“Raoul, you wouldn’t believe it,” Félice said with an exasperated sigh. “It was one scrape after another!”
“But, Mother, it was awful! You’d think he was an Abbot not a Count. It was all prayers and lessons and standing behind his chair while he prosed on and on. I didn’t mean to spill wine on the Bishop. I was half dead with boredom.”
Raoul and Bertrand laughed.
“Don’t encourage him!” Félice protested. “You’ll make him worse. All he seems to care about is sword-fighting and charging round the countryside on horse-back. And that black stallion is far too strong for you. Gaston should never have let you go out on him.”
“But Saracen is wonderful. I love riding him. You don’t understand!”
Bertrand and Raoul exchanged an amused look at the dangerous horse’s name.
“I suppose you never did anything that your parents would have disapproved of, Félice?” Raoul said with a chuckle.
She looked at him with a frown although her eyes were dancing.
“Of course not!” she declared virtuously.
“Oh, Mother!”
“Boredom’s more of a danger to a boy than a mettlesome horse,” Bertrand said. “You can take my word for that, my lady.”
“But what am I to do with him?” Félice wailed.
“I know,” Raoul exclaimed suddenly. “He can come with me. I realise he’s a bit young to be a squire, but he looks like a strong lad. I know quite a bit about fighting these days. I can teach him myself.”
“Oh, sir, would you really?” The boy’s eyes shone.
“Are you sure, Raoul? He can be a handful.” Félice looked dubious.
“I’ll keep him in order,” he assured her. “And I’ll look after him too. I’ve a good reason to, haven’t I?”
Félice met his eyes and smiled fondly.
“Yes, my dear, you know you have.”
“That’s settled then. We leave tomorrow at sunrise so, young Etienne, you’d better pack up your gear and get some sleep if you want to come with us.”
“I certainly do! Mother, can I take Saracen?”
“That’s for Lord Beauchamp to decide. If he agrees then I suppose you may.”
The boy sped out of the room as if there were wings on his heels.
“You won’t regret this, Félice,” he told her. “I promise you.”
Although the black stallion seemed indeed to be a lively mount, Raoul saw no real objection to the boy riding him, especially as he seemed, like his mother, to have a natural affinity with horses. With the typical callousness of a child, Etienne could barely bring himself to wave fare well as they rode out. Raoul noticed that de Segré had seen his wife’s tears and was offering her consolation and a supporting arm. Félice had chosen her second husband well, he decided.
“You’ll be leaving us today, I suppose?” he said to Bertrand after they had ridden for some time.
“To go to Morbihan I should do so, yes. But I’ve been thinking, Raoul, and I’ve a proposition to put to you.”
“What’s that?”
“Where does your grandmother live?”
“I don’t know that she does.”
“Don’t be flippant. You know what I mean.”
“The castle’s called Valsemé.”
“How far is it from Caen?”
“I’m not sure: quite close. Thirty or forty miles to the west.”
“If you’ll go there, before you go to the Duchess, I’ll come with you.”
“Why should you?”
“I have a reason.”
“I can’t imagine what it can be, but all right, I agree. It’s time to lay some ghosts, I suppose.”
“Yes, Raoul. I think it is.”
Several days later, when they drew closer to Valsemé, Bertrand was amazed that the countryside was unfamiliar to Raoul. Having gathered that his new master had grown up there, Etienne also expressed surprise.
“I was kept very closely confined,” Raoul explained. “You think you were badly off with your Count, my lad. You had untold liberty compared to me.”
“But sir, you’ve fought in tournaments and you went on the Crusade!”
“Only because I ran away. And I’m not recommending it, so don’t get ideas. I’ll tie you to my bed-posts if necessary.”
“I wouldn’t dream of trying to run away from you,” the boy assured him.
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
The further they went, the more a sense of guilt crept over Raoul. He should have come back before, just to see how the old woman was. What would he find? How could he forgive himself if she’d died years ago? He dreaded their arrival and yet wanted to press on quickly, to know the worst and then get away.
“Is Lord Beauchamp quite well?” he heard Etienne ask Bertrand.
“Yes, don’t worry. He’s just as little anxious as he hasn’t seen his grandmother, Lady de Metz, for many years.”
The sun was setting by the time they reached the Abbey of St. Sauveur.
“Should we stop here, my lord?” asked Raoul’s troop leader.
“No,” Raoul said. “Valsemé’s only two miles away. Ride on.”
“Wouldn’t it be wise to wait until the morning?” Bertrand suggested. “Your grandmother may have gone to bed. And you told me she was a stickler for security: she may not permit her castle gates to be opened at this late hour. We’re all tired, including you. And Etienne’s nearly asleep.”
“No I’m not!”
“Do you really imagine that I could rest?” Raoul snapped, ignoring the boy’s squeak of protest. He felt almost hysterical but desperately fought down the rising tide of panic. “Very well. You may seek lodgings in the Abbey guest-house. I’ll go on alone.”
“You know very well that I wouldn’t let you do that,” Bertrand said quietly. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”
Before long they reached the hamlet of Valsemé. The smoke of cooking fires hung over the huddle of thatched dwellings and fire-light flickered in the open door-ways. Several dogs began to bark but when the heavily armoured troop was seen, the villagers silenced their animals, ducked hastily back into their dwellings and watched warily as they passed.
The horses slipped and slithered down the muddy track which led steeply down to the castle. Raoul’s heart was thumping. How well he remembered all this. Here was the lake. An exclamation of surprise broke from his lips. It was much smaller! The streams no longer seemed to be controlled by sluice-gates and the water-level had sunk very low. Even in the fading light the water-gate could clearly be seen; it was only half-submerged now and would be useless for a secret escape. Masses of dark slimy weed covered the lake’s surface and there was a foul stench of rotting vegetation.
“Pooh!” Etienne said, holding his nose.
“Hush,” Bertrand warned him sternly.
They approached the gates. Again Raoul gave a startled exclamation. There would be no problem about gaining entry to the castle. The draw-bridge was down and it even looked unguarded. Was the castle an empty shell? Was it deserted, abandoned?
He touched Hercules’s flanks with his spurs and the horse broke into a rapid trot. Uncaring as to whether the others were following or not, he rode to the edge of the bridge, stood in the stirrups and gave a loud bellowing cry. Moments later a figure appeared in the open gate-way holding up a lantern.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice demanded.
A wave of relief swept over Raoul. His worst fears were unfounded.
“Raoul de Metz, come to see my grandmother Lady Eleanor,” he declared. “Is this bridge sound?”
“Raoul? Young master Raoul?”
The figure hobbled rapidly forward and by the light of the lantern Raoul recognised Jacques Pétain.
“That right, Jacques,” he said, bending down and gripping the old soldier’s outstretched hand. “How are you?”
“Oh, as well as can be expected with me rheumatics and all. But you come right in, young sir. Are all these people wi
th you?”
“I’m afraid so, Jacques. Can you find them lodgings?”
“We’ll sort something out. There’s few enough of us, God knows. As long as they won’t object to a bit of straw and a few holes in the roof.”
“Of course they won’t.”
Raoul guided Hercules across the narrow bridge and into the courtyard where he dismounted, looking about him in shocked dismay. Most of the outbuildings had lost their roofs. Some had fallen down completely. The ground was like a quagmire and he realised that several pigs were foraging for scraps in what still clearly was the cook-house. Surely Eleanor must be dead or this state of affairs would not have been permitted.
“Her ladyship will be that glad to see you,” Jacques said as he took Hercules’s reins.
“Is she...well?”
The soldier hesitated.
“She took it bad when she found you’d gone, lad. It was three days before any of us could get out of here because of the flood and then you’d clean vanished. We thought she’d just pine away – especially after those fellows came and told her you were as good as dead.”
“What fellows?”
“Breton, they were. From that place her ladyship lived when she was young. Mistress Anne’s home.”
“From Radenoc, do you mean?”
“Aye, that’s it. My memory ain’t what it was but I reckon it was six or seven years ago.”
“Will Lady Eleanor be awake now?”
“Oh aye. She doesn’t sleep much. You go on up to the solar. Barbe’ll look after you. I’ll see your friends are fed and watered – and their horses too.” He moved away, chuckling and muttering to himself. “Young Master Raoul. Who’d have thought it?”
“Well?” Bertrand said, putting a hand on Raoul’s shoulder. “Is she alive?”
“Yes. Come with me, Bertrand. I don’t think I can face her alone.”
“Can I come too, sir?” Etienne was looking eagerly up at him.
“Why not?”
Raoul led the way up the crumbling steps and into the Hall. It was virtually dark inside. He took a smoking torch from one of the sconces and headed for the stairs. Everywhere there was the same air of neglect and decay. At his grandmother’s door he knocked and waited. The door opened slowly and the serving-woman stared as if she had seen a ghost. It was unmistakeably Barbe, plainer and plumper than ever.
“Oh Joseph, Mary and all the Saints!” she exclaimed, nearly dropping the candle she held. “Is it really you?”
“Indeed it is. And I’m pleased to see you looking so well.”
“Oh, my lady, my lady! Look who’s here!”
The little old woman propped up in the bed was gazing at her grandson, not in delight but in terror. What little colour had been in her face drained out of it. Her eyes widened in fear and her thin, wrinkled hands clutched convulsively at the fur rug that covered her.
“Armand,” she whispered. “Have you come to kill me?”
“Lady Eleanor, it’s me!”
“It’s young Raoul, my lady!” Berthe exclaimed heartily. “What are you on about?”
Raoul knelt down beside the bed and put out a hand to take hers. She shrank away with a gasp, looking wildly towards the door as if she was desperate to escape. She spotted Etienne.
“Raoul!” she whispered. “Little Raoul.” She fixed Bertrand with an accusing stare. “Who are you? What are you doing with him?”
“It’s no use, Berthe,” Raoul said, getting to his feet. “She’s utterly confused. Is she often like this?”
“Don’t you be so impatient, young man. Give her a minute. She’ll be all right. Send your friends away and go and sit over there. You’ve given her a shock. Just you wait a bit.”
Behaving like a bossy nursemaid, she pushed Bertrand and Etienne out of the door then sent Raoul over to the window seat, poured wine for him, and returned to her mistress. She took down a kettle which hung over the fire, added a spoonful of something to a cup, then held it while her mistress drank, talking soothingly throughout. After a short time she beckoned Raoul over.
“Is it really you?” Eleanor asked him in a quavering voice.
“Really and truly it is.”
“You look so much like Armand. I thought...”
“It’s Raoul. Really, I promise.” He put his hand over hers.
“He sent soldiers. He said they’d kill you when they found you.”
“But they didn’t find me. As you can see.”
“Yes. Yes. I’m tired now. You’ll come to me again tomorrow, Barbe says. We can talk then. I’ll feel stronger, knowing that you’re here, alive.”
“And I’ve a title now too.”
“Of course you have,” she said, her eyes closing as she spoke. “Lord of Radenoc.”
“Go now, Master Raoul. I put some poppy in her cordial. I’ll fetch you in the morning when she’s awake.”
“Very well then.”
He stooped and gently kissed the old woman’s brow.
The next day when Berthe summoned him again to the solar, he was astounded by the transformation. She seemed almost to be her former, forceful self again. She was dressed and was sitting in the window seat just as she had been so often in the past.
“Well, Raoul,” she said sternly, “who’s the boy?”
“He’s my squire, my lady.”
“Your bastard, more like. I’ve still got eyes. I know a de Metz when I see one. And I think you may call me ‘Grandmother’. It seems more appropriate.”
Raoul grinned.
“Actually Etienne is your friend Louis de Fresnay’s great grandson. He’s also Baron of Montglane and his birth is totally legitimate, I can assure you...Grandmother.”
“Are you saying you’re married?”
“No, Grandmother, I’m not. I’m saying his parents were.”
“Hmmm. And who’s the other fellow? I didn’t recognise him.”
“He’s the Count of Morbihan. And I’m...”
“Yes, yes, Berthe told me. Baron of Grandchamp or Beauchose or something. As if that mattered. Where’s the Count now?”
“Down in...”
“Go and get him, Berthe. I want a closer look at him.”
Sitting on the low stool with his grandmother’s eagle eyes on him, Raoul felt as if he were sixteen again. If it wasn’t for his relief at seeing her so much improved from the previous night, he might have been alarmed.
Once Bertrand had been brought in, Eleanor fired a series of questions at him about the extent of his lands and those he would inherit from his father-in-law in Tréguier. Apparently satisfied with his answers, she eventually nodded.
“Yes. You may prove to be a useful friend to my grandson,” she said.
“Really, Grandmother. That isn’t why we’re friends.”
“You always were an idealistic young fool,” she told him. “I had hoped you’d acquired a little sense.”
“I would like to be of use to Raoul,” Bertrand said. “I owe him a debt. He twice saved my life on Crusade.”
“Did he, indeed?”
“But first of all, Lady de Metz, I think there are some things which your grandson needs to know. He is troubled. You are the only person who can set matters straight.”
“Bertrand, please, I don’t...”
“Be quiet, boy. Your friend appears to be wiser than you. What do you want to know?”
“If you want to speak with Raoul in private,” Bertrand said, “I’ll leave you.”
“No. You may as well stay. You spoke to Armand, Raoul, I presume? They said you’d been at Radenoc.”
“That’s right.”
“And he told you a pack of lies, I assume?” She was gripping her hands tightly together in her lap.
“How do I know? He told me that my father Robert was his son and that you had been in love with him. Is that a lie?”
There was a silence. Eleanor looked away from them, out of the window.
“Yes...and no...” she said at last.
�
��Which, Grandmother? Which?” Raoul’s voice was hoarse.
She hesitated and then seemed to force herself to speak.
“I was in love with him,” she said quietly, “but you are not his son. We had been lovers – “
“God!”
“And I found out that I was carrying Armand’s child. He knew that Henri, my husband, was alive. He knew he would return to Radenoc – but he let me believe that my husband was dead – that he loved me, would marry me.” Tears had begun to roll down Eleanor’s face. “When I found out I killed our child. And if I had not, Armand would never have killed Henri. Armand’s son would have been Lord of Radenoc. That would have been enough. But I told him the truth and then he tried to kill us all. Robert was Henri’s son – as I always said he was.” She turned her face away, struggling to control her shuddering sobs. “And that is why Henri died.”
“Grandmother, you should have told me,” Raoul said after a few moments. Eleanor had control of herself again now.
“How could I?” She glared at him. “What I did was unforgivable, hideous. And I was so ashamed that I could ever have cared for him: he’s a devil, a monster.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “And I was so afraid that you would be like him. You’re his double, you know. It seemed like a terrible form of punishment – as if he had returned to torment me.”
“I may look like him but that’s as far as the resemblance goes, Grandmother. I promise you.”
“You said you wanted to be of use to my grandson.” Eleanor suddenly turned to Bertrand de Courcy who had been sitting silently throughout her confession. “What did you mean?”
“Raoul is Baron of Beauchamp. He won the favour and patronage of Eleanor of Aquitaine when she was the Queen of France and now, as Duchess of Normandy, and quite possibly the future Queen of England, she may have even more power. As you quite correctly observed, I control or am heir to a large part of Brittany. I think it’s time your grandson became what he has the right to be, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. The years seemed to have fallen away from her and her whole face was alight with eagerness and hope. “With your help it may be possible. Raoul can be Lord of Radenoc.”
The Rightful Heir Page 50