Chapter Fourteen

Catherine stayed in her chamber for the rest of that day. She lost her temper with the maids when they complained about the jug after jug of water that she had made them lug up from the kitchens but eventually she realised that they were right – she would never be clean again: no amount of washing would undo the foulness of the rape. She allowed herself to be dried, helped into a clean shift, and tucked into her own unsullied bed. She wished that Sévrine or her mother were with her still and when she was finally left on her own and the door was securely barred, she sobbed into her pillow like a broken-hearted child.

When Brigitte knocked tentatively on her door the next morning, she told her to go away and leave her alone, she wanted nothing. Eventually, at about noon to judge from the sky beyond the window, Catherine wrapped herself in a robe and dragged herself from the bed. She felt drained, empty, and too weary to care about anything. When Brigitte returned, she allowed her to come in. To please her she drank a little water but would eat nothing. She couldn’t face it. Gradually, sunk in lethargy and misery, the slow hours passed away.

The next day was the same. At about mid-morning, when Brigitte rapped on her door again, urgently calling her name, Catherine unbarred it and let the girl come in.

“My lady, you’ll never guess! Who do you think is here?” Brigitte was big with news.

“I neither know nor care,” Catherine replied indifferently, sitting down on the window-seat.

“It’s Lord Guy!”

“Who?”

“Him that was going to marry you, madam. Your lover! You know, Guy de Bégard.”

“For Heaven’s sake...”

“Only he’s not your lover now, m’lady – he’s married already and she, his wife I mean, is your...your cousin, I suppose – he’s married to the daughter of your uncle!”

“My uncle?”

“Your Uncle Roland, my lady, him that’s Count of Léon now that t’other one has died, God rest his soul. Oh yes, and he’s here too.”

“Who is?

“Your uncle. And he wants to see you – in the Great Hall, as soon as you’re ready.”

“My Uncle Roland is here?”

“Yes, my lady, quick. Where’s a decent gown?”

“Brigitte, I don’t understand. How can my uncle be here? Has the Norman been defeated?”

“Bless you, no, my lady – he’s been fighting with him. So has Lord Guy. And the Count of Morbihan – that’s my Thomas’s Lord, you know.” Brigitte blushed rosily.

“My uncle is here, in Radenoc, and has been helping this...this invasion?”

“Oh yes. So have ever so many others. You know all the men that kept vanishing from Kerhouazoc? Well they all -”

“Enough! I don’t want to listen to this silly gossip. If my uncle’s here at least I have one friend, someone who I hope will make him pay!”

“What do you mean, my lady? Make who pay?”

“The Norman, of course.”

“Yes, madam, but you see he isn’t -”

“Quiet!” Catherine screamed the word. “Keep your mouth shut and help me dress.”

A short time later, dressed in amber velvet, her veil fastened with a jewelled bronze circlet, Catherine left the shelter of her room and made her way towards the Hall. He would be there, her attacker. How could she face him? In her mind she saw again the red-rimmed eyes, the rough dark beard; smelt the foulness of his breath. She swallowed, her legs trembling. She had eaten nothing for two days but she still felt nauseated and sickness rose in her throat at the thought of him. She had to force herself to go on.

When she reached the curtained archway which led to the Hall she stopped.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

The sound of men’s voices came from the room beyond and although it was broad daylight, her terrifying encounter with Bellec flooded back into her mind.

“Come along, my lady. You’ve no need to be afeared.” Brigitte pulled the curtain aside and led her mistress through. “Here she is, my lord, safe and sound,” she announced, catching sight of the Count of Léon.

“Catherine! My dear niece!”

Roland bounded up the steps and swept her into a warm embrace. She clung to him, trembling, unable to speak.

“I was delighted – and surprised – to learn that you were still here,” he said, releasing her but keeping an arm round her shoulders. “We had thought that Radenoc was totally deserted. I feared that Gilles might have forced you and Simon to go with him. Is the little one here? Is he well?”

“No – I mean – Simon is not here. Gilles took him. Uncle, where is my brother? What’s happened to him? Was there a battle? My maid said that you fought against him but I find that hard to believe.”

“You might well be sceptical,” Roland said grimly. “For all his boasting, ultimately, Gilles is a coward.”

“What do you mean?”

“By the time we reached their camp, your brother and all his best men, had fled – taken ship from Lanhalles – which they fired before they left. The few miserable troops that remained simply laid down their weapons and begged for mercy. It was the same at Locronan. Raoul had given them such a fright that they just meekly surrendered. There was no-one to fight at all. Raoul felt quite cheated.”

“So the Norman has Radenoc – and with your blessing.”

“Norman! Raoul isn’t a Norman.” To Catherine’s astonishment her uncle laughed. “And whatever he is, he’s a better man than Gilles, that’s for sure. And his anger was fully justified, in the circumstances. Come and meet him.”

“No!”

Roland took her icy hand.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Lord Raoul – here is Catherine, my niece. Now you can renew your acquaintance.”

She froze, overwhelmed with terror, aghast at what she had heard her uncle say. But where was he? Her eyes, travelling anxiously over the faces in front of her, saw no-one like the man she remembered with such disgust. Instead, coming towards her with a pleasant smile was...Tristan! She heard herself cry out the name and then the world went black as she crumpled to the floor.

When she came to, she was in the solar, lying on the rush-strewn floor with a cushion under her head, and Brigitte was rubbing her hands and calling her name. Her uncle and various others were standing looking worriedly down at her.

“Help me to sit up,” she whispered.

Roland knelt and lifted her to the window-seat then held a wine-cup to her lips.

“Good girl,” he said as she swallowed a little of the liquid.

“Enough,” she protested as he offered the cup again. “Is he here?” She must see him again, find out if what she had seen before was real or whether she was losing her mind.

“Who? Do you mean Lord Raoul?”

Catherine nodded.

The Count beckoned him forward.

“Lady Catherine,” Raoul said, bowing deeply. “I am delighted to see you again.”

She hadn’t lost her mind. Older now, with that scar on his cheek, it was her handsome minstrel, unmistakably. But he was also her attacker – he had shaved, wore a clean robe, his eyes, green and so like her father’s, were no longer bloodshot, but it was him.

“How can you say so, after what you have done?” she said, her voice trembling with horror.

“What do you mean? You called me ‘Tristan’. You’ve forgotten, my lady. I never played that part – I was Iseult, though I blush to confess it in front of your uncle.”

“My memory isn’t at fault. But yours seems to be!”

“Lady Catherine? What’s wrong?” Raoul reached out to take her hand but she snatched it away from him as if she had been stung.

“Don’t you touch me! Are you denying it?”

“Denying what? My lord, I think the girl’s nerves are overwrought. Perhaps her maid should help her to her chamber so she can lie down.”

One of the other men had been speaking aside to Lord Roland.

“I think that’s wise, Lord Raoul,” the Count said. “I’m told that one of Gilles’s cronies made some sort of assault on her the night before we got here. It’s clearly affected her badly.”

“What Bellec began, he finished!” Catherine was on her feet, an accusing finger pointing at Raoul.

“What is she saying?” asked Roland, clearly mystified.

“I’ve no idea. I met the lady once before, as I told you, when I was a minstrel – seven or eight years ago. She was just a child. I haven’t seen her since. I would, indeed, have hardly recognised her: she has changed a great deal.”

His appreciative smile brought the blood rushing to Catherine’s cheeks.

“Two days ago!” she panted. “You saw me two days ago when you raped me! You might have thought I was a peasant then, but now? Can’t you see who I am?” She tore the circlet from her head and pulled off her veil. “Don’t you recognise me now?”

He shook his head, frowning slightly. Yesterday, at noon, he had woken up alone – having slept almost round the clock, they had told him. He remembered nothing. Before, when it was dark, the boy, Gilles’s messenger, had come to their camp – he remembered that. Then Raoul must have set out to take Radenoc – and he had: here he was. Gilles, apparently, had fled. Poor Etienne had been found murdered in the chapel and Bertrand would convey his body home to Montglane as Raoul, himself, must obviously stay here.

The girl was sobbing wildly as she unbraided her hair. He longed to reach out and touch its silken glory – even to hold her in his arms and comfort her. He had dreamed once about a woman with hair like hers – the colour of copper-beech leaves warmed by the sun. Poor Lady Catherine, she was mad, clearly.

“Where’s Guillaume Rénard?” she suddenly cried. “He was a witness to what you did. He won’t deny it. He’s not a liar like you!”

“What do you think, Lord Raoul?” Roland asked him. “Should we fetch the man?”

“Surely that’s unnecessary,” said another.

“Why not if it will bring her some peace? She’s quite beside herself.” He turned to Catherine’s maid as someone was sent to find the captain, “ You, girl, is there a soothing draft to be had? Have you a herbalist? A healer?”

Brigitte looked at Raoul suspiciously.

“It’s my lady that’s the healer here, sir,” she said indignantly. “There’s no-one that can give her potions to make her forget what she knows to be true.” She turned to her mistress and put her arm round her. “Don’t you fret, lady. Some may try an’ tell untruths but others won’t. We know what we know.” She shot Raoul a disgusted look.

It was some time before Rénard appeared. By the time he arrived, Catherine had calmed herself a little. She sat in the window, clutching her trembling hands in her lap. Brigitte, a comfort for once, sat beside her, angry and indignant on her behalf.

The Count of Léon and Catherine’s attacker stood some distance away, talking quietly. She was aware that Raoul looked from time to time in her direction and there was a troubled expression on his all too beautiful face. If he hoped that Radenoc’s captain would support his denial then she was sure he would be mistaken.

“You sent for me, my lord.” Rénard’s bluff familiar voice brought Catherine to her feet again, her heart thumping.

“Indeed I did.” It was Raoul who replied although the older man had spoken to the Count.

“Well, sir?” Guillaume’s voice was cold.

There was a pause in which he, she wouldn’t think of him as ‘Tristan’ now, looked uneasily from the captain to Catherine and back again.

“I want you to tell me the truth, without fearing whom it may hurt,” he said quietly.

“No-one could make me do otherwise, my lord.”

“Good. Tell me then whether, two days ago, I met with Lady Catherine.”

Now it was Rénard who hesitated. He glanced at Catherine and she nodded.

“Yes, my lord, you did.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“She, and a number of other women from the castle, was found by you near the road to Locronan. They were fleeing from the castle.”

“What happened?”

“We had just had word that Lord Gilles had escaped by ship – if you recall, my lord – and you were...disappointed at being denied the opportunity to fight.”

“Are you telling me that I took my ‘disappointment’ out on his sister?”

“You didn’t know who she was, my lord. She was dressed like a peasant woman and we thought it wiser to keep her identity from you.”

“I see. What did I do?”

“I don’t understand why you are asking me this, my lord. Do you not remember?”

Raoul gave an incredulous laugh.

“I remember nothing at all, Rénard. I must ask you to tell me. Please continue. What did I do to this supposed peasant?”

“You took her to your bed, my lord. What happened then, if you have no memory of it, only she can tell.”

“Well?” Catherine quailed as Raoul swung round to face her. “What did I do to you? Did I rape you?”

There was fury and disgust in his eyes.

“Yes,” she said quietly, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “You did.”

“But after all, Raoul -” A man whom Catherine didn’t recognise laid a hand on her attacker’s arm. His voice, gentle and consoling, grated on Catherine’s ears. “After all, it was what Gilles did to Etienne.”

Raoul stared at him blankly for a second then gave a hoarse cry as the hideous truth of it flooded back.

“Oh, God forgive me, Bertrand, I had forgotten that too!”

Raoul appeared to be weeping on the shoulder of the man he had called ‘Bertrand’. Others, including Catherine’s uncle, gathered round him. They seemed to have forgotten about her.

“Come,” Catherine whispered to Brigitte.

She took the girl’s hand and they slipped unnoticed from the solar. Reaching the sanctuary of her own chamber, a new and even more appalling thought occurred to Catherine.

Years ago when that minstrel had sought refuge in her room she had noticed and remarked on his resemblance to her half-brothers, her father’s bastards. He had questioned her about her family, had been hunted, and pursued, by her father’s guards. She, stupid, naive little fool, had imagined that she’d fallen in love with him. Years later she had heard of another man – evidently one of Armand’s bastards – who had become a fighter and eventually a knight. Armand had warned Gilles about him. This man had gone on the Crusade and then returned, with powerful new friends, to threaten Radenoc. It had all been the same man: – Raoul... Tristan...the Norman baron, as she still thought of him. He, two days ago, had cruelly raped her but that had not been the only sin – it was worse, much worse than that – it was obvious now. He had her father’s – their father’s eyes. This wasn’t only rape, it was incest. Raoul de Metz was her half-brother.

Later that day various requests were brought to Catherine, shut securely in her chamber. Lord Raoul wished to speak to her – she angrily refused; her uncle wished to see her – she refused that too. Lord Raoul humbly begged that she would read the letter which his messenger carried. She refused to open the door to receive it. Eventually, at dusk, Father Alain du Val asked if he might speak to her and Catherine thankfully allowed Brigitte to admit him.

“Where have been, Father? I have needed you so desperately!”

Tears rose yet again in Catherine’s sore, red eyes as the priest embraced her.

“We will talk of that later, my dear. First, as I am sure you have not eaten I have brought food to hearten you. Allow Brigitte to bring it in – then let her go and refresh herself. May she, Catherine?”

“Yes, Father. If you wish.”

“Good girl.”

“Will you need me again tonight, my lady?” Brigitte’s colour rose.

“No. When Father Alain has gone, I shall sleep.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

She brought in a covered tray then, bobbing a curtsy, hurriedly left the room.

“She has a lover amongst the Normans,” Catherine said bitterly.

“Oh? I thought I’d seen her with one of the Morbihan men. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“It hardly matters – he’s one of the enemy anyway.”

“Hush, my dear. Come, drink this gruel first. Speak later.”

Loath though she was to admit it, she did feel better once she had eaten. The priest built up the fire, fastened the shutters and lit the candles, bathing the room in a comforting rosy glow.

“Now, Catherine,” he asked gently, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his, “what happened?”

It all tumbled out: the last day of the harvest, Gilles and the dead boy; Bellec, Simon, her desperate flight from Radenoc and finally, worst of all, the rape.

“Catherine, the boy that Gilles killed was Raoul’s squire – rumour says, his son.”

“Are you trying to excuse what he did to me?”

“Of course not. Though he didn’t know who you were.”

Catherine gave a hysterical laugh.

“No!”

“Catherine, I have a letter here from Lord Raoul. Will you read it?”

He took a piece of folded parchment from his pocket and handed it to her. Without even glancing at it, Catherine tossed it into the fire. Father Alain frowned.

“I think you are being a little hasty in your condemnation of him. I believe him to be a good man – one who has suffered much over the last few weeks.”

“You’re one of his supporters, are you?”

“Well, yes. I have to say that I am – as is your uncle and many more men of sound and discerning judgement.”

“I see. No wonder you don’t blame him for raping me.”

“I blame him no more than he blames himself. He most sincerely offers what reparation he can. The letter which you burnt was an offer of marriage.”

“Marriage!” Again Catherine gave another hysterical laugh. “Is it possible that he doesn’t know that such a thing is out of the question?”

“Why? If you should have a child...”

“Oh God!” She murmured, closing her eyes in renewed horror. She hadn’t thought of that. “Father, have you looked closely at your new lord?”

“I don’t see what...”

“Have you forgotten my father so quickly? Look at his eyes! They’re just like my father’s – my father’s and his. Why he even uses our family’s name! If I have a child it will be a monster, the product of the foulest sin.”

“He says that Lord Armand was his great-uncle,” Father Alain said rather dubiously, “and that his claim to the title is legitimate.”

“Legitimate!” Catherine spat the word. “He’s a minstrel, a crusader, a soldier of fortune.”

“It’s true that he was only knighted by Queen Eleanor when they were in the Holy Land and his Barony of Beauchamp was given to him by her in return for his service.”

“He probably bedded her too. They say she has an eye for pretty young men!”

“Catherine!”

“Does that sound like the history of the rightful heir to a powerful barony?”

Father Alain sighed.

“Perhaps not.”

“He’s an adventurer, an opportunist, a scoundrel.”

“I shall make enquiries, my dear. If what you suspect about his parentage is true, then I am very, very sorry. And I shall pray that no child comes from your union.”

“Oh, Father,” Catherine wailed, “so shall I.”

Over the days that followed, Catherine continued to stay in her own room. She preferred Marie rather than Brigitte to wait on her. The younger girl’s enthusiasm for her own lover angered Catherine considerably. Marie, at least, had nothing good to say about the invaders. When the contingent from Morbihan was due to leave, and Brigitte requested permission to travel with them, Catherine consented with some relief.

Part of her, terrified that she might have conceived, would have liked to continue to refuse all food and drink. Her healthy young body had resumed its demands after its fast was broken and, although she ate sparingly, she did not reject the nursery-fare with which Marie tempted her mistress’s appetite. In Catherine, shocked and weakened by her ordeal, she found a substitute for Simon, whose loss she mourned night and day.

“Lord Gilles will be back, my lady. Then we’ll make him pay.”

Although the thought of Raoul’s possible defeat was attractive, Gilles’s return would bring Bellec – and no comfort to Catherine. The desire for vengeance still burned fiercely in her heart though she said nothing about it to Father Alain, the only member of the household whom she permitted to visit her. She had asked him to make arrangements for her to be admitted to the convent in Locronan – the one to which she had supposedly gone when in fact she had been on Ile Yoc’h. It was the only future open to her, she believed. Before she left Radenoc, she wanted Raoul dead. The problem was how to achieve it.

Before the end of September, Bertrand de Courcy and his troops departed, carrying with them the body of the dead squire, Etienne de Montglane. Even knowing what Gilles had done to him, Catherine hardened her heart against all sympathy for the boy or his master. Perhaps it was preferable to die rather than to live with the shame: she merely lacked the courage to take that escape herself.

Brigitte, in tears, kissed her mistress good-bye. From the courtyard below came the sounds of departure: bugles, horses, the clink of armour. Catherine wished that they were all going away, to leave her in peaceful solitude once more.

Two weeks later her uncle, the Count of Léon, and the Norman forces led by Eleanor’s barons also made preparations to go.

“He must feel very secure,” Catherine said scathingly, “if he can afford to dispense with all his foreign supporters.”

“I think he does,” said Father Alain. “And in any case he promised that he would send the Normans home. He’s keeping his word.”

“A wonder the Duchess doesn’t need him in Caen.”

“Catherine,” the priest said warningly. “He’s keeping a strong enough garrison here. Gilles’s forces are totally scattered. There’s really no threat.”

“That’s what you think!” said Marie smugly. “Come the spring-time, then we’ll see.”

“Since we’re speaking of Lord Raoul, did you ever hear tell of a murder, when he was here before?”

“What do you mean? Someone that he killed? It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“No. He says a girl called Berthe, one of his minstrel troupe, took part in some ritual where she was murdered – something to do with the festival of Lugh. I wondered if you’d heard of it.”

“Oh, yes. I do remember. Sévrine, my nurse, would remember it better than me – she was there. It took place on Melgorn.”

“I thought perhaps it had. Lord Raoul’s anxious to know where the girl was buried.”

Catherine was about to say that her body lay in the church-yard – in a grave dug near the rowan tree for fear of witches – when an idea came to her.

“I don’t know, Father,” she said, turning away in case he should see the sudden excitement in her eyes. They had set a trap for Raoul the day that the girl had been buried: how relieved she had been then when he hadn’t walked into it. “I could go and ask Sévrine – she lives only a few miles to the north. Marie and I will go and see her.”

“That would be kind.” Father Alain’s voice was suspicious.

“If he is so concerned about a friend from long ago I may have misjudged Lord Raoul. I will do what I can.”

“Are you really going to help him?” Marie demanded incredulously as she barred the door behind the priest.

“Not to find her grave. His own maybe. I expect she was another of his whores.”

“Tell me, my lady! I’ll do anything I can.”

“First, Marie, we must speak privately with your brother Yon. Is he still in Kerhouazoc?”

Catherine hadn’t seen him recently.

“I don’t know. But I can easily find out.”

In order to put her plan into operation, it was necessary for Catherine to give the appearance of having at least partially forgiven Raoul for what he had done to her. It took all of her self-control to speak calmly to him in the solar before dining in the Hall for the first time.

“Father Alain tells me that... circumstances...had affected you adversely that night,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “I must therefore blame those circumstances, and not you. Had you known who I was...”

“Everything would have been different. I am sure of it.”

Yes, Catherine thought, you probably would have killed me as well.

“My offer of marriage is still open to you, Lady Catherine.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she coolly replied.

She spoke to Yon Farzel the following day. On Marie’s instructions, he met her near Pointe de Landunvez, to the north of the castle. She had been able to command the use of a horse, her own having been taken by one of her brother’s soldiers. She had also been allowed to refuse an escort, to her relief.

“I hardly think I am in any danger from my own people,” she had said. The Beauchamp man in charge of the stables had had the grace to blush. She had ridden out into the blustery October day with a new feeling of freedom and purpose.

Over the last few years, since Gilles’s had taken up his inheritance, Catherine had seen little of the blacksmith’s son. He had tried to avoid trouble with Piriac or doing anything which would attract the attention of the Lord of Radenoc himself, his encounter with the Count of Léon remaining all too fresh in his mind. He had even spent some time away, in the outer islands and Ile Yoc’h. Catherine eagerly looked forward to seeing him again.

If anything he was bigger, broader and blonder than ever, his Norseman ancestry written large for all to see. He would be well able to carry out her plan. But when Catherine explained it to him, he showed a marked reluctance to help her.

“I see!” she exclaimed. “The promise on this brooch is just an empty one, is it?” She pointed to where it fastened her cloak.

“No, Catherine, of course it isn’t. It’s just, well, I like Raoul de Metz. You may not realise this but a lot of folk from Kerhouazoc joined up with him, me included – and he’s treated us well. He’s done a lot of good for Radenoc already. He’s sent for...”

“Stop! Stop! I can see that I’m wasting my time. Say goodbye to your brother, Marie. He’s no use to us.”

“Do you know what that bastard did to my lady?” Marie demanded angrily.

“Yes, but he’s only human. He’s a man, isn’t he? He couldn’t have a fight so he thought he’d have a wench instead. It’s natural. It’s not as if he knew who you was. You’re a right beauty, Catherine. I don’t blame him a bit. If I had the chance to -”

“Oh!” Catherine exclaimed, blushing scarlet. “Are you saying that you’d have done the same? Yon, I thought you were my loyal friend.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m blind, Catherine. I got my feelings, same as the next man.”

“If you do...admire me, I’d have thought you’d want to help me,” said Catherine cunningly. “I’d be able to reward you afterwards.”

“My lady!” Marie was shocked.

Catherine ignored her. She would soon be in St. Anne’s Convent, far from the lusts of men. She wouldn’t be called upon to reward anyone. Men! She had thought better of Yon, wrongly it seemed. They were all the same. At least, if he desired her, he might be prepared to do what she wanted.

Eventually, without enthusiasm, he agreed.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said gloomily.

“That’s a risk I’m prepared to take. Here, take the brooch. When you have fulfilled my commands, you may return it to me. When the time comes, I’ll send you word. Come along, Marie.”

The girl struggled onto the saddle behind her mistress and they set off back towards the castle. In Catherine’s heart there was a faint new glimmering of hope.