'Where are we going?' Gilles asked.
'To the chapel. As you see, it is on the far side of the courtyard.'
A fine rain had started to fall and the building showed up, looming through the damp, misty air.
The chapel was a small one, dating from renaissance times, slim and exquisite despite the two massive buttresses that supported it, and the single window in the east wall was adorned with a fleur de lys. The arched doorway opened easily at a touch from the countess, revealing an interior of dark flagstones, a number of carved benches and a simple altar before which an aged, white-haired priest was kneeling in prayer.
Walking on tiptoe so as not to disturb him, the countess led Gilles into the miniature sacristy. There, she opened a chest and took out a soiled veil and a coronet of withered flowers at the sight of which, for all his self-control, Gilles felt himself grow pale.
'We buried her beneath the stones of the chapel but we kept these as proof,' the countess said softly. 'Now, I am ready to answer your question. But remember that I shall not answer more than one.'
'There will be no more. The only thing I want to know is this. Was the name of the unhappy child whose murdered body you received here Judith de Saint-Mélaine?'
'Yes.'
For all that he had been expecting it, the shock of that yes was almost too much for him. He clenched his teeth and was forced to shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he saw the countess staring at him in amazement.
'Is it so painful?' she asked.
'More than I could have believed – more than I can say! I loved her – I did not even know myself how much! Forgive me, madame.'
Abruptly, he seized the faded flowers which Judith had worn in her hair and the veil which had been a shroud for the lovely form which, he now knew, would haunt him all his life long. He pressed them passionately to his lips, then, with a harsh sob, rammed them blindly into the countess' hands again and rushed without leave-taking out of the chapel into the courtyard. She hurried after and her voice followed him, calling:
'Chevalier! Please, wait! Do not go like this… Come back!' But Gilles was past hearing anything but the crying of his own heart, howling with grief and despair. He came to the archway where the groom had tethered Merlin, leapt on his back and rode like a whirlwind out of the chateau, wholly forgetting that he had left his hat and cloak behind him.
He rode up the valley through the thickening drizzle, feeling his horse lift like a bird to every obstacle. He was unaware of rain or cold, of anything but the burning hell in his breast which made him feel as if he were about to burst, like an overheated boiler. He even snatched off his white wig, letting his own hair fly in the wind of his mad career. He had only one idea in mind, one fixed object, which was to get to Le Frêne and slaughter Judith's murderers like the vile beasts they were.
He rode through the dormant woods, over rocks, streams and gulleys. Before leaving Ploermel that morning, he had obtained precise directions how to reach Le Frêne from the landlord, Le Coz.
'It's a lot nearer to Trecesson than to here,' he had said. 'Look out for a village called Néant.'
The word had made him grimace at the time. Now, he found it almost soothing. Néant, oblivion, was where he meant to send the murderers but if he himself were to fall in the approaching fray, if death came to him in that house which had been the scene of Judith's childhood, he would gladly go with the Saint-Mélaines to oblivion, if only to stand before God and demand their damnation. Life had ceased to mean anything to him since he had heard Guégan's tale. What good was an ancient name to him, titles, rank, fame and fortune, if they could do no more than adorn his loneliness?
At the edge of a mere, he met two men cutting reeds and reining Merlin in with both hands so that he reared up and whinnied in protest, he called out: 'Is this the road to Néant?'
'Straight ahead as far as the next fork. After that, it's on your right!'
He plunged his hand into his pocket, tossed them a coin at random and rode on like the wind, leaving the man pulling off his blue woollen cap and crossing himself, convinced that what he had just seen was the demon rider on his way back down to hell. Which did not stop him hunting in the grass until he found the coin.
Once through the village, where he sent a group of black-cloaked women emerging from the church scuttling in panic, he was easily able to recognize the landmarks which Le Coz had mentioned. He left the Dinan road for a sunken lane full of ruts which soon forced him to slow down his pace considerably lest Merlin should stumble and break a leg. In any case, he had not far to go now and it was necessary to keep his eyes open so as not to fall into any of the traps with which, no doubt, the two villains had safeguarded the approaches to their lair. It was not long before he had his first glimpse of the house through a gap in the hedge.
It was built of heavy, dark-red stone against a background of sombre trees. A row of handsome dormer windows and a flight of broad stone steps in front, leading up to the first floor which rose above the surrounding farm buildings, gave it an air of nobility. No lights shone in the tall windows and there was no reflection from their dusty panes, but a thread of smoke was rising from one of the chimneys. Over to the right of the house was the dull, mercurial glint of water from the surface of a wide pool and near it the big ash tree from which the house evidently got its name. Seen from a distance it looked more like a large farm than a manor house.
The rain had stopped. Gilles looked up at the sky. It was a uniform depressing light grey with no sign of cloud. It was not going to be dark for some time yet. His eyes returned to the woods behind the house. He was wondering if it might not be better to go round and approach from that side, so as to have the advantage of surprise.
Before he could make up his mind, he heard the quick click-clack of a pair of sabots and a woman appeared round a bend in the sunken lane. She was covered from head to foot in a long, hooded cloak and was leaping over the puddles as lightly as a wagtail. She paused for a moment as she caught sight of the horse and its rider and then came on again without haste, swaying slightly from the hips.
She looked up, her face framed in the black oval of her hood. She had a broad face with a strongly denned bone structure and the hair that fell over her wide forehead was so fair as to be almost white. Her full lips were red as an open wound and she would have been beautiful but that one eye was half closed by a swelling bruise. She stared boldly up at Gilles.
'I've not seen you before? Are you a friend of theirs?'
'Do I look like it?'
'No – o. No, you don't really. And if that's so, you'd best be off. They don't like strangers round here.'
'I don't need your advice. Just answer my question. Are the brothers at home?'
The girl shrugged derisively and made a move to go on. But Gilles had swung himself to the ground and caught her by the cloak, so roughly that she gave a scream of fright and would have fallen but for his firm grip on her arm.
'I asked you a question. Try and answer it. I am not a patient man.'
'You're hurting me,' she whined. 'And – don't look at me like that! As though you were trying to see right through me. You've eyes in your head like cold steel. Let me go. I've had enough of that house and the people in it.'
'So they are there! Answer me! I'll not let you go until you do.'
'What have you got against them?'
'I might tell you that's none of your business but, since you seem none too fond of them yourself, I'll tell you. I've come to kill them both! And if you'll tell me what you know, I'll give you a silver piece.'
The girl's undamaged eye, which was green and very pretty, shone with a fierce joy.
'You're telling me the truth? You really mean to kill them?'
'On my honour!'
'Come on then! I'll not only answer you, I'm going to help you! I know a way of getting into the house without going through the courtyard. There are three men always on watch there, and a kennel with dogs that could tear you to pieces. Lead your ho
rse. I'll show you where to hide him, or they could kill you just to steal him.'
He tried to slip the coin into her hand but she would not take it.
'Keep your money, handsome sir! I've dreamed for too long of seeing those two rotten carcasses stone dead. Look!' she added, pointing to her eye. 'Who do you think did that?'
'One of them?'
'Yes. That swine Tudal, the elder. I've been his mistress for two years now. His mistress!' she repeated bitterly. 'His dog, I should say! His slave! Whenever he wants another girl, he beats me and throws me out. Here, look at this!'
She pulled up her sleeve and showed him her arm, oddly misshapen by a badly mended break.
'Then why do you go back to him? Two years is a long time.'
'I don't go back. He sends for me. He likes my body, when he's nothing else to get his teeth in! And it's the worse for me if I don't obey, or if I merely keep him waiting. I've a sick mother in the village and he threatens to kill her if I don't go. Sometimes he will let me alone for a month or two, depending on the girl he fancies at the moment. This time, it's a kid not yet fifteen. They took her to him yesterday, like a cow to bull. I don't know where he found her. But keep quiet. We're nearly there.'
She led him across country, keeping in the shelter of the trees, to skirt the house, keeping on the far side of the pond with the ash tree, and then across an alley between two holly trees into the shelter of the wood. The red walls of the house loomed very close.
'Leave your horse here. No one will see him and I will take you in by way of the cellar door,' the girl whispered. 'And that reminds me, I forgot to tell you. Tudal is alone in the house. It won't be hard for you to kill him. He's got an attack of gout which makes him yell as soon as he puts his foot to the ground, but that won't stop him drinking like a sponge and having his way with the girl.'
Gilles frowned. 'And Morvan? Where is he? My quarrel is with the pair of them.'
'He went off this morning, with two other men. I don't know where he went, but it was on some evil errand. All I can tell you is that he'll be back tonight. You have only to wait for him.'
Gilles tethered Merlin to a tree, took his pistols from their holsters and thrust them into his belt, put a powder horn and balls into his pocket and made sure that his sword was loose in its sheath.
'By the way – what's your name?'
'My mother named me Corentine,' she murmured. 'But they call me—'
'I don't want to know. Tomorrow, you shall be Corentine again to all the world. Come, now.'
He had nearly asked her about Judith but a kind of embarrassment prevented him. He could not call up the frightened figure of the little bride of Trecesson to stand between himself and this poor girl whose own days of innocence were long past. Later, perhaps, when the lair of the Saint-Mélaines had been washed clean by their blood.
Guided by Corentine, he passed back through the holly trees and then the two of them made their way down into a kind of dry ditch to where a low door stood at the far end. The girl opened the door, taking care to keep it from creaking. A foul smell of stale wine and rotting fruit assailed their nostrils and they found themselves in a cellar which, except for two fair-sized casks, seemed to contain more broken bottles than full ones. Two rats fled squeaking before them.
Without a word, Corentine pointed to some stone steps leading up to another door. She picked her way over to it, carefully avoiding the broken glass which would have crunched under her feet. When she reached the top, she paused.
'This comes out at the end of the passage. There is a door opposite that leads into the room where they mostly sit. Tudal is in there—'
'Alone?'
'Sure to be. When he's got a girl, he doesn't like to share his fun, and he's only had her since last night.'
As though to give the lie to her words, the thin sound of a Breton bagpipe broke out suddenly, so close at hand that Corentine started. Her hand clutched at Gilles' arm and she pulled him back hurriedly into the cellar.
'No! I was wrong. Yann Wooden Head is there too. It is he who is playing.'
'Who is he?'
'Their boon companion. They call him that because he is bald. He recruits their men for them, and gets them girls and robs right and left. There's no task too low for him. He'll do anything.'
'Does he drive their coach for them as well?'
The girl's eyes widened.
'Yes – he has done that. Not long ago either. How did you know?'
'The same way as I know many other things. One doesn't come to kill a man for no reason, you know. When was it you saw Yann drive the coach?'
'Last Christmas. The brothers came back in the middle of the night with a carriage which they must have stolen somewhere. Yann was driving it.'
'What did they do with the carriage? Did they put it in a coach house?'
'No. That was the funny thing. They burned it. There was nothing left but the iron rims off the wheels.'
Then Gilles could no longer hold back the question that was on the tip of his tongue.
'Tell me, did you, at any time before that night, see their sister come here?'
The surprise on Corentine's face was complete and genuine.
'Their sister? Lord, no! I know they have one, because she used to be seen about here a lot before the old baron's wife died and he went away. She was a pretty little thing, too – and a proper wild cat, but she hasn't been here for a long time. They say she is a nun somewhere.'
Gilles wasted no time wondering what the Saint-Mélaines had done with their sister in between the convent at Hennebont and the grave of Trecesson. That was something he was going to get the answer to from Tudal, if he had to force it out of him! Up above, the bagpipe was still playing, accompanied now by the rhythmic click of sabots. Corentine uttered a short, contemptuous laugh.
'Tudal must be making the girl dance for him. He likes that.'
'Well, we'll go and interrupt his party.'
Grasping both pistols, Gilles sprang up the steps, opened the door, which creaked, and crossed the passage to another door he saw on the far side. This he kicked inwards, revealing a huge, low-ceilinged room. Shutters had been drawn across the windows and the only light came from candles and the fire in the hearth.
Seated in an armchair before it, a table laden with the remains of a meal and a number of empty bottles at his side, and his gouty foot, swathed in bandages, propped on a stool with a pillow on it, Tudal de Saint-Mélaine was clapping his hands in time to the music. A young girl, dressed in nothing but a headscarf and a pair of clogs, was dancing in front of the leaping flames. The firelight glinted on the bald head of the musician in the corner.
At Gilles' entry, all three figures froze momentarily. The bagpipe emitted a piercing squeak, the girl stood with one foot in the air, as though fearing the levelled pistols would go off if she set it down. Saint-Mélaine himself sat with his jaw dropping and his hands still parted like a mechanical toy whose spring had gone. But he recovered himself quickly and frowned, while his face went from something near the colour of his hair to a dull purple.
'Who are you?' he barked. 'And what do you want?'
'To talk to you. After that, we shall see.'
'You've a funny way of talking, pointing your guns at a man.'
'Just so. I should have made myself clearer. To ask you a few questions, I meant. A few questions, Tudal de Saint-Mélaine, concerning the death of your sister, basely murdered by you.'
Behind him, Gilles heard Corentine gasp. Then her gasp changed to a yell.
'Look out!'
A knife, thrown by a sure hand, hissed like a snake out of the corner where Yann Wooden Head was sitting. Gilles jerked his head aside instinctively, avoiding it, although it scratched his cheek as it flew past. He reacted instantly. One of the pistols spat and the man with the bagpipe folded over, blood spurting from his mouth.
'One,' Gilles said coolly.
Tudal, dull-eyed, had watched his henchman die with a kind of indifferen
ce which was probably the result of the drink he had imbibed. Then, with a sudden access of mad rage, he reached across the table for the pistol, the butt of which was just beyond his grasp. But Corentine was quicker. She slid, snakelike, between table and chair, snatched up the gun and vanished beneath the thick, oak board.
Tudal swore furiously. Disarmed, he crouched in his armchair like a wild boar brought to bay.
'Harlot! Slut! You'll pay for that, my girl! I'll see your mother dies!'
'You'll not have time,' Gilles said icily. 'Corentine, shut the doors and barricade them well, so that this fat swine's loyal servants can't get in to help him. As for you, little clog dancer, get your clothes on. You're too young for that kind of exhibition. And what are you crying for?'
'I – I'm cold! And I'm hungry! He w-wouldn't let me have anything to eat since yesterday.'
'I see. Well, get your clothes on and help yourself to some food. There must be something left on the table.'
While Corentine, with unexpected strength, was dragging a large chest across one door and drawing the heavy bolts across the other, which led out into the yard, Tudal sat watching her evilly. But the shock had sobered him and he said with a sneer: 'That's right, barricade yourselves in! You'll have to get out sometime! I've three more men outside as well as the dogs and my brother will be coming back with more.'
'We'll take care of him later. It's between us two now. I told you I had some questions to ask you.'
'By what right? I don't know you. Who are you?'
'My name is Gilles de Tournemine of La Hunaudaye. As for what brings me here – I loved Judith and she loved me!'
He broke off as a violent banging on the door drowned his words. Saint-Mélaine's servants had come to their master's aid, alerted, presumably, by the sound of the shot.
'Not so much noise, there!' Gilles called in the Breton tongue. 'I am holding your master at gunpoint. I'll kill him this moment if you don't keep quiet.'
The noise ceased instantly. The only sounds to be heard were the crackle of the fire and the champing of the girl's jaws as she guzzled the remains of a game stew out of the dish.
Falcon 1 - The Lure of the Falcon Page 44