The Rightful Heir

by Diana Dickinson

  “Are you all right?” Gustave was awake and lighting their fire. “You look a bit rough and that cut’s a mess.”

  “Don’t talk to me,” Raoul groaned.

  “Here, have a bit of bread and some water. Lining the stomach helps, believe me.”

  “There’s no time. I’ve got business with Bertrand. I’ll have to catch you up later.”

  “You sit there and eat first. There’s time enough for that. I’ll saddle Hercules for you and pack up your stuff. By the look of you at the moment, you’re not exactly fit to conduct any business, and I can guess what kind yours is.”

  “I’m sure you can. All right, thanks.”

  He sat gratefully and took a mouthful of bread, chewing it slowly, forcing down the feeling of nausea. After a few minutes he felt a little better.

  He had just mounted the grey and put on his helmet when Bertrand rode towards him.

  “We’ll go back down the track for a mile or so. There was a stand of trees, I remember, and we can tie the horses there.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  It only took a short while to reach the spot and tether their mounts.

  “We’ll do the same as before,” Bertrand was saying. “Just swords, no shields. You didn’t own one then, as I recall.”

  “Fine. That suits me.”

  Raoul drew his sword and rested its point on the ground. He still felt slightly sick and dizzy. And the trouble was, in the cold light of day, he bore de Courcy no particular grudge. He’d been wild with anger when they had fought last, determined to get an apology for the way he’d treated Damona. But he, Raoul, had treated Damona even worse. For almost the first time since he’d left the Mummers the enormity of what he had done came home to him: he had forced her – and she’d even been pregnant with another man’s – his friend’s – child. He closed his eyes. That he’d felt disgusted by what he’d heard was no excuse, that she’d wanted him was no excuse. He was as bad as Armand, his grandfather – his UNCLE.

  “Is something wrong?” Bertrand’s mocking voice jolted him back to the present.

  “Of course not! On guard!”

  Thinking of Armand had helped. As he swung his sword, he tried to see Bertrand as him, to believe that each successful blow he struck was disproving what he’d said of their kinship. His grandmother had NOT succumbed to his lust; his father was NOT Armand’s bastard.

  After a while he forgot his nausea and Armand as the excitement of combat wove its magic round him again. Bertrand’s skill had certainly improved and this time they were pretty evenly matched – if anything Bertrand was the stronger of the two. As they moved round each other, changing their positions, Raoul noticed occasional poor timing and hesitation in some of Bertrand’s strokes. Then he realised why it was – the sun was in his eyes and his head probably felt as bad as Raoul’s own. Much encouraged and starting to enjoy himself, he tried to ensure they kept in those positions while he pressed his opponent as hard as he could.

  “So you don’t like peasant girls these days?” he taunted, parrying a swinging blow from Bertrand.

  “None of your business!” the other man snapped, their swords meeting with a ringing clang.

  “Remember Eileen?”

  “No! Who’s Eileen?”

  Bertrand hesitated fractionally and Raoul thrust beneath his guard. De Courcy recovered himself and leaped back.

  “Irish. Rather unusual; stayed with Maeve Guennec.”

  “No, I don’t...well, perhaps...”

  Bertrand had moved round to his left, leaving Raoul with the sun in his eyes. His blade flew in a glittering arc; Raoul parried swiftly, and then swung his own sword in a sweeping curve. Bertrand side-stepped, parried and struck again.

  “Dazzling green eyes. Very tempting.”

  Raoul opened his own eyes very wide at Bertrand as he hacked back with a short chopping blow. He turned his wrist, swung wide and attempted the lightning stroke which he’d used to disarm de Courcy all those years ago. This time it failed. Bertrand spotted what was intended and quickly blocked his move.

  “You won’t get me to fall for that again!” he panted, countering with an attacking stroke of his own.

  The sun was still in Raoul’s eyes and he felt suddenly tired and thirsty. The wound in his cheek throbbed.

  “This one’s for Eileen,” he said, meeting de Courcy’s blade awkwardly and attempting a wild upward thrust.

  “Green eyes, you said.” He blocked Raoul’s blow easily.

  Bertrand’s blade faltered and Raoul pressed forward.

  “Green.”

  “Like yours.”

  “Exactly like mine!”

  Thinking he’d found a chance for a winning blow, Raoul lunged. There seemed to be a moment’s pause then his sword was flying from his grasp. He dived after it but Bertrand was too quick for him, pinning down the blade with his foot.

  Raoul whipped his dagger from its sheath and sprang forward to press its point against de Courcy’s throat. At that range de Courcy’s sword was useless.

  “I should have remembered that a peasant would be unlikely to follow the rules,” Bertrand said, meeting Raoul’s eyes contemptuously. “This Eileen was your sister, was she? She ran away, I believe – I don’t think I even touched her.”

  “You’d have had a surprise if you had!”

  “Christ!” The blue eyes widened in shock. “It was you! Were you dressed as a girl so I wouldn’t recognise you?”

  Raoul nodded grimly, his dagger point still pressed firmly against Bertrand’s throat. There was a sudden flicker in de Courcy’s eyes and his lips twitched.

  At that moment two horsemen came pounding down the track and slithered to a halt beside them. Raoul glanced round and as his attention wavered, Bertrand drove his knee up violently into his groin. The dagger fell unheeded from his grip as Raoul sank to the ground in agony. Bertrand smiled down at him and sheathed his sword.

  “That’s my opinion of Eileen!” he said.

  “What the Devil’s happening here?” the Count demanded. “What’s the matter with you, de Metz?”

  “I think Lord Bertrand – was trying – to prove something,” Raoul gasped, still doubled up with pain.

  “Did you not pass on my message?” Bertrand said angrily to Paul who was the second horseman.

  “Some faradiddle about you having a private matter to settle then catching us up?” roared Tréguier. “I was hardly going to ride out when I heard that, was I? Was it another plot among those renegades? Did they make another attack?”

  “No, sir,” said Bertrand. “This was...it was just something personal between this man and me – of no concern to anyone else.”

  “Get down and give Raoul a hand, Paul. He seems to be in some distress.”

  “It’s quite all right, my lord. I’ll be better in a moment.” Raoul struggled to his feet. “But whether I can sit a horse or not is another question.”

  “You ought to learn to play by the rules,” Bertrand said, picking up Raoul’s sword and handing it to him. “It’s usually better in the end.”

  “That depends.”

  Raoul took the weapon and sheathed it.

  “On?”

  “Whether the man you’re fighting is a man of honour.”

  Bertrand’s eyes narrowed.

  “Implying that I’m not.”

  “Implying anything you like. You managed to win this round in the end – and pretty conclusively, I’d say. Do you consider our dispute to be satisfactorily settled now, my lord?”

  “Just stay out of my way, de Metz. Next time I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “Unless I kill you first, of course – and being a peasant rather than a man of honour...”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” The Count glowered down at them. “Bertrand, I’m surprised at you! It’s not like you to brawl! This is hardly knightly conduct! What would my daughter say?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was – provoked.”

  “Well mount up now, f
or the love of God. God’s bones, you’re the one that’s always in a hurry and going on about time-wasting. Can you ride, de Metz?”

  “I’ll manage, my lord.”

  “Right, well you join your friends in the rear-guard again. And Bertrand, you stay near me until you learn to control your temper. As de Metz said yesterday, it’s Infidels we’re meant to be fighting, not fellow Christians! That’s right, Bertrand, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Bertrand muttered.

  He cast a furious glance at Raoul then strode over to his chestnut, sprang into the saddle and galloped off without waiting for the others.

  “These days it’s usually him telling everyone else what to do,” Tréguier told Raoul confidentially, “Not like when he was younger. He doesn’t like to be in the wrong.”

  “Few of us do, my lord.”

  “You keep away from him for a few days. He’s not one to bear grudges, is he, Paul?”

  “No, my lord,” the squire said with an ambiguous grin.

  Raoul made his way carefully and cautiously over to the trees, untied Hercules and seated himself gingerly in the saddle. Then, moving as slowly and gently as possible, he guided the stallion up the track to join the rest of the army.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Twelve days later the walls of Byzantium were visible in the far distance when they stopped to make camp. The army was jubilant. Food had become scarcer and scarcer the further they had travelled and even King Louis had become aware that his army was in no state to march let alone to fight.

  Despite dining on nothing but thin gruel and water, the mood in the Breton camp was as cheerful as if they had eaten a feast. In fact they had fared better than many. As their troop formed the final section of an army of many thousand men, the Count thought it wise for frequent sorties to be made just to ensure that their progress was not being spied upon and that no-one, whether Turk or outlaw, intended to attack them from behind. On these sorties, usually made at dusk or dawn, they frequently picked up game which the official foraging party didn’t find. They were also prepared to pay for anything which they could persuade the locals to spare. Where fear of the King’s men sent them scurrying away, hiding whatever they had left, a few men with winning smiles and gold coins could sometimes do considerably better.

  “Tomorrow we’ll have a roof over our heads and full bellies at last,” Gustave said, yawning and wrapping his blankets round him.

  “And if I know you, some Byzantine girl to warm your bed as well,” said Pierre. “What do you say, Raoul?”

  “Seems likely,” he agreed. “Not that I’ve much hope in that direction. This damn wound’s getting worse. Any decent girl would take one look at me and run a mile.”

  “Ah well, that’s fair enough,” Pierre said with a laugh. “We’ll get the young tasty beauties for once and you’ll have to make do with the old ugly ones. It’s about time you gave us a chance, Raoul.”

  “Hah!” He lay down and ran an anxious finger across his cheek. The cut had closed over but looked red and angry. In some places it had puffed-up into pus filled sores which both ached and itched. Raoul was finding it daily more troublesome.

  “Are you going out on patrol in the morning?” he asked the others after a moment, trying to put its niggling irritation out of his mind.

  “Bertrand reckons there’s no need,” Gustave said, “and he’s probably right. It gives us more chance to sleep anyway and I’m not sorry about that.”

  “I shan’t be sorry to get rid of my prisoners,” Raoul said sitting up and peering across towards the trees where they’d been tied. As there seemed to be no movement, he lay back again. “I wonder what the Count’s going to do with them.”

  “Throw them in the Emperor’s dungeons, I should think.”

  Although Pierre and Gustave had been frequent members of the scouting parties, because of his fight with de Courcy, Raoul had been assigned the unenviable job of guarding the two rebels from the Count’s guard, Jean Taloc and Mathieu Le Gros.

  “I reckon that red-haired brute’s put a curse on you, Raoul,” Pierre said. “That’s why your face won’t heal. Bretons are keen on demonic rites, by what I’ve heard.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.” Raoul remembered what had happened to Berthe at Radenoc and shivered.

  The prisoners had certainly not made life easy or pleasant for him over the last few days. They had constantly insulted him in Breton, calling him Armand’s bastard and mocking his once-handsome face. They had also expressed their continued loathing for Guy de Bourbriac, Count of Tréguier and had described in loving detail what they would like to do to him and his precious son-in-law. They saw them as Norman interlopers and as such, inevitably, brutal tyrants. When, without actually repeating their words, Raoul had asked Bertrand’s permission for them to be flogged, he had refused saying he didn’t believe in torturing captives. Raoul wondered whether de Courcy himself had encouraged them to taunt him – he had certainly refused to assign Raoul to other duties. Yesterday, in desperation, he had gagged the men and attaching a long rope to their bound hands, had almost dragged them behind his horse. Pierre and Gustave understood none of what they’d been saying so found it impossible to fathom their friend’s behaviour or appreciate how he felt. Ashamed of what he knew was an excessive reaction, Raoul didn’t enlighten them. Though dead, it felt as if Bilcot was tormenting him still. He hoped the Count would deal with them firmly once they reached Byzantium.

  “Naw, you’re too fanciful. I think the salve was stale.” Gustave spoke dismissively but Raoul had seen him cross himself. “Either that or he’d dipped his dagger in venom. I’ve never seen a simple cut turn so bad, though.”

  “Thanks,” Raoul muttered, “you’re a real comfort!”

  The following morning, after he’d given the prisoners a drink and allowed them to relieve themselves, Raoul re-gagged the men and tied their rope to Hercules’s pommel. This was the final day he would have to put up with them and he felt immensely relieved. He looked back at the two scurrying along behind him. When you thought about it, it was a little like leading a reluctant dog – two dogs, in fact. If there had been three he could have called them Cerberus, the three-headed dog of Classical legend. Raoul chuckled. His friends, hearing him, exchanged relieved glances – they’d started to worry about his continuing black mood.

  They reached the city by late afternoon. Although it wasn’t much of a surprise, everyone was disappointed when they were ordered to make camp outside the walls. Presumably the Royal party would be accommodated in the Emperor’s palace and quarters for the rest of them would be found as soon as possible.

  Here in the midst of an open camp there was no easy way for Raoul to ensure that his prisoners couldn’t escape. After a moment’s thought he left them gagged and sat them back to back, binding the long rope securely round them both.

  “What do you think you’re doing, de Metz?”

  Bertrand de Courcy was coming towards him, looking severely displeased.

  “Tying up your prisoners – I would have thought that was obvious.”

  “Why have they been gagged?”

  “Because I’ve heard all their jokes and they’re not worth hearing again.”

  Bertrand strode over to them and unknotted the rags.

  “Thank you, my lord,” each murmured gratefully as soon as he could speak.

  “I can’t expect you to understand the rules of chivalry, de Metz, but I can demand that you treat your fellow men with common decency. Now untie that rope and leave merely their wrists bound.”

  “Are you sure it’s wise, my lord?” Raoul managed to make the title sound almost like an insult.

  “Tomorrow morning the Count will hold a court where your case will be heard,” he told the men, ignoring Raoul’s question completely. “But I think it is likely that if you renew your oath of allegiance, you will be allowed to continue on the Crusade. Now, de Metz, do as I said and untie them.”

  “My lord, this is madness. These
men can’t be trusted. They’ve no loyalty to you or to the Count.”

  “You know nothing about it – don’t judge others by your own standards. They will give me their word.” Bertrand glared at Raoul. “But if they break it, I will hold you responsible.”

  “Oh, I see. Thank you.”

  Raoul angrily pulled the knots undone and began to coil the length of rope.

  “My lord, could we not have our hands untied as well?” begged Jean Taloc, the bearded man, in a wheedling voice.

  Bertrand hesitated.

  “Why should we try to escape?” asked Mathieu Le Gros, the other man, reasonably. “Where would we go with the army all around us? You said we could be freed tomorrow anyway.” As he spoke both prisoners had shuffled onto their knees and they now gazed at de Courcy beseechingly.

  “Very well. Free their wrists.”

  “No, really, de Courcy, you can’t do this!”

  “Are you arguing with me, soldier?”

  “Sir, be reasonable! They hate you and your...”

  “I’ll not tell you again, soldier. Untie them.”

  “Lord Bertrand, you’re making a grave error.”

  “It is my decision, soldier. I know what I am doing. I want their wrists untied. And if you promise me that you will not try to leave the camp,” Bertrand told the grinning prisoners, “you will remain unbound.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Make your promise.”

  “We swear, my lord, by yours and the Count’s lives.”

  “Satisfied?” de Courcy demanded as Raoul reluctantly began to loosen the ropes.

  “Not in the least,” he said. “But who am I to argue?”

  “The bastard son of Armand de Metz,” Jean Taloc hissed quietly into his ear.

  “Whose pretty face was ruined by our good friend Bilcot,” whispered Le Gros and both the men sniggered.

  Bertrand glanced at Raoul, frowned, then shrugged and walked away.

  When he’d gone and the men’s hands were untied Raoul drew his sword.

  “Lord de Courcy may trust you,” he told them, “but I do not. One more word out of either of you and I’ll silence you for good, whatever the consequences may be.”