The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  Chapter Fifteen

  Damona’s eyes widened in alarm as she registered, even in the dim light, that Raoul’s expression was unusually stern and implacable. She attempted to laugh but was silenced as he pulled her towards him, his mouth seeking hers in a savage kiss.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped, attempting to free herself.

  “What I should have done long ago – and you needn’t pretend that you haven’t wanted it too. I’ve seen you watching me. Those big eyes of yours give too much away.”

  He seized her by the hair, forcing her head back so that she had to look at him.

  “You’re wrong! It isn’t true!”

  Without replying, he pushed her backwards until she was against the wagon, not for a moment slackening his grip. Then he kissed her again, his mouth demanding, his tongue invading. Her struggle lessened and Raoul sensed the first flicker of response.

  “I’m married to Jean,” she protested, but it was more as if she was reminding herself than Raoul. “You can’t! You mustn’t!”

  “I can. I must.”

  He had released her hair but Damona made no attempt to move away as he loosened the fastening of her shift and began to kiss her neck, her shoulders and her breasts, his warm mouth travelling insistently over her soft skin. His hands caressed her with increasing urgency. She groaned and closed her eyes. When he stood up and pressed himself against her, she attempted again to object.

  “Raoul, this is a sin, think of that if you don’t care about Jean!”

  “I’ve been a fool, Damona!” He gave a harsh laugh. “I discovered today that I come from a line of noted sinners and seducers. I may as well follow their example. Get into the wagon.”

  “But listen, Raoul, I’m pregnant. Jean and I are to have another child!”

  “Good. There are too many bastards in the world. That means there’s no danger of you having one by me. Now, I’ll give you a choice. Climb into that wagon of your own accord or if you prefer, I’ll throw you in.”

  “But the children...”

  “If you don’t want to wake them you’d better be quiet and not try to fight me.”

  “Raoul, don’t do this – I implore you, I beg you!”

  “Save your breath, Damona. My mind’s made up.”

  His fingers dug into her and she cried out in pain as again his mouth was crushed down onto hers.

  “How’s it to be, Damona? Rough like this, or gentle and pleasurable?”

  “Please...” She put her arms round his neck and touched his face with a trembling hand. “Don’t hurt me, please...”

  “Up into the wagon, then.”

  Damona may have intended to make no further resistance but to remain passive while he did what he wished. In the dark interior of the cart, she lay down on Pol and Berthe’s bed rather than that which she shared with her husband, silent and submissive while Raoul stripped her of her shift and removed his own clothes. He didn’t assault her, however. He lingeringly stroked her and kissed her, exploring the secrets of her body, using every possible means to arouse her. When he finally entered her, her response was instinctive; her body moved with his, her fingers clutched him, her gasping breath betrayed her pleasure.

  When he had finished, collapsing onto her, she tried to move away. After a moment he rolled aside but he still held her tightly.

  “Don’t go. Stay here,” he whispered, pulling a blanket over them.

  “Oh, Raoul,” she said miserably, “what have we done?”

  He stroked her hair and cradled her in his arms as she began to weep, her tears wetting his chest, her body quivering with sobs.

  “Hush, hush,” he murmured.

  At length they both slept.

  In the first light of dawn, Raoul awoke. Damona stirred and opened her eyes. A faint smile crossed her face as their eyes met and she raised herself on her elbow, looking down into his face for a long moment before she kissed him. It was still quiet in the cart – the children slept on, oblivious to the events of the night.

  This time Damona made no pretence of reluctance. She took the lead, touching him, caressing him, delighting in the feel of his body and their mutual pleasure. So caught up in their love-making were they that they were totally oblivious to the others’ return. Neither noticed Pol’s brief glance through the curtain or startled exclamation. As Jean flung the curtain aside, Damona reached the climax of her pleasure and cried out – sounding and looking almost as if she were in pain. Seconds later Raoul found himself being torn from her arms, lifted bodily and thrown sprawling, naked, on the ground outside.

  Winded and bruised, he lay still for a moment and then sat up. Damona was weeping noisily, her head buried against Jean’s chest. Both the children were wailing. The other mummers were silent onlookers, every face unsmiling and strained.

  Attempting to recover some dignity, Raoul stood and took a step towards Jean’s wagon, still painfully aware of his nakedness.

  “I apologise, Jean,” he said coldly. “I’m afraid I have wronged you. It wasn’t your wife’s fault – I forced her.”

  Damona cried harder.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Jean said, holding her to him.

  “I should like to kill you for what you’ve done,” the big man said, his eyes full of anger and hurt. “But I know she’s been hot for you – she even admitted it to me! – so I don’t hold you solely to blame.”

  “That’s very...”

  “I’m not saying I forgive you. I might understand what you’ve done, but it doesn’t make it right. And if you don’t get out of here in the next few minutes, I’ll break every bone in your body!”

  Jean hadn’t raised his voice but it was clear that he meant it. There was no point in fighting him – Raoul was no match for him physically: he was taller and broader and an excellent wrestler. It would be nothing like his sword-fight with Bertrand de Courcy where honour could be satisfied without a mortal blow. Raoul had no wish to kill Jean Kerjean or to be killed by him. He liked the man!

  “His clothes,” Damona muttered, her face still hidden against her husband.

  Jean released her, bundled the items together and threw them at Raoul’s feet. Raoul picked them up and crossed to the other cart, people stepping aside to let him through. He climbed in, found the coffer which held his belongings then began to dress himself. Daniel Guennec clambered into the wagon after him.

  “You’re leaving us, Raoul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s your sword. I didn’t use it.”

  Raoul took the weapon and glared at it. The crest needed altering – it was that of a legitimate son: Robert had been a bastard. Should he refuse it? Give it to Daniel? No, he might as well keep it, if only to remind himself of his naivety and foolishness. And he would wear it, however incongruous it might look, rather than hiding it away. He buckled it on over his tunic then took the rest of his clothes from the chest and stuffed them into a sack. His accumulated coins he put in the purse attached to his belt.

  “I’m sorry about what happened,” Guennec said. “And I’m sorry to lose you.”

  “There are reasons apart from Jean why I couldn’t now have stayed.”

  “Good luck. Fare well. Who knows, our paths may cross again one day.”

  Raoul gripped Daniel’s outstretched hand and they embraced.

  “Did you find Berthe?”

  Daniel frowned.

  “Aye. But much too late. She’d been dead for hours – she was their sacrifice.”

  Raoul nodded.

  “I was afraid so.”

  “We had to wait to cross to that island – the tide was wrong when we got there. Poor Pol, he could hardly contain himself – he loved her, you know, despite her faults. But it would have done no good to have got there sooner. There were still a lot of folk there drinking and cavorting while she lay dead on a sort of altar. It was barbaric! I’m Breton but I’ve never seen anything like it – nor had Maeve – and plenty still follow the old religion in
the land she comes from.”

  “I don’t suppose you found out who actually killed her – I would think it must have been some sort… of...of...priest, I suppose.”

  “He probably considers himself to be. No-one made a secret of it. It was the Baron himself – your kinsman: Armand de Metz. He coupled with her in front of them all then cut her throat.”

  “Oh God,” Raoul groaned. “I should have known.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, lad. You’re not responsible for his actions.”

  “What happened to her body? Did you persuade them to let you take it?”

  “They were too drunk to protest – or even notice. She’s at the church. The priest there will give her a Christian burial later on today. When he’s done that, we must be on our way.”

  “Go as soon as you can, Daniel. Lord Armand won’t like his rituals being interfered with. Believe me, he’s not a man to cross.”

  “Thanks for the warning, lad. Neither is Jean – so you’d best be off.”

  They embraced again. Raoul jumped down from the cart, shouldered the sack, and started to walk away.

  “Raoul, you’re not leaving!” It was Connell.

  “I must.”

  “But what about Gwen? You can’t desert her!”

  “She’s yours, Con. Look after her for me, will you?”

  “Oh yes! Yes! But Raoul…” As Raoul again began to move away, Connell ran after him.

  “What?” He stopped, set down the sack and looked at the boy with a slight smile.

  “The girl at the castle! You said she’d tell me what she was like!”

  Raoul laughed. Despite all that Connell had just seen, he was as cheerful as before, his curiosity about sex undiminished.

  “She was…” He paused.

  “Yes? Yes?”

  “...Very friendly and very kind. We had some fun and then she brought me some supper. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

  “Oh, but Raoul! Did she...”

  “You’ll find out what it’s like – all in good time!”

  “You let Raoul go now,” said Maeve. “Take care, lad. I’d have liked you for my son-in-law but I suspect higher things are awaiting you.”

  “I doubt it.” In his mind he saw the skeleton’s bony grin. “But thanks.”

  Raoul stooped and hugged her. He then picked up his belongings again and set out on his way, resisting the temptation to look back.

  For the next two days, Raoul travelled as fast as he could, aware of the need to put as much distance as possible between himself and Radenoc in case of pursuit. If he heard horses approaching, he hid. He didn’t return to Locronan, skirting round it to the north. He avoided tracks and pathways altogether, walking across country, stopping for food only at isolated dwellings.

  He found that his name (he had taken to using his own), his face and his sword were equally useful when it came to acquiring provisions or shelter. In Léon, despite his shabby appearance, when he said who he was, people looked uneasy and fulfilled his demands without question. He traded unashamedly on his good-looks. With their men out at the harvest, lone women were easy to sweet-talk and if they were young and pretty he took whatever they offered in the way of sexual favours as well as food and lodgings. Why should he not do so? He could also, when other means failed, obtain what he wanted by threat – though that was a last resort. He drew his sword on several occasions, but rarely had to use it.

  More days passed, then a week, then two. Sometimes he sang and juggled in the village taverns, thus earning supper and a bed. More often, though, he preferred to steal food or cuckold an absent husband than to survive by honest means. Armand’s blood flowed in his veins, he told himself, so why shouldn’t he lie, cheat, and even kill? Nothing gave him much pleasure so he rarely stayed for long in any one place.

  During the late summer and early autumn he worked his way steadily eastwards. Once he reached Combourg he turned south, making for the Loire. He would return to Baron de Montglane’s castle – if he was lucky, Félice would welcome him. Perhaps with her he could recapture something of his former delight in life and in sexual pleasure, and shake off the bitterness which seemed to have settled in his heart.

  When he reached her, Félice was more than glad to see him. The Baron had broken his neck on a hunting trip early in the year and she was in the enjoyable position of being able to weigh up the attractions of various contending suitors but without having to decide who to favour until her year of mourning had passed.

  Plump and cheerful, her children healthy and placid, her castle luxurious and efficiently run, she provided Raoul with the perfect refuge. Having no autocratic mother-in-law or other interfering relations, Félice could do as she pleased and she had plenty of money with which to do it. She had no need to pretend that Raoul was a groom or a squire. She established him openly as her paramour, even seeking his opinion on whom her new husband should eventually be, and allowing him to be at her side when suitors called to woo her. It amused Raoul to observe her oldest son, a fearless three-year old with the distinctive de Metz colouring. The others, a girl of two and a baby boy of eleven months, were quite different – and different also from each other. Raoul speculated about who had fathered them: not her aged husband, he suspected.

  Félice showed no inclination now to dally with other men. She showered Raoul with gifts – fine new clothes, and a handsome grey stallion which he named Hercules. But although he revelled in the feel of silk and velvet, admired the horse and enjoyed riding him, they meant little to him. Félice was an exciting and sensuous mistress but he didn’t love her. The more she tried to win his affection, the more he found himself mentally pushing her away. The more he did so, the harder she tried. When she gave him a magnificent gyrfalcon, all he could think of was Gwen, his pretty little merlin, lost now forever.

  At Montglane it was possible for him to joust again, to practise his swordsmanship, to go hunting, to live like a nobleman. It was pleasant enough to do so, but he found only brief enjoyment in any activity. The household was ordered to provide instantly whatever diversion or delicacy Raoul requested. He became irritated by their subservience and flattery, tired of their unceasing efforts to please him. It was all too easy, too unchallenging, and too available. The knowledge that Armand’s blood ran in his veins soured everything.

  He tried not to think about Radenoc or about the mummers, his former friends, but he couldn’t help himself. He would fall into a reverie, his thoughts spiralling round in the same bitter circle of disappointment, anger and self-pity. When Félice tried to distract him he would turn on her, cruelly venting his frustration by tormenting her and making her cry. Later he would be sorry and she would nestle joyfully in his arms. Part of him despised her for being so ready to forgive him. He was relieved that she showed no sign of becoming pregnant.

  As the first signs of spring appeared he became increasingly restless and bad tempered.

  “You’re bored with me, aren’t you?” Félice said sadly one bright day as they walked on the ramparts together. Raoul was gazing out over the countryside below as if trying to distinguish some vital landmark in the far distance.

  He sighed irritably and looked at her with a frown.

  “Not at all. It’s just that I have nothing to do. At least with Guennec there were new scenes to devise and new places to visit.”

  “We could go back to bed if you like.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, woman, is your mind always between your legs?”

  Félice gave a pained exclamation and bit back tears.

  “Perhaps you should leave me for a while – go to Blois or Orleans. You fight well with the lance and the sword – there’ll be tournaments there. Perhaps that would please you.”

  “How can I, Félice? I’ve no money, no squire, no armour.”

  “I’ll give you money and attendants. And I’ll give you any armour of my husband’s that you’d like.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I l
ove you, Raoul. And I want you to be happy.”

  “God, Félice,” he groaned, “I don’t deserve you.”

  He gathered her into his arms and she clung to him.

  “Do you want to go?” she said wistfully after a moment.

  “Just for a month or two. Then I’ll come back.”

  “Let’s go down, then. You had better make your choice.” Her voice was sad but resigned.

  Raoul left Montglane a week later with an escort of four well-armed men. He rode Hercules, wore a full suit of chain mail and a close-fitting helmet which had belonged to the baron in his youth. Over his armour he wore a silk surcoat with an adaptation of the Radenoc crest on the front, stitched by Félice. On the sword, on the gates of Locronan and on the flag at Radenoc there were three red lions and a tower on a light blue ground. A band of red crossed diagonally from right to left, separating the tower from the beasts. Raoul’s newly devised badge was the same light blue but the diagonal red band ran from left to right; there was no tower and only a single lion, and it was rampant instead of crouching.

  Both he and Félice knew he was unlikely to come back. He kissed her warmly when they parted and he tried not to notice the tears in her eyes as she handed him the traditional stirrup-cup of spiced wine. Once he had crossed the drawbridge and was on the road, Raoul found it all too easy to dismiss her from his mind.

  He had decided to travel eastwards, making ultimately for Paris. He had enjoyed his winter in the city four years ago and it would be very much better in the spring, especially with his new status and a reasonable sum of money in his purse. He would attach himself as a mercenary to some rich lord, he had decided. His attendants, all young and adventurous men, were as enthusiastic as he was. Quite possibly they could all win fame and fortune.

  On March 30th 1146 Raoul rode into the city of Vezelay, to the south of Paris. To his surprise, the meadow outside the city walls was thronging with workman who seemed to be constructing some kind of platform. He asked various people what was happening but no-one gave a coherent reply. He caught something about an ‘Easter Address’ and even heard King Louis’s name mentioned, but it was unclear whether the monarch himself was actually coming to the city or not. With difficulty and at considerable expense, Raoul managed to procure basic lodgings for the night – the inns were crammed full. Everyone from powerful knights to humble peasants seemed to have flocked there from miles around.