The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  “Well?” The Count’s eyes narrowed.

  “My friends and I would be useful additions.”

  “Additions? Hah.” He shrugged his thickset shoulders and turned back towards the entrance to the tent. “With these lazy ne’er-do-wells I’ve more than enough mouths to gobble up my supplies without needing ADDITIONS!”

  There were several muttered comments from the men and a ribald laugh.

  “Or perhaps, my lord, we might make useful replacements for some of your present soldiers?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Tréguier looked round again, with sudden interest.

  “Don’t listen to this girlish-faced trickster, my lord,” said the Breton speaker. “This is some ruse to cheat us out of our due.”

  “I suggest that you nominate your three best soldiers and that my friends and I undertake to beat them in single combat, using whatever weapon you choose. If we win, we take their places. If we lose, we will leave you secure in the knowledge that your men are the best.”

  “If you lose, we’ll have your horses and your gear.”

  “Agreed,” Raoul said without hesitation.

  “Very well.” Tréguier rubbed his hands in pleasurable anticipation. “Bertrand won’t return with the scouting party for a while yet and even then the Royal ladies won’t be ready, I’ll warrant. Yes, I agree. It will make good sport. Fetch me a seat, Paul, and you men, stamp out what’s left of that fire. D’you need food before you fight?”

  “No, my lord.” Raoul’s look was humble. “We’ll fight as we are. When we win, you may give us whatever ration we deserve.”

  “Right. Good lad. That seems fair. Paul, put three lots of meal, bread and bacon into the sacks there. They’re the winners’ shares. Now, let’s see. Le Nain, you take the fair lad – what’s your name, soldier?”

  “Pierre Chardin, my lord.”

  “And Vignon, you take the other one. Who are you, lad?”

  “Gustave de la Tour, my lord.”

  “From all you’ve said I assume you’ll want to pit yourself against their leader – that right, Bilcot?”

  The Breton speaker nodded enthusiastic agreement.

  “I’ll teach him to come in here with his fancy talk!” he growled, speaking still in his native tongue. “You’ll see, my lord. Tear him limb from limb, I will.”

  Raoul smiled pleasantly at him.

  “Grinning fool. What an imbecile he looks!”

  “What’s your name, boy?” the Count asked. “You speak like a noble but if you were knighted you wouldn’t be looking for service now.”

  “No, my lord, I’m not a knight. My name is Raoul de Metz.”

  “De Metz – of Radenoc?”

  “I have connections with that household, sir.”

  Tréguier gave a lewd chuckle. “I’ll bet you do! Armand’s populated half of Léon! Right, here’s the lad with my stool. No mail-shirts, no weapons – just a simple wrestling bout. Clear a space, there. We’ll have all three contests at once in case we’re interrupted. Right. Disarm and get on with it.”

  Once his master was seated Paul, the squire, tethered the newcomers’ horses and offered to guard their weapons and equipment. News of the contest had spread rapidly through the camp and many gathered round to watch the unexpected entertainment. The six men stripped off their outer clothing – they would fight in merely their under-drawers to minimise the available holds. Raoul nodded good luck to his friends, spat on his palms and stood waiting for Bilcot. The Breton was exchanging jocular comments with the onlookers, some of whom seemed to be laying bets on the outcome of the fights; unsurprisingly, no-one was backing the strangers. While Raoul knew that all three of them would rather have fought with weapons, he was confident that each of his friends could easily beat his opponent. Pierre was strong and quick-witted and Gustave relished combat of any sort, whether it had rules or not. As far as Bilcot was concerned, Raoul knew he must be careful – everything about the man spoke of cunning and deceit.

  “That’s enough time wasting!” Tréguier interrupted the talk and laughter amongst his men. “You two take the patch yonder,” he gestured to Pierre and the thickset soldier who was to fight him. “And you lads fight over there.” He sent Gustave and a tall youth off in the opposite direction to a stretch of sloping ground. Spectators clustered round each of the pairs. “Bilcot, you and de Metz can use this space here so I’ve a clear view. Now then, let’s see what you’re made of!”

  At first Raoul and his opponent circled each other warily, each eyeing up the other’s strengths and weaknesses. The Breton soldier was short and wiry, as were many of his countrymen, and his upper body was thickly matted with black hair. Where he differed was in the solid strength of his shoulders and the way his round, close-shaven head seemed to grow straight out of his torso with little in the way of neck in between. His dark eyes gleamed in anticipation of their fight and he constantly muttered abuse and threats under his breath.

  Now twenty-three years old, Raoul might lack the brute force of his opponent but he was lithe and well-muscled. He had lost a little of the suppleness of his days with the Mummers but constant weapons practice had toughened his arms and increased his stamina. He knew he was a match for most men, provided he kept his wits. With luck Bilcot might underestimate him, assuming that his slender build and smooth skin meant lack of strength.

  The Breton made the first move. With a sudden lunge, he caught hold of Raoul round the waist, lifted him, twisted sideways and attempted to fling him to the ground. As he began to fall, Raoul grabbed Bilcot’s head, pulling him beneath him as he somersaulted, pinning him down with his knees. But he couldn’t hold him. Eel-like, the Breton wriggled free and Raoul threw himself aside just as Bilcot dived for his legs. They paused, each panting for breath, then Bilcot lunged again, seizing Raoul’s head and shoulders, squeezing the younger man in a vicious grip. With an upward thrust from his elbow and a swift ducking movement, Raoul broke free and turned to face his opponent once more.

  As the bout continued, each man seized the other in a variety of holds but neither could make an end of it. The Breton’s methods were ruthless – he would pull Raoul’s longer hair, gouge with his fingers, kick and bite rather than simply try to throw him. He also sweated so freely that Raoul found it impossible to lock him into a conclusive grip. Beyond him, Raoul sensed that the other fights had ceased, but he daren’t let his attention waver for an instant. Bilcot’s renewed abuse and redoubled fury seemed to suggest that his fellows had been worsted but that he was determined to win, in whatever way he could. Just as Raoul was starting to believe that he really had met his match, Bilcot flung himself violently at Raoul, slipped on a patch of damp ground and momentarily lost his footing. With a combination of luck and skill, Raoul managed to grab the Breton soldier in a vicious arm-lock which this time he seemed unable to break.

  “Miserable little bastard, I’m not finished yet,” Bilcot snarled.

  Raoul tightened his grip, forcing the man’s arm further up his back and grinding his head, twisted sideways, into the muddy ground.

  “I rather think you are,” he murmured, using, for the first time, the Breton language.

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  “Lying, sneaking little bastard! Thought you had me fooled, did you?”

  With a sudden mighty heave, Bilcot flung Raoul aside and sprang at him. It was the glint of the sun on the dagger rather than Gustave’s cry of warning which alerted him. Raoul dived at him, bringing him crashing to the ground, then seizing his right hand, he fought with all his strength to make the weapon drop. But the Breton’s arm seemed to be made of steel. Purple-faced and snarling, Bilcot inched the razor-sharp blade nearer to Raoul’s face.

  “I’ll – spoil – that – pretty – smooth – girlish – face of yours,” he panted through clenched teeth, forcing the blade closer with each word he uttered.

  It was the sudden needle-prick of pain that goaded Raoul into a final frenzied effort. Had
the dagger been at his throat, he would have been helpless. As it was, a desperate sideways lunge ripped his cheek across the weapon’s point but took him clear. It then took less than a second to stamp on Bilcot’s wrist, twist the dagger from his loosened grip and turn the point against its owner’s throat. The man’s eyes widened in fear. Clearly, he had expected Raoul to do anything rather than jeopardise his handsome face.

  “Finish him, de Metz,” the Count called. “The cowardly wretch doesn’t deserve to live.”

  “I don’t want him on my conscience, sir,” Raoul said, getting to his feet. “We’re meant to be killing Infidels, not Christians, aren’t we?”

  “Hmm. I don’t know that I’d call Bilcot a Christian. Here, give his weapon to me and we’ll get something to clean that wound. He’s spoiled your looks, lad, that’s for sure – but you’ve earned your place in the troop. Get your gear, Bilcot, and then you and the others get out! You were eager enough to agree to their terms a while ago.”

  The defeated man got up slowly, grabbed his pile of clothing and stumbled away, muttering curses under his breath.

  “You were very impressive, all three of you,” the Count continued. “If you can fight like this when you’re hungry, Heaven help the Turks when your bellies are full.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Raoul said, gingerly touching his wound which had been bleeding steadily. “We’ll do our best not to disappoint you.”

  “Paul, bring the lad’s clothes then fetch some water!”

  “That squire appears to do all the work around here,” said Pierre, crossing to Raoul. “D’you think he’s the only one they’ve got?”

  “There’s a scouting party out,” said Raoul, pulling on his shirt and hose. “Didn’t you hear Tréguier mention it?”

  “Aye, that’s right,” Gustave agreed. He had joined his companions. “And judging by our audience, most of the knights are in it. Here, boy, give me the basin and that cloth. We’re used to looking after him.”

  “Damned liar!” Raoul muttered. “Isn’t the boot rather on the other foot?”

  “Be quiet and hold still!”

  Gustave dipped the rag, which looked reasonably clean into the water, then dabbed at Raoul’s face.

  “I thought the miserable little turd had you beaten there for a minute, Raoul,” he said.

  Raoul grinned then winced at the smarting pain.

  “I thought so too,” he admitted. “Am I still bleeding?”

  “You are now! You’ll have to give your smile a rest for a day or two.” He cleaned the blood off Raoul’s cheek, wrung the cloth out again then wiped gently along the length of the cut. “It’s not that deep but it’ll leave a scar. Is there any of that salve left?”

  “It’s in my pack,” Pierre said. “I’ll get it.”

  “Christ! It stings like the very devil.” Raoul gritted his teeth. “How did you two fare? Any injuries?”

  “Not to us,” Gustave said with a laugh. “My lad looked sick as a horse when I’d done with him and Pierre broke the other fellow’s arm!”

  “And you’ve got our food?”

  “Too right – and we filched some bread and cheese while everyone was watching you and our hairy friend. Not a bad morning’s work, I’d say.” He paused for a moment. “Was that true, Raoul, about Armand of Radenoc? I don’t mean to pry, it’s just you never mentioned it...all right, forget I spoke.”

  Raoul swallowed the anger which had risen at Gustave’s question. He forced himself to unclench his fists and to speak as calmly as he could.

  “Armand de Metz is not my father and I’m not a bastard. But as I said, I have connections there.”

  “It’s obviously a sore point – sorry!”

  “If there had been any other way to claim Breton blood I’d have done it, believe me.”

  “I said forget it,” said Gustave. “It doesn’t worry me who you’re related to.”

  “The scouts are back,” Pierre hailed them cheerfully, blithely unaware of the tension between his friends. He hurried over and handed the pot of salve to Gustave who smeared a generous dollop onto Raoul’s face. “Let’s hope this lot will be a bit more welcoming than the others.”

  Sure enough, into the camp rode a party of about fifteen horsemen. Judging by their youth, perhaps half a dozen of them were squires. They were all well-armed and rode powerful war-horses.

  “This looks more like it,” Gustave muttered. “Quite a good turn-out – and someone’s got a brain too.”

  Across the saddle-bows of three of the horses were the carcases of good-sized deer.

  Raoul and his companions crossed to their horses and began to re-arm themselves.

  “Prepare to move out directly, men,” said the leading knight as he drew rein in the clearing in front of the Count’s quarters. “Get these tents down and your gear stowed. Have you all been sleeping?”

  Soldiers who had lingered for a chat with Tréguier’s guard once the fight was over, returned now to their own parts of the Breton camp. Some started to dismantle the canvas shelters while others harnessed the pack-mules. Sullenly, the fellows nearby started to gather their possessions together.

  “My lord, where are you?” The knight dismounted with obvious impatience and flung his reins to his squire. “What’s been happening here?”

  The Count emerged from his tent, fully armed now, a silk tunic bearing the Red Cross over his mail-coat.

  “Don’t fret, son. What’s your hurry?”

  The younger man gave a derisive snort of laughter.

  “The morning’s half done, the army’s half starved, winter’s coming on apace and you ask what the hurry is? Last Easter the King should have sent the Duke south with five hundred hand-picked knights – they’d have recaptured Edessa, Aleppo and the rest of Zengi’s kingdom by now!”

  “Well, you needn’t blame me,” the Count said crossly. “I haven’t been wasting my time – these men are replacements for Vignon, Le Nain and Bilcot – and damn good fighters they are too. If their wrestling’s anything to go by, they’ll see off a few heathens, I can tell you.”

  “Hmm. It might have been wiser to have kept them with us. But still, I suppose decent soldiers are always welcome.” He raised a hand to Raoul and his friends in greeting. “Mount up, gentlemen, and for the love of God let’s get moving.”

  “Take your helmet off for a few minutes, Bertrand. Come over here and meet them properly!” The knight followed the older man reluctantly but left his helmet on. “Now, let me see – this young man is Pierre de la Tour – no, that’s not right! It’s Gustave de la Tour and Pierre...”

  “Chardin, my lord.”

  “Chardin, good. But, this’ll make you laugh – the lad with the cut face – oh, you can’t see it so well as he’s put his helmet on! He’s one of Armand’s – de Metz, you know! It’s... René, is it, lad?”

  “Raoul, my lord,” he replied tersely. There was no point in trying to argue – father, grandfather, what did it matter? To hear it said, and laughed about, sickened him.

  “Steady,” Gustave murmured, touching Raoul’s arm.

  “This is ...”

  “We’re ready, my lord!” The Count broke off as Paul, the squire, led the Count’s destrier forward. The great beast snorted and reared.

  “Bertrand, I insist you make this young man’s acquaintance. He fights extremely well.”

  “Later, Father.” The knight gave a tired smile.

  Raoul mounted Hercules and prepared to move away.

  With Paul’s help the Count hauled himself into the saddle. The horse plunged forward and Tréguier called cheerfully back over his shoulder. “He’s my girl Louise’s husband, you know. The finest knight in Christendom! My son-in-law, Bertrand de Courcy.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Raoul groaned. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Do you know him, then?”

  “Put it this way, my friend, you know what you said about the Count of Blois? Well, that’s how Bertrand feels about me –
or at least he will when he realises who I am.”

  “Curse it, we’d better think of something else to do when he sends us packing,” said Pierre gloomily. “Just when I thought you’d provided for us quite well.”

  “It may not come to that,” said Gustave. “Perhaps we can make ourselves indispensable.”

  “You may be a pretty fine soldier but I don’t know that there’s much chance of that!”

  By the early afternoon they were moving slowly along a track which climbed steadily towards distant mountains. On their right, bushes and stunted trees were gradually giving way to rocky outcrops and scree-covered slopes; to their left the ground fell steeply to the gorge below where a stream, swollen with the night’s rain, swirled round giant boulders or fell in frothing torrents to deeper pools beneath.

  The army was strung out for miles ahead of them, travelling at a snail’s pace. Raoul didn’t envy the Queen and her ladies in their litters – they would be almost jolted to pieces as they were dragged over this rocky ground. He shaded his eyes with his hand. As far as he could see, a dusty pall hung above their route and the sun glinted off shields and weapons. It was as well this was not enemy country – they were much too visible and would be totally defenceless if an attack came in a spot like this.

  He and his friends were riding near the front of the Breton force although Raoul made sure they kept their distance from Bertrand and the Count. After them the foot soldiers marched, followed by the pack-mules. At the back there was a final group of well-armed knights.

  Suddenly the terrified scream of an animal was followed by a splintering crash and frenzied shouting from the rear. The leading horsemen drew rein and the whole troop halted. The Count and those around him conferred briefly, then Bertrand de Courcy, unmistakable on his powerful chestnut destrier, rode back along the track towards the source of the continuing noise and shouting.

  Moments later the order to dismount and rest was passed down along the column.

  “Go and see what’s happening, Pierre, can you?” Raoul said as he swung himself out of the saddle. “There’s something odd about this.”