Chapter Eleven

Over the next two days all of Guennec’s troupe, including Damona and Connell, were fully involved in making the cottage habitable. Not that Damona’s contribution amounted to a great deal. Much to her mother’s disgust, she continued to wear her new red gown, taking every opportunity to linger outside, gazing wistfully in the direction of the castle. She hadn’t said anything more about her lover to Raoul, and he didn’t like to ask.

Pol was clearly offended by Raoul’s rejection of Celie, treating him with coolness. As soon as she could escape from her own duties, Berthe would join them in the repair-work. Through pointed remarks and sneering looks, she made it plain that she thought Raoul stuck-up and undeserving of the offer he had received. Celie herself came frequently to see her sister, supposedly bringing messages from their mother. Raoul had the impression that she was still trying to attract his attention, however much she might appear to be annoyed with him. He simply ignored them both.

Fortunately, with so many willing helpers, Guennec’s cottage was soon snug and weather-tight. Three days after they had arrived, a storm swept in from the west. For several days the wind howled round the cottage and the rain lashed down. Cof spent the time at his mother’s; Pol went to the Cloarecs’; Jean and Raoul joined Daniel’s family, only returning to the barn to sleep and sometimes not even then. Daniel let Raoul set up Gwen’s perch in a corner and more than ever he blessed Tibs the cat for providing her food so efficiently.

Maeve and Damona set to work at once to spin a large quantity of wool. Where it had come from, Raoul didn’t know. Damona was still restless and ill at ease and still wore the red gown. Every now and again she would set down her spindle, unlatch the door and peer out into the rain. She persisted despite being shouted at by the others when the smoke billowed and the rush-lights spluttered, almost extinguished by violent gusts of wind which forced their way in through even the smallest crack.

Apart from brief forays to collect firewood and water, the men played dice and told stories, sitting round the fire. Sometimes they told traditional tales, ones which Raoul had heard Anne Le Hir tell. At other times they told tales of their wanderings – of the broad rivers they had crossed, the cities they had seen – of fights and love affairs. Connell loved these. He sat whittling away at his latest carving, demanding more whenever the speaker paused for breath.

After nearly a week of such confinement, everyone was glad when the storm finally blew itself out. One morning they woke up to find everything quiet, the air still, the sky cloudless and blue.

The night before, Raoul and Jean had slept wrapped in their cloaks on the floor by Daniel’s fire. Guennec too had slept where he sat, as had Connell, only the women having bothered to climb to their lofts to go to bed. There were two, one at each end of the cottage: one for Daniel and his wife, the other for their children.

“Wake up now, Damona,” Guennec called up to her when he saw that the storm had passed. “Get the fishing lines and go down to the marsh. It’s a perfect day for it.”

“I’ll take them if you tell me what to do,” Raoul said. “It seems a pity to disturb her.”

“No-one’s as good at it as she is,” Guennec said. “She always knows the right spot to set them – has since she was a little girl. And his lordship doesn’t mind her taking his fish!” He laid a finger on his nose in a knowing gesture.

“All right, I’m coming,” came a sleepy voice from above.

“And don’t you dare wear that good gown,” Maeve said, scrambling down the far ladder and beginning to stoke the fire. “Have the sense to wear an old kirtle for splashing around in the mud.”

There was a disgruntled mutter which might have been agreement.

“We should go down there with Gwen,” Connell suggested. “Her wings are getting stronger I’m sure.”

“Good idea. She might be able to fly by now.”

Raoul removed the bird’s hood and stroked her ruffled feathers. She put her head on one side and cheeped at him.

“Shall we feed her now?”

“No, Connell. Let’s take her hungry – but bring some food with us. We can throw it into the air and that might encourage her to fly.”

Before long the three of them were on their way. Damona had taken her mother’s advice and was wearing a dull greyish gown, kilted up to her knees. Her hair was covered and tied back with a scarf and she wore a shawl crossed round her shoulders and knotted behind her. Raoul wore Mathurin’s leather gauntlets and Gwen perched on his shoulder. Connell held the bag of chopped meat.

The bird seemed to know that something different was happening. She often gave her “kee-kee-kee” cry, flapping her wings and lifting her feet.

“You should have a string attached to her jesses,” Damona said. “That’s what they do with young birds; I’ve seen them when we’ve been at castles.”

“That’s right,” Connell agreed.

“But she’s already passed that stage of her training. There was no line attached to her when Mathurin found her. I don’t want her to think I don’t trust her to return.”

“Well don’t blame me if you lose her!”

“I’m glad it’s so flat round here. At least there’s no trees for her to get caught up in.”

“That’s the sea, just over there.” Connell pointed beyond the marshland to a line of greyish blue.

“And that’s Morbihan Castle.” Damona’s face was suddenly flushed.

The distant battlements and towers, pale golden in the morning sunlight, looked ethereal despite their bulk, seemingly floating on the mist-swathed reed-beds.

“What an idyllic place,” Raoul breathed. “Now that’s what I call a castle.”

“You two stay here. I’ll set the lines.”

Damona appeared to know exactly what she was doing. Leaving her brother and Raoul, she turned to the right and walked for a few hundred yards. She then took out the first of her lines and waded into the shallow water.

“Don’t stray off the solid paths, Raoul,” Connell said. “It’s dangerous unless you know what you’re doing. There are bogs and quicksand.”

“Thanks for the advice. It’s pretty marshy in the place where I grew up so I’ve a fair idea of the tell-tale signs. Now let’s feed Gwen.”

He took her onto his gloved right hand and murmured encouragement to her.

“Come along now, sweetheart. Let’s see what you can do. Throw a piece of the meat, Connell.”

The boy took out a piece and threw it up in the air. Before Gwen could do more than squawk, it fell with a plop into the nearest pool.

“Try and throw it a bit harder.”

Connell tried again. This time he gave a mighty heave and the meat flew backwards over his head to land just behind him. Unbalanced, he gave a loud yell and nearly fell over. Gwen cried out in alarm, her wings beating wildly.

“This isn’t working,” Raoul said. “Here, you take the left glove and put it on. Now give me the meat and you take Gwen.” They swapped over. “It’s all right, my beauty. No need to be frightened. You’re hungry, aren’t you, my dear?”

Guided by Raoul, Connell now held his gloved fist high in the air. Raoul took a piece of the meat and threw it, not very high, but straight past the bird and as hard as he could. With no perceptible hesitation, the merlin swept into the air, her wings beating rapidly as she dived, catching the meat just as it started to fall. She glided for a few yards, turned and flew straight back, landing on Raoul’s outstretched fist.

“Well done, Gwen!” Connell exclaimed excitedly.

Raoul, flushed with pleasure, whispered endearments and stroked the bird’s head as she devoured her catch.

“Shall we do it again?”

“Yes. Take her, Connell. That’s it. I’ll throw the meat. Now!”

Off she went again, her “kee-kee-kee” like a cry of battle as she swooped on the food. Again, as soon as the catch was made, she came straight back to Raoul.

“Do you think she can hunt live prey yet?” Connell asked as she set off for the third time.

“I’m not going to try it today. She’d find it a lot more tiring as she’d have to fly much further and much faster. We’ll stick with this for now.”

The bag of meat gradually emptied.

“Let’s see if she’ll come back to your hand,” Raoul said as he took out the last piece.

“Do you think she would?” The boy sounded excited at the thought.

“I don’t see why not. I think it’s just that I’ve been holding my hand up for her to perch on. You try it this time.”

To Connell’s delight, Gwen caught the meat then landed neatly on the gloved fist he had held up for her.

“That’s a good girl,” Raoul stroked her head. “I think you’re tired now. We’ll take you back and you can rest.”

“Oh no!” Connell gave a cry of alarm.

“What’s wrong?”

“Over there. Horsemen. I think they’re from the castle.”

Raoul took Gwen’s hood from his pouch and put it over the merlin’s head.

“You run home with Gwen – I don’t want them seeing her. Your Uncle Mathieu said they don’t like folk like us owning falcons. I’ll make sure Damona’s all right.”

Connell hurried away and Raoul watched as the riders drew level with the girl. He expected them to go straight by, perhaps with a gesture of greeting but they did not. The leading rider drew rein and stopped, followed by the others. All but one dismounted and they moved towards her. Feeling uneasy, Raoul began to run in their direction.

Even at this distance, Raoul heard Damona’s delighted greeting. She splashed towards the bank where the men were now standing, dragging the scarf from her hair. When she reached them she flung her arms round the one who appeared to be their leader – her elusive lover, presumably. She would be sorry, Raoul thought, to be wearing her oldest clothes. But if the man loved her, he wouldn’t care. Raoul hesitated. He had no wish to interfere where he wasn’t wanted. He would wait for just a moment to make sure all was well.

The man had detached himself from Damona’s embrace now and was speaking to his companions, who seemed to be laughing. Raoul started to move closer again as he heard an angry exclamation from the girl. He was near enough now to be able to see him clearly and to hear what he was saying. The leader’s clothes were rich, too rich for him to be a steward’s clerk or a member of the guard as Raoul had previously assumed. He wore a blue velvet tunic trimmed with fur, a jewelled sword-belt and a voluminous cloak flung back to display its lining of turquoise silk. He had light brown hair, worn long, a neatly trimmed moustache and an air of swaggering arrogance. He was keeping Damona at arm’s length, gripping her by the shoulders. The sun glinted off various rings on his hands.

“It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” he was saying in a bored, disinterested tone.

“You promised me! You said when I came back you’d make me your official mistress! With silk gowns and maids and my own rooms in the castle!”

“But why would I do that if I’ve already, er, enjoyed you?”

“You said you loved me!”

“That’s easy to say, isn’t it?”

There was laughing agreement from the man’s friends who were all well-dressed, handsome young men. One, the groom by the look of him, had stayed with the horses.

“I’ll tell you what, wench; I’ll give you to Guillaume. I’m sure he’ll appreciate you.”

He spun Damona round and pushed her towards one of his companions, a dark-haired young man in a red cloak. He caught her by the shoulders then pushed her away again, to be caught by one of the others.

“She looks too muddy for my liking!”

“And for mine!”

Damona was flung from one man to the next, too breathless with fury to protest.

“No, really, gentlemen, you’re not being fair. She does have her good points, I assure you.”

Their leader intervened and seized her, holding her against him, facing outwards. With one of his arms pressed against her throat she was powerless to move or speak. He grasped the neckline of her gown in his other hand and tugged hard. The worn fabric ripped easily, exposing her full white breasts.

There was a growl of excited approval as they clustered round, eager to look and touch.

“Take your filthy hands off her!” Raoul’s furious bellow jolted them all into stunned silence.

They looked round, amazed, to see who had spoken.

“I said ‘take your hands off her’!”

The others had moved away from her but their leader still had Damona in a strangle-hold.

“Who are you to tell me what I may do?” he snapped, tightening his grip on the girl.

Her anguished eyes sought Raoul’s. They seemed to plead with him to give up, to abandon her, to run away. It made him angrier than ever.

“I am someone who knows how to treat a lady. Let her go and apologise at once.”

The young man laughed.

“A lady?” he repeated incredulously. “I think you mean a whore. Yours, is she?”

“That’s right.”

“And if I won’t let her go and apologise?”

“Then I shall demand satisfaction of you.”

“You will, will you? You may speak like a squire but you look like a peasant. The only satisfaction you’ll get is from your slut! Now be off before I have you flogged. And you too!”

He thrust Damona viciously from him. Clutching the neck of her gown together as best she could, she stumbled towards Raoul, sobbing pitifully.

“Quickly, quickly,” she gasped as he took her into his arms. “Let’s get away while he’ll let us.”

“While he’ll let us?” How dared anyone behave in this arrogant, insensitive manner towards a woman?

Without pausing to think, Raoul stripped the leather gauntlet off his hand, marched up to Damona’s tormentor and struck him hard across the face with the glove. There was a stunned pause and then the rasp of many swords being drawn.

“Wait!” The young man’s blue eyes were alight with cold anger. “This is my fight. Since he is so determined to be taught a lesson, I myself shall teach it.”

“But, sir, you said yourself he was a peasant.”

“He should be spitted where he stands.”

“Raoul, this is madness,” Damona shrieked. “Let’s go, for the love of Heaven.”

“Well?” The young man rubbed the weal which reddened his cheek. “Do you intend to run away now with your tail tucked between your legs?”

“Certainly not. I am waiting for you to apologise.”

The contemptuous eyes travelled slowly over Raoul.

“As he appears to be rather ill-equipped for a fight, someone lend him a sword.”

“No, thank you. I have a sword of my own. If you will give me leave for half an hour, I shall fetch it here or to whatever place you would prefer.”

“I don’t suppose you have a lance and a destrier as well by any chance?”

“No.”

“Here will do as well as anywhere, in that case.”

“Very well.”

Raoul bowed, turned and began to walk away.

“Shouldn’t one of us go with him, sir, to keep an eye on him? He might be planning to bring an army of peasants back with him.”

“If he does I daresay we can deal with them.”

“But sir, shouldn’t we go after him now – we could give him a good thrashing.”

Many other voices joined in, urging punishments, demanding that they shouldn’t leave him unscathed.

“Silence! He’ll return, and alone, I’d swear to it. And I shall fight him myself. Anyone would think you had no confidence in my ability to beat the whelp.”

Their raised voices faded as Raoul increased the distance between them.

“Raoul?” Damona’s tearful voice came from just behind him. “Why are you doing this?”

“It’s all right, Damona.” He took her hand and drew her to him then continued towards the village. “I couldn’t let him treat you like that.”

As soon as they reached Sarzeau, Damona rushed into her parents’ cottage. Raoul went inside the barn, mounted to his portion of the loft, then dug deeply into his coffer to find the sword. By the time he had buckled it on and come outside, a knot of agitated villagers had gathered.

“Is it true what Damona says?” Pol asked, barring Raoul’s way. “You’re going to have a sword fight with Bertrand de Courcy?”

“I don’t know who he is but I certainly intend to fight him! Did Damona tell you what he did?”

“Yes, but...”

“Then get out of my way.”

“Oh Holy Mother!” Raoul heard Maeve wail at the back of the crowd. “This’ll be the death of you and the ruin of us all!”

“Can we come and watch?” Connell demanded.

“Just stay here, all of you. It’s nothing to do with anyone else! It’s between me and him.”

“But you’ll be killed for sure!” It was Maeve again. She pushed her way through to confront him face to face. “If you beat him with the sword, they’ll hang you!”

“That’s a chance I must take. Now make everyone stay here and I’ll return when I can.” Or if I can, he mentally added.

He dropped a kiss on Maeve’s forehead and put her gently aside. Old Meg had shown him that Death was his ultimate destiny. If it was to be now at least it would be in a good cause.

Bertrand de Courcy was waiting with his followers where he had left them. They gave an ironic cheer when Raoul came into view and his fists clenched.

“You have your weapon now, do you?” Bertrand said with a sneer.

Silently, Raoul drew it from its scabbard and assumed the “on guard” position. With a frown, Bertrand did the same. He did not seem to have expected his opponent to know the opening stance.

“I should point out to you that as I am not wearing a hauberk, I have no advantage over you in that respect,” de Courcy said.

“Thank you.”

“Now then, if you are ready: on guard.”

The heavy swords met with a jarring clang. Bertrand was probably four or five years Raoul’s senior and he was more powerfully built. He had removed his cloak so it could not impede his movements – these were swift and sure-footed. He seemed to be working round steadily in a large circle and Raoul was sure he had a reason for it. Mindful of what Connell had said about the terrain, Raoul was cautious about where he stepped. Bertrand knew these marshes. If Raoul stepped in a bog he doubted if the other would be chivalrous enough to pull him out.

At first, Raoul contented himself with parrying his opponent’s swings and thrusts. It gave him a chance to study his technique and assess his weaknesses. If de Courcy thought Raoul lacked skill it would be a good thing – he would become over-confident and that could give Raoul a chance.

After some time, during which neither man had gained any clear advantage, Bertrand swung short and stepped sideways, apparently off guard, presenting his opponent with what looked like an easy target. Just ahead, and a second before he moved, Raoul spotted the tell-tale green of one of the most prolific marsh plants, notorious for luring the unwary onto treacherous ground. He leaped across it, catching Bertrand a vicious swipe across the forearm with the edge of his blade as he turned to face him again. A look of shocked surprise crossed de Courcy’s face as he raised his sword for the next blow.

From having fought defensively, Raoul now began to press his opponent with an array of attacking aggressive strokes. They had moved through a full circle by now and Raoul was confident that he remembered where the solid ground was. His agility and athleticism could now come into play. Despite the weight of his sword, he forced the pace of the fight to quicken, leaping, wrong-footing and confusing Bertrand time after time.

De Courcy was tiring visibly, his face wet with sweat and his breath coming in heaving gasps. Blood dripped steadily from his left arm.

Raoul knew that he would soon be able to defeat him. He scarcely felt tired at all. His arm muscles would ache tomorrow from unaccustomed use, but he wasn’t even sweating. He swung his blade wide, slashed back and feinted, catching Bertrand unawares. It was Sergeant Bouchard’s cleverest trick, one with which he had frequently defeated his pupil and which Raoul had never yet been able to try. De Courcy’s sword fell from his weakened grip and Raoul prepared to deliver the winning blow.

As he swung his sword, hands caught him from behind, one wrenching the weapon from his grasp, others savagely pinioning his arms.

“No!” Bertrand roared. “Let him go!”

To Raoul’s astonishment, he was instantly released.

“Do you think...I am so feeble...that I need your help?” de Courcy panted, glaring furiously at his friends. “Leave Ricard...with my horse...and go back to the castle!”

“But sir, he was beating you!”

“That’s right, sir. A churl with a stolen weapon and clownish tricks...”

“Do you know nothing about honour?” Bertrand demanded, his breathing more controlled now but his anger still blazing. “This is a fair fight, one against one, whoever he is. Now go!”

The young men, muttering in protest, returned to their horses, mounted up and rode off. The groom and two horses remained. Raoul rubbed his wrist and picked up his sword.

“On guard!” de Courcy snapped.

“Bind your cut first. It’s still bleeding.”

With a snarl of impatience, Bertrand took a kerchief from his pouch and wound it round his arm, pulling the knot tight with his strong white teeth.

“Now, peasant, you’ll learn to regret your impertinence!”

At first Bertrand de Courcy fought with the redoubled strength of savage fury. But like a straw fire, it quickly burnt itself out. The vivid memory stayed in Raoul’s mind of the casual obscenity with which he and his friends had treated Damona. His anger burned steadily, fuelling his renewed efforts to subdue his opponent. He also found pleasure in pitting his wits and skill against the other man. At Valsemé he had sometimes avoided weapons-practice; a real fight was different – exciting, exhilarating.

Inevitably it was not long before Bertrand was gasping for breath once more. Fooled by a lightning move of Raoul’s, he lost his footing and crashed to the ground, his sword easily struck from his hand. Raoul stood over him in triumph, his sword point pressed to Bertrand’s throat, his muddy boot on his velvet covered chest.

“Go on then...kill me. What are you...waiting for?” He glared up at Raoul.

“And give you a reason to hang me? Certainly not. I have no intention of injuring you further. Unless you still refuse to apologise, of course. Then I shall have to cut your throat.”

Bertrand hesitated, perhaps assessing whether this peasant really meant what he had said. Raoul pressed the sword point more firmly against his throat, green eyes meeting blue unflinchingly.

“All right, I agree. Let me get up.”

“You can apologise from there.”

Bertrand hesitated again, steeling himself to say the humiliating words.

“I apologise for what I said – and did – to the girl. Is that it? Are you satisfied?”

“It will do.” Raoul sheathed his sword. “Now you may get up.”

Bertrand struggled to his feet, his rich clothing slimed and splattered with mud. Raoul handed him his sword. Brief anger flared again in de Courcy’s eyes as he took it.

“I can assure you that I am not in the habit of allowing myself to be worsted by scum like you. If I ever have the misfortune to see you or that little slut again I shall have you put in the stocks. Now get out of my sight.”

Raoul suppressed a smile and turned away. He could, of course, make him feel better by telling him that his birth was as noble as his. But why should he ease the man’s pain? He could even afford to overlook, now, that he had again called Damona a slut. It was hardly surprising that he wanted a sop to give his pride. He also understood, very clearly, why Bertrand rode his horse, at speed, almost straight at him, forcing him to jump out of the way and showering him with muddy water. He just hoped Guennec and the others wouldn’t be made to suffer through vindictiveness on de Courcy’s part. The man was obviously some relative of the Baron’s.

When he reached Sarzeau this time, the whole village seemed to be assembled on the green.

“Raoul! Are you hurt?” Pol was the first to notice him.

“No. Not at all.”

“Did you fight with him?” Jean Kerjean demanded incredulously.

“Yes.”

“With a sword? And he let you live?” Maeve was equally astounded.

“I won easily. He’s not very good.”

“”Oh, God! Daniel! Raoul’s beaten Bertrand de Courcy in a sword fight. Had we better pack up now and take to the road again?” White faced and anguished, Maeve clutched her husband’s arm. “Raoul, you didn’t kill him, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I wounded him slightly in the arm and made him apologise for what he did to Damona. That’s all.”

“Will he be bringing a troop to raze the village?”

“No!” Raoul’s tone was sharp. He hadn’t realised they would all be so scared of the consequences of what he had done. Were they really so vulnerable?

“Raoul, you mustn’t blame them for fearing for their homes,” Daniel said quietly. “Are you quite sure de Courcy doesn’t plan some act of retribution against us?”

“Apart from being Damona’s friend, I don’t think he really knows who I am. I didn’t mention you at all. I personally want to keep out of his way for a while – and so should Damona. But he threatened no-one else. Who is he, anyway? Is he so important?”

“Do you really not know?”

“I know his name, that’s all.”

“He’s the eldest son of the Count of Morbihan – heir to this barony and several others in Vannetais. One day he’ll be the richest, most powerful man in southern Brittany.”

“Make that just “in Brittany”,” Pol amended dryly.

“So you can see that it is a little unfortunate that you crossed him,” Daniel said.

“I couldn’t just stand by and watch while they treated Damona like...like...”

Guennec interrupted. “Your defence of her honour was brave – though somewhat rash! I am grateful to you for your...chivalry? Even if it was a little misplaced. Powerful lords like Morbihan consider they have a God-given right to do what they please, especially on their own land and with their own people.”

“Well I disagree,” Raoul snapped.

“Go to our house, Raoul, and speak to Damona,” Maeve said, hastily intervening in what seemed likely to become a new fight. “She’s fretting over your safety.”

“She had no need,” Raoul muttered.

“Just a moment, Raoul,” said Daniel. “Let me see your sword. It was your father’s, was it?”

“Yes.”

He drew it from the scabbard and handed it to Guennec. The older man tested the weapon’s balance and weight then examined the crest set into the hilt before handing it back to Raoul.

“Radenoc, you said.”

“That’s right.”

As he sheathed the sword he met Daniel’s thoughtful gaze. “You’re not the baron yet,” his eyes seemed to say. After a moment, Raoul turned away and headed towards the cottage. As he went, he saw Pol whispering something to Jean Kerjean. Jean looked at Raoul suspiciously, shook his head and murmured an inaudible reply.

Damona was alone in the cottage. Her spindle and wool lay abandoned beside her low stool and she seemed to have been crying. The windowless room was lit by two smoking rush lights, the glow of the fire and the daylight which slanted in through the open doorway.

She leaped up as soon as she saw Raoul.

“Thank God! You’re safe.”

She flung herself towards him and he caught her in his arms, holding her close, feeling the frantic beating of her heart.

“Oh, Raoul, I was so afraid of what Bertrand and the others would do to you!”

“It’s all right. They didn’t hurt me.”

“And Bertrand?”

“Said he was sorry.”

“What?” She looked at him aghast.

“I made him apologise for what he did to you.”

“Raoul...I was very stupid about Bertrand. When I was last here he was so loving and tender and made such promises...And I believed him.”

“I’m sure he was very convincing. But you’d better stay away from him now.”

“Yes, yes, I will. Don’t worry.”

“Good girl.” He gave her a hug and released her.

“Raoul.”

“Yes?”

She hesitated, twisting her hands together, eyes lowered. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing rapid. Raoul wondered why she was so agitated and so strangely shy. He fought the desire to take her back into his arms again. If he did what his body would like him to do, he would be as bad as Bertrand de Courcy.

“Raoul, my parents like you, don’t they?”

“I hope so, yes.”

“I don’t think they would...object...if you wanted to marry me.”

“Marry you?”

Damona winced visibly at Raoul astonished exclamation.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hanging her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just, you told Bertrand I was yours and...I thought perhaps...”Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re so different from the others.”

“Oh, Damona, love.” Raoul drew her into his arms with a groan. “I’ve no money at all and I’m really not ready to marry anyone yet – and I’d be a bad bargain, in any case. I’ve been told that an early grave is all I have to look forward to.”

His excuses sounded feeble even to his own ears.

“Never mind, then.” She looked at him with a soft glow in her eyes. Raoul felt a surge of intense desire. “Forget about the priest. I’m yours anyway. Take me to your bed.”

“Damona, I can’t.” He fought against his body’s weakness. “Your father’s been good to me – he’s taken me into his family and into his home. You’re like a sister to me. It would be a betrayal of his trust if I lay with you.”

“You’re a liar and a coward!” She wrenched herself free. “You can be oh so brave when it comes to fighting noble lords like Bertrand but you think you’re too good for me! That’s the truth of it! I know you’re some baron’s bastard! I heard you telling my father. Well I’m glad you don’t want me! You make me sick!”

Raoul grabbed her arms, stung to anger by the truth of her accusations.

“I never said I didn’t want you!”

He crushed her body against him, one hand forcing her head back, his lips on hers, his tongue invading her mouth. After a moment’s struggle, she acquiesced, melting into his kiss, then she pulled herself free.

“So are you going to love me or not?”

“No!” he cried, turning away, desperately trying to master himself.

“Then don’t you ever so much as look at me again!”

“Damona, I made a vow that I...”

She pushed past him and ducked out through the low doorway.

Raoul struck his head with his fist. What was he doing? First Celie – whom he truly hadn’t wanted – and now Damona. Perhaps he should marry her. Who did he think he was saving himself for? Some noble bride fit to be Baroness of Radenoc? As there was no hope of that – or any other glorious future – he should just make the best of what was offered to him. She was so beautiful, so immensely desirable – she’d make the perfect wife – for a minstrel. He must call her back.

“Damona!” He crossed the room and went outside.

Some yards away, to Raoul’s surprise and horror, Jean Kerjean was holding Damona in a close embrace. She was sobbing and Jean was soothing her, stroking her hair and murmuring endearments. He bent and whispered something to her; she looked up and nodded. Helpless, unnoticed, unable to say or do anything, Raoul stood and watched as Jean lifted Damona in his powerful arms and carried her towards the barn.