Chapter Two

“Enter.”

Lady Eleanor’s voice held its usual authority.

“Good afternoon, my lady. I hope you are well.”

Raoul was forbidden from addressing her as “Grandmother”. Although virtually all the household knew perfectly well who he was, it was one of the measures which Lady Eleanor absolutely insisted on in order to try to keep his existence a secret.

“Hmmh!” She snorted contemptuously. “I do not tolerate illness, Raoul, as you very well know.”

She beckoned him over and presented a thin cheek for his dutiful kiss.

“Now sit down over there where you won’t block out the light,” she commanded, indicating to a stool across from her seat in the window.

She picked up a tambour frame and drew the needle through the fabric. Raoul noted her thickened knuckles and wondered how she could still manage to work on her embroidery. He suspected that her progress was both painful and slow.

“You wished to speak to me, my lady?”

“I did. I am unhappy about the way your time is being spent at present. I wish to make some changes. I shall tell you what I propose.”

“Have you changed your mind?” Raoul demanded eagerly. “Will you let me go to Lord de Fresnay’s household at Bonnebosq, or to my cousins at La Tournerie after all? Oh, please say you have, it would make me so happy...”

The old lady’s eyes were fierce with anger. “You stupid boy! Do you understand nothing? When I have gone to such lengths, for all these years, do you think I would ruin everything and let you flaunt yourself abroad? Never!”

“But...”

“Why do you think that I have kept Louis de Fresnay away although he was once my dearest friend? Why do you think I told my brothers and their families not to visit? Do you think I like this isolation? No, if they came, they’d bring strangers with them, servants, grooms, men-at-arms. How could I be sure that they weren’t in the pay of your great uncle?”

“Lady Eleanor, I don’t understand. You let my father go to Lord Louis’s household – he was older than me, I know, but you did permit it. I’ll be eighteen next year so couldn’t I...”

“Don’t you listen, boy? Everyone knew about my son Robert. I thought – foolishly, as it turned out – that if I kept him with me until he was almost grown then he’d be safe. It was your mother’s fault that he died, may her soul rot in Hell.”

“I don’t see how you can blame his death on her!” Raoul exclaimed hotly, his fists clenching in anger. “She loved him, everyone says so!”

“Love! She’d probably been seduced by Armand herself! It would explain a lot!”

Her eyes searched the boy’s face and he flinched under her merciless scrutiny. She seemed to look at him almost as if she hated him, he thought. He’d often noticed that recently...ever since Sévrine.

“My parents were killed by outlaws,” he said fiercely.

“They were killed by assassins sent by your great uncle, Lord Armand de Metz, who usurped your father’s title. I have told you that a thousand times. Why will you not believe me?”

“But how could Lord Armand know that they were there?” As she said, he had heard her fantastical theory often before but he had never argued with it or questioned her about it. Now he felt he must.

“It was because of the squire, René Gilbert.” Her hands gripped each other in her lap. She looked away from Raoul, speaking almost as if to herself. “He came to us from Robbie’s household.” She glanced at her grandson. “Yes, I had pages, squires and soldiers from my brothers’ castles in those days.” Her tone was bitter. “He seemed to be an excellent young man: a skilful swordsman, an expert in the tiltyard, witty, amusing – in every way a paragon. He reminded me of Louis when he was that age. When I decided to let Robert go to Bonnebosq he was the obvious one to send with him – in fact by promising to watch over him, he’d helped to persuade me. And when Robert decided that he could not bear to be parted from his little...paramour...” she spat the word out, “but must return home and marry her, what did René Gilbert do? He simply vanished. And where did he go?” Eleanor’s eyes bored into Raoul’s. “Back to Radenoc, of course, to tell his master all about it! I had barred my son from Valsemé and he had left Louis’s protection. René knew exactly where they’d go, knew all about the fertile small-holding belonging to that peasant Bouillet and how he needed extra hands to till it while he was busy at the forge.”

“But if it was assassins, why did they let me live?”

“René didn’t know that you existed. My son’s delicate scruples could not tolerate the idea of siring a bastard child.” She smiled wryly. “Nor, apparently, did he discuss her condition with his closest friend. So you were sleeping peacefully in a basket in the orchard when their throats were cut and the snug dwelling-house put to the torch. Your cries were heard by Bouillet when he returned for supper. He brought you to me and I have kept you safe ever since.”

“Safe for what? To be buried here and rot?” The words burst from Raoul.

“When the time comes you will...”

“What? Lead out an army of octogenarians to reclaim my stolen inheritance? For God’s sake, how is it possible? Let me go to La Tournerie under another name. Tell my cousin who I am but keep it secret from the rest of the household. That way at least...”

“Never! Not while there is breath in my body!” She gripped his arm. “You’re to stay with me!”

Raoul tried desperately to control his rising anger. Shouting at her would make her more determined. He knew that to his cost.

“You spoke of changes to my life. If you do not intend to let me train as a knight, what do you propose that I should do?”

“I have decided that you should cease your lessons at the Abbey. The journey there is unsafe. You could be ambushed, kidnapped.”

“But, my lady, I go there with an escort...” he offered up a silent apology for the lie, “no harm can befall me.”

“You do not need all this Latin and Greek faradiddle to be Lord of Radenoc. It is of no use to you. If you were going to enter the Church then -”

“Perhaps I should do so. I enjoy learning. Please don’t force me to give it up!” The prospect of perpetual incarceration at Valsemé was more than he could bear.

“Enjoy! Life is not about enjoyment. You will learn that, given enough time.”

“But if I took Holy Orders at least there would be some purpose to my existence.”

Eleanor shook her head.

“That is not possible, Raoul. It is your duty to marry and continue the direct line. I have someone in mind for you.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“Louis has a granddaughter who is approaching marriageable age. She would be most suitable.”

“Then you would let me go to Bonnebosq!”

Eleanor gave an exasperated sigh.

“Of course not. Once I have negotiated terms with Louis, she would come here. She would bear you sons and be my companion. I’ve been lonely since poor Anne was lost to us. I see no reason why Louis would not agree.” She paused, thinking, calculating. “Her dowry would be useful in many ways. I would like to rebuild the approach to the Hall so that the entrance is more secure.”

Raoul’s heart sank. Trying to school his features into the appearance of attentiveness he listened as she started to outline her elaborate plan to prevent intruders gaining access to the keep. She was interrupted by a knock on the solar door.

It was Siméon de la Tour, the castle steward. He was a middle aged, mild-mannered man who had lived all his life at Valsemé.

“My lady, Guennec’s Men are at the gate, asking for shelter and for the chance to entertain the household.”

Raoul’s spirits leapt. He had temporarily forgotten about the mummers.

“Guennec’s Men?” Lady Eleanor repeated frowning. “You mean the minstrels from Brittany?”

“Yes, my lady, on their way home for the winter, it seems. Will you let them play?”

She hesitated then rose stiffly and crossed to a small locked chest which stood on the table.

“Give them some money, Siméon, and send them on their way. They should still be able to reach the Abbey before dark. I have no heart for their foolery this year.”

“Please, my lady, couldn’t we permit them to stay?” Raoul could feel his heart pounding. He must try not to appear too eager. “Were they not Mistress Anne’s favourites? Is it kind to her memory to turn them away?”

“I will add a few more coins, if that would please you,” she said, casting a doubtful glance in Raoul’s direction.

“I think the castle folk would be glad to see a play,” the steward said. “There’s not been much jollity at Valsemé in the past months. Just a short piece – in the bailey, if you would prefer it – could surely do no harm. It might put a bit of heart into the younger ones.”

Eleanor dropped the full purse back into the chest, returned to the window and seated herself with a heavy sigh. There was a moment’s silence and then she spoke.

“Very well. They may perform in the castle courtyard after the midday meal tomorrow. And, if they wish, in the village in the evening. The day after, on Friday, they must be on their way. I will not have the community disrupted for longer. They can sleep in the Long Barn as on other occasions. Master Raoul, as he seems so concerned, can look to their welfare.”

“Thank you, my lady. I will tell them.” The steward bowed and withdrew.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Hmmh.” The old lady gave a derisive snort. “They might have preferred a well filled purse!”

“But you will still give them money, won’t you?”

She gave a thin smile. “Not as much as if I did not have the bother of them. That is what you need to learn, my boy, practical matters – not about ancient nonsense. Go to the chest and put ten silver pieces in your purse. If you think they warrant it, when you have seen them play, give it all to the mummers. If you think they deserve less, bring the rest back to me.”

“Will you not be watching them yourself?” Raoul asked as he went to do her bidding.

“I have no wish to see or speak to Bretons now that Anne is gone. You can start assuming some of your responsibilities by dealing with these people. You may send them some provisions from the kitchens in the morning.”

“Certainly, my lady. It will be a pleasure.” He did not look at Lady Eleanor, afraid that his delighted grin would give too much away. If the eagle-eyed old woman was not going to witness his transformation, it would be all the easier to play his part.

“And send a message to the Abbey, Raoul. Brother Mark may come to the castle every Friday to allow you to read the scriptures and to instruct you in accounting...but your studies of the heathen Greeks and Romans are over and so you must tell him. I am surprised that he should have shown you such blasphemous texts. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, my lady.” If he had not told her about his passion for the ancients, she would not be forbidding them now.

He was about to close the chest when his eye was suddenly caught by a small iron key whose use he immediately remembered. It belonged to the water-gate. Without pausing to think why he was doing it, he concealed it in his palm and rapidly transferred it to his pouch. He then locked the box and returned its key with a flourish to Lady Eleanor who hung it round her neck. As he bowed and left the room he consoled himself with the thought that he might still occasionally be able to elude her vigilance.

The following morning Raoul woke up ridiculously early. Moving quietly to avoid disturbing the rhythmically snoring Sergeant Bouchard, he drew the bed curtains, folded back the wooden shutter and lay against his pillows watching the sky grow gradually paler as dawn broke.

He could allow himself to think about Sévrine now. He guessed that his feelings for her were different from those his father had had for his mother. Marriage would not have occurred to Raoul as a possibility. He wondered what Lord de Fresnay’s granddaughter was like – different from the ugly serving girls, he devoutly hoped. Was he going to just accept these plans without argument? He pictured himself dutifully coupling with a plain, pious wife, probably with his grandmother supervising his efforts, then saw himself slipping secretly out of the castle through the water-gate by night to romp with a flock of buxom peasant girls. It was no good. If that was what the future held he couldn’t possibly agree to it.

He slid from the bed and began to dress. As he fastened his belt he grinned. He’d keep the key to the water-gate for the present. He quite liked the idea of all those peasant girls!

“You’re up early, lad,” Sergeant Bouchard grunted, opening a bleary eye.

“There are matters which Lady Eleanor asked me to attend to,” Raoul said. “I’m afraid I shall be busy with them all morning. I’ll send up a jug of ale, shall I?”

“Aye, it’d be good of you, lad.” The old soldier yawned and turned over.

Raoul went downstairs whistling cheerfully. The sky was clear and blue. It would be another warm, golden autumn day.

Once he had broken his fast he composed a short note to Brother Mark. He had no fear that anyone would intercept and read his letter but it amused him to construct a few sentences in elegant Greek, wittily, he hoped, bemoaning the enforced end of his Classical studies. He knew that his teacher would be sorry – especially when being so neatly reminded of his pupil’s aptitude. With any luck Brother Mark would at least try to persuade Lady Eleanor to relent.

He sealed the parchment then despatched a messenger to the Abbey. Now he could turn his attention to making the necessary preparations for the mummers. First he looked critically at the courtyard and gave instructions about sweeping the driest end and setting out seats for spectators. He gave orders that two recently slaughtered pigs’ carcases should be sent to the village to provide a communal feast that night. He took one of the housecarls with him to the undercroft and filled two large baskets with dry goods and salted meat and fish. He sent another boy to collect several freshly baked round loaves and took a barrel of ale from the buttery. Then, followed by the grumbling, heavily laden servants, he made his way out of the castle and up the steep path which led to the hamlet of Valsemé.

It was a few hundred yards to the barn from where the other village dwellings huddled together round a small stone-built church. At the furthest end of the muddy street was the blacksmith’s forge. It did not belong to Bouillet now. Broken by the murder of his daughter and the destruction of his cottage, Raoul’s maternal grandfather had gathered up his remaining belongings and set off for St. Lo. Rumour had it that he’d died of a fever weeks later. The smith now was his distant cousin. Snatches of song and ringing hammer blows rose from the building as Raoul passed.

“’Morning, Jean-Paul!” he called.

“’Morning, young master,” came the shouted reply.

Although few villagers were about at this time of day, Raoul was grateful that several trees and bushes screened the barn from public view. A good fire was burning in the clearing outside it. The woman, Maeve, was stirring something in a cooking pot.

“Good morning, young sir,” she greeted him with a warm smile. “You said all your prayers, then?”

“Yes. All I intend to say, anyway,” Raoul replied with a grin. “Lady de Metz has sent you some foodstuffs – I met Master de la Tour, the steward, on my way here and relieved him of his burden.”

“Holy Mary and Jesus!” Maeve’s jaw dropped in wonder. “Blessings be upon the good kind soul. I’ve never seen the like of it. Guennec! Guennec! Come and look at this!” She rushed off towards the barn doorway.

Raoul felt himself blush. He had obviously exceeded what was usually given in such cases. Well, for the moment he was one of them. Why shouldn’t they have generous fare?

“Set the stuff down and get back to the castle,” he told the servants as they reached the edge of the clearing. “And make sure the benches are set out in the bailey as I told you.”

“Yes, sir.” The boys did as they were bidden, bowed and started to walk away.

Raoul turned to greet Guennec who was watching with a puzzled frown.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Raoul asked.

“I’m not sure. Just who are you, young man?”

“Cleopatra, I very much hope – if there’s enough time to effect the necessary changes!”

“Aye, aye.” Guennec shook his head as if banishing troublesome thoughts. “We’ve no time to waste.”

After a couple of hours’ intensive practice, Raoul was pretty sure he could play his part acceptably if not brilliantly. He’d been amazed at the difference in the others. Gone was the surly temper and roughness of the previous day. Each was transformed by the roles they were to play. Jean Kerjean would be Caesar, stately and commanding. Cof played the suave, charming Mark Antony. Guennec himself was Brutus, the elder statesman, with Pol Cudenec and the young boy as soldiers, messengers and servants. Cunningly, they had adapted the scenes where Cleopatra appeared to make Raoul have a distinctive move – usually either to rise from or sit on the throne – when it was someone else’s turn to speak. Thus he could convey the gist of the long speeches but the other actors always knew when they should take over.

“Well done, lad,” Guennec said when they finished a second run through. “That’s enough for now.”

Raoul struggled out of the long tunic that he’d worn for the part.

“What will the whole programme consist of?” Raoul asked, squatting on the ground and gratefully accepting a drink from the flagon of cider being passed among them.

“Well, at the castle we’ll do a few songs, then ‘The Glory of Rome’ and we’ll conclude with a recitation – something that’s requested, if we can.”

“And later? Tonight?”

“Simpler fare. Juggling, acrobatics and some ballads where they can all join the refrains.”

“Will we do the pyramid, Da?” Connell asked.

“I don’t see how we can,” Guennec said.

“What’s that?” Raoul asked.

“We three begin...” Guennec indicated to himself, Jean and Pol. They got up and faced Raoul, placing their arms on each other’s’ shoulders and bracing their legs.

“Then I start the next layer,” Cof said, running round them and springing athletically onto their shoulders from behind.

“And I go on top!” Connell ran forward, swarmed up the men’s bodies and moments later he was standing on top of Cof’s shoulders, his arms outstretched and a gleeful grin on his face. “But we’re one short, you see!”

“Can I try?” Raoul demanded eagerly.

“Why not?”

Connell sprang down, turning a somersault in the air as he did so; Cof followed, in the same way, and Guennec came forward to explain to Raoul what he should do. Minutes later he was flying through the air and then balancing with surprising ease, one foot on Guennec’s shoulder and one on Jean’s. He then had to brace himself firmly as young Con scrambled up and balanced between himself and Cof.

“Now break!” Guennec commanded.

Down leapt Connell, Cof sprang after.

Guennec’s hasty, “Not you, Raoul!” came just too late as the boy launched himself into the air, executed a neat somersault and landed daintily on his feet.

“That was stupid,” Maeve exclaimed from her seat by the fire. “You could have hurt yourself!”

“I have done a little before,” Raoul confessed with a laugh. “But there’s a limit to what you can achieve in the branches of a beech tree!”

“Are you sure you can’t stay with us?” Cof said mournfully. “There seems to be no end to your skills. How are you at fire eating?”

He ignited three long brands in the fire and quenched each in turn by what appeared to be swallowing them.

“I think it looks a bit painful,” Raoul said with a shudder.

“Or juggling?” Jean drew a set of brightly painted clubs from a sack and whirled them round with dazzling skill.

“I’d like to try!”

Jean caught the clubs and tossed three balls to Raoul.

“Go on then.”

Slowly at first but with steadily increasing confidence, Raoul passed them from one hand to the other until he could maintain a reasonable speed without dropping them.

“Now add in a fourth!” Jean threw him another ball.

Starting hesitantly and with frequent misses, Raoul again built up speed.

“You’re a natural, boy,” said Pol Cudenec. “You’ve real talent!”

Raoul grinned delightedly.

“Who’s got talent?” said a sulky female voice. “None of you, surely.”

Raoul turned abruptly. A girl with long dark curly hair had emerged from the barn. The low neck of her rumpled shift revealed the generous curve of her breasts and she had wisps of straw in her hair. Everything about her appearance suggested sexual pleasure and Raoul felt his body stir.

“This is Damona, my daughter,” Guennec said dryly.

“Who’s he?” She looked Raoul up and down, her full red lips pouting, her dark eyes holding a mixture of curiosity and contempt.

“This is a clerk from the Abbey who’s helping us out today.”

“Oh, a monk, is he?” she said scathingly. Her mocking gaze dropped to Raoul’s crotch. He went scarlet.

“Go and dress yourself, girl. You’re embarrassing our young friend.”

There was a general laugh.

“That’s not my fault, is it?” She moved languidly over towards her mother. “Is there pottage, Mam?”

“Aye, over the fire,” said Maeve, flinging a shawl at her, “but for Heaven’s sake cover yourself!”

Raoul dragged his eyes away from the girl and picked up his discarded tunic. He cleared his throat.

“Do you want me to practise anything else, or shall I go now?”

Guennec gripped his shoulder reassuringly.

“It’s all right, pay her no heed,” he said in a low tone. “Go now, lad. Meet us at the castle at midday.”

“Right.”

Feeling as if he’d had a narrow escape, he raised his hand to the other mummers and fled.

By the time the show for the villagers was finished, Raoul felt full of reckless excitement.

He had acquitted himself with credit at the castle and no-one had even suspected the true identity of the wily Queen of Egypt. The mummers had found ways of guiding and supporting him so that the appreciative audience would never have guessed that it was his first ever performance. He had been complimented by Jean on his voice – he had adopted a slightly husky tone, higher than his own but not a squeaky falsetto. It had given the Queen dignity, the mummers agreed, an attribute she had severely lacked with the departed Antoine.

There had been a slightly awkward moment when Guennec had asked Raoul about the young squire that he recalled from his previous visit.

“There was a boy, I remember, lively but attentive. Now who was he – a nephew of Lady de Metz? He sat between her ladyship and Mistress Le Hir, I seem to remember. Be about your age, I reckon.”

“He’s probably around somewhere,” Raoul said airily, “or perhaps he’s busy! Look, here’s Master de la Tour coming to thank you...I must go and change.”

He slipped quickly away to the lean-to which was being used as a robing room, aware that Guennec had been somewhat suspicious. Fortunately, Lady Eleanor had maintained her determination to keep away.

Just as Sergeant Bouchard was starting to ask amongst the castle servants whether they had seen him, Raoul had been able to emerge, in his own clothes, claiming that he had merely been organising the players’ refreshments.

By promising to stay with Marcus Le Gros, one of the most easy-going soldiers, he had managed to persuade the Sergeant to allow him to go to the feast in the village that evening. It had been easy enough, once there, to ply Marcus with drink and set on Madame Courbin, a garrulous fun-loving widow, to ensure that the old soldier wanted Raoul out of the way. Marcus might not be getting any younger but he was still a man of strong appetites. Raoul also suspected that Bouchard himself was glad of being let off his watchdog’s leash, for once. With amusement he noticed him disappearing into the back room of the tavern with Anne-Marie, ‘The Soldiers’ Friend’ as she was affectionately called.

Confident that even if he was recognised, no-one would now report him to his grandmother, Raoul willingly took part in the pyramid and lustily joined the mummers in all the songs he knew. His heart thrilled at the thunderous applause and loud cheers, twice the volume of those at the castle.

“Feels good, lad, eh?”

“I should say so,” Raoul agreed. “I feel as if I’m floating on air, as if I’m ten feet high.”

“That could be on account of all the cider you’ve been supping,” Maeve chuckled.

She and the others had settled themselves on benches outside the tavern. Cof, nearby, was playing on a pipe and the younger villagers danced to his lively tunes.

Maeve drained her cup and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Oh, Mary and Joseph, I’d quite forgot!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Lad, you know the folk round here. I’ve just recalled that I’ve a message that I should have delivered. Is there a man called...now what was his name?... Oh, aye, I have it now, Lenain, Pierre Lenain. Would he be hereabouts?”

Raoul sobered suddenly.

“I expect so. Why?” Lenain was Sévrine’s family name. Pierre was her father.

“I told you, I’ve a message for him. Could you find him, d’you think? Or send someone else to, if you like.”

“No, I’ll get him.”

He spotted the man across the street, chatting with a group of fellow cotters.

He approached them and explained why Pierre was wanted. The man scowled at Raoul but obediently touched his cap and moved off towards where Maeve was sitting. It was hardly surprising, Raoul acknowledged, if Pierre regarded him with some resentment: because of him, Lady Eleanor had sent his daughter away. He followed at a slight distance, curious about the message. Pedlars and minstrels often carried news from one part of the country to another. Probably it was nothing to do with Sévrine.

“So your sister was surprised when she heard nothing from you or your wife,” Maeve was telling the man. “Of course she’s had to bury her now – and the little one.”

“But I don’t get it. What do you mean, she heard nothing?” Pierre Lenain stood stupidly, frowning at the woman.

“Look, sit down, I’ll go through it again,” Maeve said in a kindly tone. “Your sister had the priest write a letter which she sent to Lady de Metz at the castle. Your daughter worked there, did she not?”

“Aye.”

“She asked for her to tell you and your wife about what had happened and then for you to send word whether you wanted her body and the babe’s sent back here – she thought the castle would pay, the young master having caused her trouble. All that was three months ago now. When she heard we’d be...”

“Are you saying my girl’s dead?” Lenain demanded.

“Well, yes. You knew that, surely?”

The man shook his head; tears filled his eyes and he crumpled onto the bench. He looked round, pointing wildly at Raoul.

“He didn’t see fit to tell us,” he cried. His chest heaved and he sobbed.

Torn between a wish to comfort the man and a furious need to speak to his grandmother, Raoul stood hesitantly. He could hardly believe it himself. Sévrine had had a child – HIS child – but they were dead! Poor Sévrine, he had ruined her and then allowed her to be cast off to die. It was his fault! How could he speak to her father now? How could he face him? But had his grandmother known? If she did know, how could she have concealed it?

He must find out whether the letter had gone astray or whether this tragic news had been deliberately suppressed. And, despite the lateness of the hour, he must find out now. Turning abruptly, he ran back towards the castle.