the floor.
“Your mother’s name?”
“Claudine Bouillet. But I don’t see why...”
“Bouillet...Bouillet...This could take time. You look at picture-book while I search it out.”
He passed Raoul a heavy, leather bound volume then started looking through one of the others, muttering under his breath in some foreign language and tutting impatiently. Raoul opened the book he had been given. As he realised what the pictures showed, he gave a gasp of astonishment. Wholly or partially naked men and women were portrayed, all engaged in sexual acts.
“Is good, eh?” the little man said with a leer. “You look some more.”
Wishing he could suppress his fascinated curiosity, Raoul turned the pages, astounded at the multiple participants and the variety of poses depicted. Since he had sinned with the kitchen girl, his much prized virtue seemed to be vanishing all too quickly. Although they partially repelled him, he was aware that the explicit illustrations aroused him too. He was recalled to his surroundings by an angry exclamation.
“No such name! Where you born, boy?”
“Valsemé – it’s in Normandy.”
“Ah! Why you not say so, then? Yes, of course, yes. My Lord was in Normandy that year...Here it is.”
Another volume was selected and the pages quickly turned. Raoul barely listened. His attention was solely on the drawings. Could you really do it like that? It seemed impossible even for acrobats.
“Ahmed. What is happening?”
Raoul let the book slide to the floor with a crash. Armand was standing in the doorway.
“Master?” The little man sprang to his feet. “All finished already? It’s early.”
“I’m not as young as I was.”
Lord Armand gave a thin smile, removed his long black cloak and handed a key to his servant. Ahmed turned away and hung it on a hook beside the bronze mirror opposite the bed. Armand lowered himself into an elaborately carved chair which stood close to where Raoul was seated. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the chair-back for a moment. Again Raoul was tempted to run but something prevented him.
Seen at this proximity, Raoul thought his great uncle looked immensely weary. He could believe now that he was over seventy. The parchment white skin of his face bore a network of fine lines and it seemed to be stretched taut over the bones beneath. His eyes were sunk into their sockets, deeply recessed. As Raoul studied him, Armand’s eyes opened and met his gaze. He realised with a shock that despite the hooded lids they were the same intense green as his own. In fact, as he had been told by Louis de Fresnay several years before, the resemblance was unmistakable, despite the fifty years difference in age. If Raoul lived to be old, that was what he would look like.
“Wine, Ahmed.”
“Yes, master.”
Ahmed fetched a silver wine-cup which he filled from a jug on the table.
“Do you wish the powder, master?”
“Yes, yes. Why should you ask?”
“I’m sorry, master.”
He reached for a small box, added a pinch of a greyish substance, stirred it with a long-handled spoon, and placed the cup within Armand’s reach.
“Now, who is our young friend?” he asked softly when he had swallowed some of the liquid. A trace of colour had returned to his face.
“Another bastard, claiming his due. But I can’t find the mother’s name in -”
“No, I’m not!” Raoul sprang to his feet. Whatever the consequences he felt he must confront his great uncle with the truth. After all, according to the old woman in Brocéliande, he had nothing to lose.
“The door, Ahmed.”
The little man crossed the room, closed the door and squatted in front of it, though he made no attempt to put the wooden bar in place. Armand leaned forward in the chair, his hands clenched round the cup, his eyes fixed on Raoul’s indignant face.
“So who are you?” The soft voice was hardly more than a whisper but it held a compelling, hypnotic quality.
“I am the grandson of Lady Eleanor de Metz,” Raoul announced proudly, defiantly, meeting Armand’s probing gaze without flinching. “My father was her legitimate son Robert and my mother was his wife, Claudine Bouillet.”
Armand began to laugh.
“I am! I can prove it! I have my father’s sword with the Radenoc crest. You are a usurper, sir! This barony is mine!”
Even as Raoul snatched his dagger from its sheath Ahmed leapt across the room and seized his wrist in an agonising grip, forcing him to let the weapon drop with a clatter to the floor.
“I do so hate to spoil such a fine, heroic performance,” Armand said, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “But there are a few things I can see that I need to tell you. And I find it most unpleasant to have you standing over me, shouting this quite unfounded abuse. Sit down again, my dear boy. Some wine for our visitor, Ahmed.”
“No.”
“Very well. If you’re quite determined to be churlish you need have no wine. It must be the peasant blood from his mother, I suppose.”
“How dare..!”
“Sit – down.”
At the quietly spoken command, Raoul’s fury and bravado suddenly vanished. A cold shiver ran down his spine and he found himself shaking as he sank back onto the cushioned seat.
“That’s better. And what’s your name, young man?”
“Raoul.”
“Raoul... de Metz?”
“Of course. I told you.”
Armand smiled, a knowing disconcerting smile, his eyes never leaving Raoul’s face. He held out his cup to Ahmed.
“A little more wine, if you please, then you may leave us. I find spiced wine so heartening. Don’t you? But then you don’t look as if you can afford such luxuries. Has dear Eleanor not prospered?”
“I haven’t seen my grandmother for several years.”
Ahmed bowed to his master, his hands pressed together in front of him, winked knowingly at Raoul and then left the room, closing the door behind him.
“You quarrelled, did you?” Armand sipped his wine. “What a pity. She has had so many losses in her life. First her husband, then her son...and now you.”
“Is that a threat?” Raoul forced the question out through trembling lips.
“My dear Raoul! Why are you so suspicious? I’m only too glad to make your acquaintance. Had I known you existed, I would have sought you out years ago. But what has Lady Eleanor said about me to make you so hostile?”
Refusing to be intimidated or won over, Raoul attempted a tone of righteous indignation. “A great deal. And she wouldn’t lie. She didn’t have to.”
Armand laughed softly.
“Perhaps she didn’t lie. But I’m sure she has kept a little back from a virtuous and innocent boy like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“First of all let’s get something straight, shall we?” He didn’t raise his voice but his tone was icy, no longer indulgent or faintly amused. “I am not a usurper. In the absence of a legitimate son, I was my brother’s heir. You have no claim to Radenoc.”
“But Lady Eleanor did have a son!”
“I said ‘legitimate’. Did you not hear me?”
“My grandmother bore her husband Henri a son. He was called Robert and he was my father!”
“Correct in all but one tiny particular. Eleanor bore a son, etcetera, etcetera. But her son wasn’t Henri’s. He was mine.”
Raoul’s mind reeled. He could hardly comprehend what Armand had said. It couldn’t be true. How could it be? Then from somewhere came the memory of his grandmother’s face, harsh and bitter. “Lust’s a disease,” she had said the night he had left Valsemé. “Fight against it or it
destroys you. I know all about that...to my cost.” He had thought at the time she was simply being prudish, moralistic, trying to spoil his pleasure for the sake of his soul. Perhaps that had not been her reason. Had she buried them away at Valsemé not out of fear of Armand, but because she was ashamed of what she had done? He, Raoul, resembled Armand as he had been in his youth – latterly Eleanor had hardly been able to bear looking him in the face. And when he’d shown signs of becoming a lecher, had she been afraid that he had inherited his grandfather’s bad blood as well as his handsome face?
“It can’t be true!” he whispered.
“Don’t be foolish. You can see quite well that it can. Poor Eleanor. She was so ashamed of her passion for me. Ahmed knows as well as I, she was quite besotted. You can ask him about it later. He’ll tell you.”
Raoul felt nauseated. Armand resumed his tale.
“Henri had been away for months. Eleanor was a young bride; she had never known physical love before and she was so beautiful that I couldn’t resist her, sinful though it was.” Armand sounded regretful and utterly reasonable. “When Henri was wounded, I think she hoped he might die – she thought that we could marry, you see, forgetting that the blood-tie is too close for the Church to give us permission. And then he came home after all. I hate to voice such a terrible suspicion but I’ve always wondered whether she dropped a little something into his wine, just to help him on his way. I insisted to everyone that it was his heart, of course. I couldn’t allow suspicion to fall on her, whatever mad claims she might make. After all, she was very dear to me and she was carrying my child – my poor brother died believing it was his, that’s one consolation. When Robert was born I told her that there could be nothing more between us. I broke it to her that I was betrothed to Isabelle de Bégard and Eleanor was terribly distraught. She decided then that she couldn’t bear to stay in Brittany.”
“But she escaped from Radenoc by climbing down the cliff and swimming to Melgorn. She pulled my father after her in his wooden cradle...”
“Raoul, Raoul, does that sound very likely to you? A woman newly risen from child-bed? She probably remembers little of that time. She was a little...unbalanced, I think. Baron de Buci, Eleanor’s father, tried to persuade her to return here when she had recovered her strength a little. Or at least to send my son to me to be properly reared as befitted his rank, illegitimate though he was. I pride myself, Raoul, that all of my sons – except poor Robert – have been acknowledged and supported. As there is...rather a large number... “ He smiled as if a little ashamed of his weakness. “Ahmed and I, as you have seen, keep detailed records.”
The Rightful Heir Page 22