“I think so too,” Gustave agreed as Pierre slipped away. He unstoppered his water bottle and drank, tilting his head back and swallowing deeply. “Hold on a moment, there’s someone up there!” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and lowered the bottle.
“Where? I don’t see anything.”
“Look – by that clump of bushes half-way up the hillside. There! Look, they’re moving now.”
Raoul squinted up to where Gustave was pointing.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said softly. “Who is it, do you suppose? The locals don’t usually watch us like this. Could they be Turkish spies?”
“Quite likely I’d say. We’re not that far from Byzantium – and they reckon the Emperor’s in league with the heathens.”
“Look! They’ve reached those rocks now. Can you see how many there are?”
“Two of them, I think...no! There’s a third man lagging behind.”
At that moment Pierre returned.
“There’s no real problem,” he said unconcernedly. “One of the mules shied at something and panicked. It kicked one of the others which fell into the ravine and broke its leg. They’re having to haul the tents and stuff out of the river and share the load out between the other mules. It’ll be a while yet – it’s chaos back there with everyone blaming everyone else for what happened.”
“And meantime we get more and more cut off from the troop in front of us. I don’t like it.” Gustave drank again, thoughtfully.
“Did you notice anything about any of the men back there?” Raoul asked.
“I did actually. It’s funny because I thought that lot we met first were Tréguier’s personal guard. But there were two of them with the baggage train – that big red haired chap and the bearded one with the torn tunic.”
“That explains it! They’re out for revenge!” Raoul exclaimed.
“What do you mean?”
Speaking softly, they explained what they’d seen.
“It’s Bilcot and the other two – I’m sure of it. The mule shying was no accident,” Raoul told him.
Pierre frowned but his tone was ironic.
“And I said you’d provided for us – well perhaps I meant provided a chance to get our throats cut! Maybe you won’t be renewing your acquaintance with Lord Bertrand after all – that’s one good thing, I suppose.”
“Shut up, Pierre, you fool. We’ve got out of tighter spots before. Look, I’ll go ahead a bit and see if I can spot the place they’ll choose. You two bring Hercules if we get the word to ride out – and stay near the front.”
“Watch your step, Raoul. That Breton’s out for blood!”
“Don’t I know it!”
Perhaps a mile further on, Raoul found what he was looking for. Instead of the sloping hillside, to the right a wall of rock perhaps twenty feet in height rose vertically, with its topmost ledge overhanging the track. From here it would be easy to send rocks crashing down onto an enemy below. You could even wait until your target was immediately beneath you then simply drop a boulder on his head. And with no-one visible now on the road in front there would be no witnesses: it would just seem like a natural occurrence.
But he must do something. What would be best? Obviously Pierre, Gustave and himself were meant to be the targets. Was it enough just to run back and warn them? He hesitated then swore under his breath. It was too late. The troop was on the move again. He could see movement in the distance, hear the clop of hooves and the jingling of the harness.
He studied the cliff beside him for a moment, assessing the foot and hand holds it presented. It wasn’t too bad, apart from the overhang at the top. But wait a minute, where were his wits? He ran back down the track for a short distance then clambered up onto the rocks beside it. Here, where the cliff had fallen away, it was an easy scramble to get to the top. There were even bushes to screen him from view – not that he imagined they’d be keeping a look-out; in Raoul’s experience, louts like these rarely expected to be outwitted.
Sure enough, there they were.
Le Nain, the one Pierre had fought, was sitting on the ground only a few feet away. Raoul hastily ducked back then peered cautiously out again. Nursing his injured arm and looking sorry for himself, he seemed unlikely to be taking part in the attack. That meant one less to worry about but it was awkward too. He was between Raoul and the others. As he’d suspected, Vignon and Bilcot had gathered a pile of huge boulders ready to heave them over the edge. They were taking no chances, it seemed. Judging by their gestures and frequent gleeful chuckles, they were still discussing their plan of action; unfortunately their lowered voices prevented Raoul from hearing what they were saying. At that moment Bilcot clearly spotted the approaching troop. Each of them selected a large, heavy rock then knelt down, watching for the right moment to let it fall.
Raoul ran swiftly forward. He unsheathed his dagger, stifled Le Nain’s mouth with his hand and pulled the sharp blade across his throat. This was no time for sentiment. He let the body slump to the ground and crept silently forward. Intent on the riders, the others had noticed nothing.
“Wait until Lord Bertrand’s below then let him have it. I’ll deal with the Count,” Bilcot muttered. “When they’re down go for the others – but leave the smooth faced little bastard to me! Right...wait a moment...wait a moment...”
“Look out!”
Raoul flung himself towards Vignon as he leaned over the edge and let go of the first stone.
Below, Pierre and Gustave spurred their horses forward. Startled by their action and hearing the cry from above, Bertrand’s chestnut slithered to a halt just as the great boulder crashed down in front of him. A well placed kick from Raoul sent Vignon toppling down to land almost on top of it. Acting instinctively, Pierre seized the Count’s reins and the great horse reared, practically unseating its rider. But it spoiled Bilcot’s aim and his rock thumped onto the track and rolled away, missing its target by inches.
This time Bilcot had no time to defend himself or to reach for his dagger. His eyes widened in a moment’s agonised horror as Raoul’s blade plunged home. After a moment Raoul pulled the weapon free, wiped it contemptuously on the Breton’s tunic then pitched him over the edge to sprawl by his companion, dead or dying – he didn’t care.
“Is that you, de Metz?” The Count controlled his mount with difficulty then stood in his stirrups and peered up at the cliff top.
“Yes, my lord.” Raoul came forward to the edge.
“Well, merciful God! You and your friends have proved your worth already. Well done, boy.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Raoul thought it would be unwise to point out that had they not forced their way into the Breton camp initially, this incident would not have occurred – or probably it would not. It seemed odd that the men had chosen the Count and his son-in-law as their victims rather than merely attacking the interlopers. And finding this perfect spot – did it suggest previous planning?
“Where’s the other one, Le Nain?” Bertrand called.
“Dead too, my lord. Shall I throw him down?”
“No need. He can rot up there quite as well as down here. I doubt if his friends are anxious to bury him.”
“My lord, you may know this already but some of his friends are with the baggage train,” Pierre told Bertrand. “I suspect they’re in league with these men.”
“Are they indeed? I hadn’t noticed that. I’ll deal with them. Thanks.”
“How’re you going to get down from there, de Metz?” Tréguier demanded.
“Quite simply, my lord.”
Raoul had lost none of his climbing skills and in a matter of moments stood on the track beside him.
“Well, bless me! You are a young man with talents.”
Raoul grinned then regretted it as a searing pain darted across his cheek. He’d almost forgotten about the wound but now it smarted fiercely again. He took Hercules’s reins from Gustave and mounted. Once he was settled in the saddle the stallion snorted and tossed his head as if we
lcoming him back to them.
“Good work, Raoul,” Gustave said.
“Thanks.” He reached for his water-bottle and drank deeply.
Bertrand re-joined them a few minutes later, threading his way through the troop as fast as the narrow track would allow.
“Let’s get moving again and see if we can join the rest of the army before nightfall,” he said, drawing rein briefly. “I’d like you three to keep an eye the other conspirators. I’ve had them bound and left them with the rear-guard but I’d value your assistance in case they’ve friends who try something. You men seem to have your wits about you.”
“Our pleasure, my lord,” said Gustave, bowing in the saddle. “Come along, my friends.” They turned their horses and rode back through the column of foot soldiers. “I think we’ve just made ourselves indispensable!”
“Lord Bertrand requests you to join him for supper.” Paul, the squire, approached their camp-fire.
“Is that just him or all of us?” Pierre said, looking up from mixing a meal-cake.
“Just Master de Metz,” the squire said. “Sorry, sir.”
“You can have a share of ours, soldier, if you’re short.” One of the knights from the rear-guard who were camped beside them came over to the fire.
“He just doesn’t like his own cooking,” Gustave said with a laugh. “Come to that, I don’t like it either.”
“Well, have a drop of this and welcome,” said the knight, handing Pierre a flagon. “It’ll improve things.”
“Now you’re talking! Thank you kindly.”
“Follow me, sir,” Paul said to Raoul. “I think your friends will be merry enough in your absence.”
As he left them, names were being swapped and stories of tournaments embarked upon. Even apart from full bellies, there were advantages to ‘belonging’ it seemed. Except with these two friends, Raoul hadn’t known much camaraderie since he had left Guennec’s Men.
Now the question was, when should he tell Bertrand who he was? They had discussed it that afternoon as they rode along at the rear. Pierre had suggested that he wait until de Courcy asked him – if, indeed, he remembered him at all. Raoul was sure he would. Even with the fresh wound across his cheek he had changed little, he thought, over the last few years. And people were always saying that his were memorable features. He and Gustave agreed that it would be best to get it over with, while his credit with Bertrand and the Count was high. One thing was certain now, he would eat first! These days he wasn’t prepared to risk the loss of a meal for the sake of high principles.
“Come in and make yourself comfortable,” Bertrand said as Paul lifted the flap for Raoul to precede him into the tent.
He ducked inside then glanced uncertainly round the bare cramped interior, lit surprisingly well by a couple of foul-smelling candles. The furnishings consisted of two stools, on one of which de Courcy was seated and a roll of bedding in the corner.
Bertrand smiled and shrugged.
“Hardly luxurious, is it? Sit down, anyway – Raoul – was that your name?”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
“Don’t bother with the formalities. Call me Bertrand.”
Raoul studied de Courcy as he took his seat. Of course he was dressed much more simply than when he’d seen him last – it had been at the great Christmas feast in Morbihan castle. He now wore merely a plain dark tunic. His hair was much shorter too and he was clean shaven – he’d had a moustache in those days. His pale blue eyes looked even lighter in his lean, well-tanned face. Intelligence and a new maturity seemed to have replaced his look of youthful arrogance. Perhaps he’d changed. It seemed a pity that they were likely to be enemies. Maybe Pierre was right – maybe he shouldn’t tell him after all.
“You saved my life today,” de Courcy said warmly. “I want to thank you.”
“It was nothing, my lord – Bertrand.”
“Bilcot has nursed a grudge against the de Bourbriac family and me for some years. The Count supposedly robbed him of some grazing land and there was something about a dowry. In the end it was safer to bring him with us rather than leave him to stir up trouble at home. Ah, here’s Paul with the food.”
The young man entered the tent bringing with him a tempting aroma from the steaming platters which he carried. He set them down and went out again returning moments later with a flagon. Bertrand paid little attention to what the squire was doing; instead he seemed to be examining his guest’s face. Raoul’s hope of passing unrecognised faded. After a few moments’ puzzled scrutiny, Bertrand appeared to recollect his manners.
“We’ve no table,” he said apologetically, “but at least there’s wine – thanks to a little farm we found yesterday. They’d no food to spare but a gold coin bought us quite a lot of this, I can tell you.”
Raoul gladly accepted a heaped bowl and brimming wine-cup from the squire.
“Could you not simply have thrown Bilcot and his friends into your dungeons?” he said, trying to stop himself from gobbling the food down like a peasant. It was delicious and the wine was even better, rich, red and smooth.
Bertrand drank then refilled Raoul’s cup and his own.
“He’d done nothing but spread rumours and make threats, and it worries me to lock a man up just for that. You can call me a fool if you like.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord.”
“Bertrand.”
“Sorry. Bertrand.”
“But what about you? You trouble me, Raoul, you know. I keep thinking I’ve met you before but I can’t think how. I don’t know Léon – my father quarrelled with Armand years ago so I haven’t been to Radenoc. I’ve seen your father at tournaments, I suppose...”
“Armand’s my uncle, not my father – or at least according to my Grandmother he is.” Raoul set down his bowl; the food seemed to have turned to ashes in his mouth. He drained his wine-cup and reached for the flagon, splashing more into his cup and gulping it down in a vain effort to drown his bitter anger. “And how’s your lovely wife these days, Bertrand?” he said when the wine was gone.
“What do you know about Louise?” de Courcy said with a frown. He put his empty bowl aside and poured more wine into his own cup. “She may not be a beauty but I’ll not have her mocked. She’s a good woman and she’s given me two sons – it may be three by now as she was due in mid-October.”
“I just wondered if she objected to your habit of bribing peasant girls with promises to get them to your bed.”
“What?”
“Or don’t you do that anymore?”
“What are you saying?” Bertrand looked at him sternly, all hint of friendly humour vanished from his gaze.
“Forgotten Damona have you? Daniel Guennec’s daughter whom you and your friends made sport of in the marshes one day?”
“That’s who you are!” Bertrand flung down his cup. “Damn you!” He grabbed Raoul by the front of his tunic and hauled him off the stool.
“You’ve spilled your wine!”
“Damn the wine!”
He thrust Raoul down onto the seat again and stood glaring down at him, fists clenched.
“If it wasn’t for what happened today I’d cut your throat!”
“How’s your swordsmanship these days, Bertrand? Better than when we met last, I sincerely hope.”
“You’ll get a chance to find out.” Bertrand smiled grimly. “At first light tomorrow you’ll meet me – and we’ll settle this business once and for all. Unless you’re afraid, of course?”
“Not in the slightest. At first light then. I won’t abuse your hospitality by staying longer tonight...I expect you need your rest!”
“Get out, you insolent dog!”
Raoul stood carefully and made his way over to the doorway, slightly alarmed at the way his head was swimming. He lifted the flap then turned back to Bertrand who was regarding him angrily.
“I see you’re making sure there’s no-one to watch again,” he said sweetly. “Very wise. You don’t want
me to show you up, do you? Goodnight, Bertrand!”
“Lord de Courcy to you!”
“Goodnight, Bertrand!”
There was a muffled crash as de Courcy flung the flagon at the canvas door-way.
Raoul laughed and walked unsteadily through the camp to find his friends.
Raoul opened his eyes with a start.
“Christ!” he exclaimed, rolling out of his blankets and getting to his feet.
First light was long gone and the sun was peering over the eastern hills. Raoul’s head felt heavy as lead and as if it had been stuffed with wool. The wound across his cheek ached dully and the left side of his face felt slightly swollen. As everyone else around him was still asleep, he suspected that they’d all been indulging too freely in the wine. He’d just have to hope de Courcy felt as bad as he did.
“Christ!” he muttered again as he bent to pick up his sword-belt. It was as if someone was hammering on his skull.
He buckled on the weapon with fingers that felt like thumbs and found his water bottle. He took a drink then splashed some on his face. However he felt, he must delay no longer. He rubbed on more of Gustave’s salve then hurried towards Bertrand’s tent.
De Courcy was standing outside it, fully armed and looking furious.
“I thought you’d lost your nerve,” he said as Raoul came closer. “Where’s your horse?”
“It’s over there. Why? Are you planning for us to joust?”
“Use your brain. They’ll all be awake soon. And there’s nowhere here to fight. My father-in-law can get them moving, for once – and we’ll re-join them later.”
“Or rather you can – leaving me to rot on the hill-side like Le Nain. Is that it?”
“I’d hardly dare to kill yesterday’s hero, would I? I merely mean to teach you your place! You should be a bit more humble by the time I’ve finished with you.”
“Very generous. Thank you, my lord.” He bowed ironically.
“Well go and get your gear and let’s get on with it!”
With a defiant swagger that cost him every ounce of self-control, Raoul retraced his steps.
The Rightful Heir Page 27