He thrust her roughly away. She stumbled backwards and nearly fell.
“Be careful, Raoul!” Bertrand said. “What’s wrong with you? Sit down, for God’s sake.”
“I had my fortune told years ago,” he snapped, sinking down onto the stool and splashing wine into his cup. “I don’t need to hear it again.”
“What did she see?” The old woman had fixed her avid, gleaming eyes on him.
Raoul felt sweat break out on his brow. He attempted to laugh.
“Plenty!” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Weakness, lost opportunity, folly, lust, greed, thwarted ambition and finally death. That’s more than enough for anyone.”
“Let’s look again. Your destiny may have changed.” Her eyes were still locked hypnotically with his.
“No.”
“Go on, Raoul.”
“Choose seven squares.”
“No.”
“Choose just one.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Raoul. What harm can it do? I’d never have thought you’d be such a coward!”
Raoul glanced across at Bertrand. He looked relaxed, amused.
“Oh, very well,” he said abruptly. “Just one.”
Without further comment the old woman spread the squares out face down on the table in front of him. Raoul hesitated. Which one should he choose? He touched one, about to pick it up then changed his mind. He paused again.
“That one,” he said pointing to the furthest square.
“You’re sure?” the woman asked.
“Yes.”
Using both hands she gathered in the rest of the squares. Then she reached out and flicked the remaining one over. The figure of a skeleton grinned mockingly up at Raoul. He gasped and sprang back, dropping his cup with a crash.
“My God, Bertrand,” Raoul cried. “I should never have let you talk me into this. You see? You see? Just like before. I had hopes then – foolish hopes about what my future might hold. But this is all it amounts to. It’s all pointless. It’s all for nothing. I might just as well have died in Damascus with Aysha instead of deserting her. It’s still there; it’s still waiting for me: Death!”
Chapter Thirty
A silence had fallen in the crowded tavern during Raoul’s impassioned outburst. The old woman was the first to speak. She had picked up the square and now held it in her palm.
“Were you told that this image meant Death?” she asked him.
“I didn’t need to be told. What else could it mean?”
“But what did she say, the one who was telling your future?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” The old woman sounded both puzzled and angry.
“I wouldn’t let her say anything,” Raoul muttered.
“Ah, the young, the young. They always think they know everything. Now you listen to me, young man. Sit down there, open your ears and listen.”
She prodded him so fiercely on the chest that he sat down meekly.
“This image does not mean Death as you so foolishly supposed. It means a transformation. It shows that the old life will be replaced by something new. It means that once you have cast off the ways which bound you and restricted you, you can achieve something different, something better. How many pictures did you select before?”
“Seven.”
“And this was the last?”
“Yes.”
“Then it shows the most likely outcome from those which went before. With the qualities you have been given and the opportunities which you now have, you can transform your life and achieve your heart’s desire. That is your future, young man. Few have such a chance. Do not waste it.”
An extraordinary mixture of emotions welled up in Raoul’s heart. There was anger at himself all those years ago for refusing to hear to whatever Meg had been going to say. There was amazed incredulity: wasn’t ‘his heart’s desire’ precisely what he had demanded at the Barenton fountain? There was relief that his interpretation had been wrong, that the dark shadow had been lifted from his future. He felt ashamed of having lost control of himself when he had seen the image painted on the square, but more than anything else he felt gratitude to this wise old woman for insisting that he listen to what she had to say.
He took several gold coins from his pouch and handed them silently to her.
“This is more than enough, young man,” she said, biting each one before tucking it away. “You must not waste your good fortune.”
“Don’t worry, mother. You deserve it.”
“God bless you, young sir!”
“I’m sorry about that, Bertrand,” he said with a sheepish grin once the old woman had gone.
“It’s all right.” De Courcy gripped Raoul’s shoulder reassuringly. “What happened before?”
Raoul told him about his visit to Brocéliande, describing the storm, the wolves and the old woman who had called herself Keeper of the Spring. He even told Bertrand about the strange girl and the lone wolf he had seen when he had come down from the False Lover’s Rock.
“The memory of it haunted me for years,” he said.
“I’m not surprised. I’ve heard of the Barenton Fountain, of course. But I’ve never attempted to find it.”
“I swear half the choices I made in my youth were because of the image on that damned tile. If I had to do it again, it might all be very different.”
“Shahin would say it was written. That you did what God had intended you to do.”
“True.”
“And in any case, you can’t undo the past. You must simply make the most of the future – my Lord of Beauchamp.”
“That’s right,” Raoul said with a grin. “I must, mustn’t I?”
The following day they set out on the next stage of their journey. The weather was fine, their horses rested and eager. Renaud knew the best route and ensured that they had snug lodgings each night in the castles of barons loyal to the Duchess, or failing that, in comfortable abbeys.
Shortly before mid-summer, they arrived in Poitiers and made their way to its magnificent castle. According to Renaud, it had always been Eleanor’s favourite and she had frequently stayed there, filling it with poets and troubadours who sang of Courtly Love. Raoul had been there once before when he had fought in the Christmas tournament in 1146. Gustave had won all the honours then and had earned the enmity of the Count of Blois, Raoul recalled. Now Gustave and Pierre were both dead – and so, probably, was the Count. It seemed such a waste.
When they presented themselves at the gatehouse, the castle’s steward was immediately sent for. He arrived in haste, introduced himself as Sir Claude de Belin, and they were then conducted across the drawbridge and into the main keep.
“Her Grace told me to expect you,” he said, showing them into a well-furnished chamber and sending a page for refreshment.” She gave me strict instructions about what you must do before travelling on to Caen.”
“Isn’t the Duchess here?” Raoul said, surprised.
“No, my lord. She and her husband are presently in Normandy – in Caen, as I said.”
“Her husband? I thought Louis had divorced her.”
“Oh yes, my lord. I am referring to her new husband: His Grace of Normandy.”
“I’m sorry, Sir Claude,” Bertrand said. “I think you had better explain. We know nothing about this.”
While the page poured cups of wine and offered a plate of sweet cakes, the steward did so.
“Her Grace married Henri Plantagenet in May,” he told them, “just two months after her former marriage was annulled.”
“And he’s Duke of Normandy, is he?” said Bertrand. “He wasn’t when I left here four years ago.”
“That’s correct, sir. He inherited the title two years ago. And last year he also became Count of Anjou.”
“He can’t be very old,” Raoul said thoughtfully. “I vaguely recall a lad of that name but he was still a squire.”
“Indeed, my lord. His Grace is only nineteen years of age. But t
hey do say that he may become the next King of England. It could be a solution to the war there which might be acceptable to both King Stephen and the Empress Matilda. Lady Eleanor thought it quite likely, I believe.”
Raoul grinned.
“I think perhaps she’s achieved her heart’s desire,” he said with a laugh. As the steward turned away to give further instructions to the page he said in an undertone to Bertrand, “And she always did have a fondness for younger men!”
A short time later the page brought an armful of documents relating to Raoul’s barony and he spent the rest of the day in the steward’s company, poring over them. He was relieved to learn that the former line had simply died out, that there would be no dispute over his title. The estate had clearly been extremely well managed. There were lists and inventories of all of his new possessions written in the crabbed scholarly hand of their steward, a man called Nicolas du Plessis, whom Sir Claude assured him he could trust completely.
The following morning, accompanied by Bertrand and an impressive escort of Eleanor’s soldiers, he rode out to take possession of his property. It was merely a day’s ride from Poitiers.
“I feel ridiculously excited,” Raoul confessed to Bertrand as they neared Beauchamp. “Like a child with a new toy.”
“That’s hardly surprising, Raoul,” Bertrand said with a smile. “I’d be just the same. Just don’t expect too much and be disappointed.”
“I tell you, my friend, I am the proud owner of ten tonnes of malted barley, three dozen barrels of pickled herring, ditto of salted pork, fifteen hogsheads of best quality red wine, three of vinegar, eight prime oxen, God knows how many milk-cows...”
“Stop, stop! Enough, I believe you. It’s just that you’ve been used to the luxury of the east. A straw thatched keep with a rush-strewn floor might seem to be a bit of a let-down to you now.”
“There’s one big difference, you know.”
“Which is?”
“Even straw-thatched and rush strewn, it will be mine.”
Beauchamp, as Raoul knew from the papers he had read, consisted of three manors, each with its own dwelling house plus several farms and small-holdings held by his tenants in return for so many days service. The principal residence, occupied by the ruling lord and his family, was just outside the hamlet of St. Julien in which there was a Cistercian Abbey. The castle consisted of a strong outer wall and gate-house built of stone with a central wooden keep, raised up on a low mound. Shortly after Raoul’s arrival in Poitiers, a messenger had been sent to Master du Plessis, telling him when to expect his new lord’s arrival.
The bells of the Abbey were ringing for Nones as they rode through the hamlet. Shortly afterwards the castle walls came into view. A look-out must have been posted because, as they neared the gate-house, the draw-bridge was lowered across the intervening ditch. Nicolas du Plessis, smiling warmly, was waiting to greet him. His wife, Dame Alice, a round-faced, homely looking woman who clearly ruled kitchens and scullions with an iron hand, immediately shepherded Raoul and Bertrand into the Hall where refreshments had been already set out on the high table.
As Eleanor had advised, Raoul planned to spend a month at Beauchamp. He rode out daily round his domain, making the acquaintance of his dependants, inspecting the crops and livestock and listening to any problems and disputes which had recently arisen. Anything which couldn’t easily be settled was presented to him in full at the Manor Court which he held a week after his arrival. He was extremely pleased with the steward’s supervision of the estate. It had been several months since the old lord had died but du Plessis had ensured that nothing was neglected. There had been a rumour that Louis would give the lands to the Church, under the rule of the nearby Abbey, and Raoul sensed that his steward had been relieved when the Duchess took control and the barony had been given to him instead. The only cool welcome he had received was when he had made a brief visit to the prior of St. Julien. Despite his supposed renunciation of the world, Raoul gained the impression that Brother Thomas was an ambitious man who bore something of a grudge towards the man who had deprived him of greater power and wealth. He made a mental note to keep an eye on him.
Soon after they had reached Beauchamp, Bertrand had sent a message to Morbihan, telling his family that he would be home by August at the latest. They had been there for slightly more than three weeks when a messenger arrived from Sarzeau demanding urgently to speak to de Courcy. He was shown into the solar to which Raoul and Bertrand had retired after dinner. In the absence of ladies, Raoul had adopted the first-floor room as his own, keeping the manor records and accounts there. He slept in the small dark chamber behind the Hall but preferred to conduct business in this pleasant sunny chamber. When he married, he found himself thinking, he would doubtless have to return it to his wife. Then he had laughed at the new direction his thoughts seemed to be taking.
“My lord,” the messenger bowed and presented a rolled parchment to Bertrand. “Your mother has been trying to reach you for months. It was feared that you must be dead.”
“Well happily, I am not. Is your name Floch, by any chance?”
“That’s right, my lord.” The young man flushed and grinned. “I’m Pierre, Jean’s son.”
“You look very like him. Direct the lad where to find refreshment, Raoul, will you, while I read this?” He gave a rueful grin. “If it’s urgent enough to have my mother searching the Holy Land for me I suppose I had better look at it straight away.”
He broke the seal and spread out the single sheet. As he read its contents the smile faded from his face and his fists clenched.
“Something’s happened,” Raoul said as he came back into the room. “What?”
“It’s my father. He had a seizure last autumn which left him paralysed. Then he caught an ague and died in January.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, so am I although I can’t say there was much love between us. It must have tried him sorely to be helpless. Death must almost have come as a relief. My mother summons me instantly to her side.”
“I remember that she was a forceful lady.”
Bertrand gave a faint smile.
“I’d forgotten that you must have met them.”
“You’ll obey her command, I presume?”
“All in good time. I’ll set out when you leave for Caen. My father’s been dead for several months; she can wait a little longer. You can spare me a few of your men, can you? As Count of Morbihan my entourage had better be suitably impressive.”
“Of course.” Raoul grinned. “Take as many as you like, Bertrand. Or should I address you as ‘my lord’ from now on?”
“Probably you should,” Bertrand said with a laugh. “But I shan’t insist upon it.”
A week later they rode out. There had been no shortage of volunteers to go with them. Looking at the troop assembled in the castle courtyard, Raoul felt proud. Each man had a good horse, was well armed and well turned out. They each wore a green surcoat with the Beauchamp badge sewn on it: ears of wheat embroidered in gold. It was a fitting symbol of the land’s rich fertility. There was also a silken banner which bore the same device. This was carried by the youngest soldier whose family, he blushingly informed Raoul, had traditionally been the Beauchamp standard-bearers. Pierre Floch had been sent on to Tréguier, asking the Count to meet Bertrand at Sarzeau with de Courcy’s young sons.
“I hope you’ve no objection, Bertrand,” Raoul said, “but I plan to call at Montglane Castle just in case an old friend of mine happens to be in residence. It barely takes us out of our way.”
“I’ve no objection at all,” de Courcy said. “Tell me about her.”
“Félice is...How did you know she’d be female?”
“Intuition, my friend. Intuition – and perhaps a certain gleam in your eyes?”
Montglane was merely thirty miles north of Beauchamp and, in Raoul’s estimation, it was an entirely appropriate place to spend the first night of their journey. As they came in sight of
the castle Raoul saw with pleasure that a pennant was flying high above the battlements. It meant that someone from the family was there. Félice had remarried, he knew. He didn’t think that he had met Baron de Segré, her second husband, but he had been told that he was very much younger and more personable than her first – though he was just as rich.
In fact both de Segré and his wife were in residence. Although she was several years older and a great deal fatter, Félice had lost none of her vitality. She was overjoyed by the improved fortune of her former lover, exclaiming in delight when he told her of his recently acquired barony. Despite the presence of her husband, she kissed him warmly in congratulation, afterwards insisting on embracing Bertrand de Courcy as well- if he too was an old friend. De Segré looked on with an indulgent smile, clearly all too used to his wife’s exuberant affections.
After they had dined, they were joined in Félice’s solar by Etienne, her eldest son, now a tall, good-looking boy of eleven. Raoul remembered him as a boisterous three-year-old and was amused to see that he had retained, unmistakeably, the de Metz features and colouring. Bertrand clearly noticed it too, sending Raoul a knowing glance. Raoul hoped that de Segré, who was at present playing dice with his captain, would not.
“He’s been sent home by the Count of Vouvrant,” Félice said, giving her son a cuff round the ears as he came and sat beside her. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. He’ll only get up to mischief if I keep him here. And he’ll lead the younger ones into pranks.”
“Mother, I wouldn’t,” the boy protested.
“I know you, you scamp.”
“How many children have you, my lady?” Bertrand enquired politely.
“Two sons and a daughter from my first marriage. Though Roland has gone off to Gonier as a page – he turned eight last September. Then two daughters and a son by dear Philippe. The little one’s only six months old.”
Raoul noted the distinction she had made and grinned.
“What did this young fellow do to warrant expulsion?” he asked.
The Rightful Heir Page 49