Armand's Daughter Read online

  LEGACY OF

  BLOOD

  A TRILOGY

  by

  DIANA DICKINSON

  BOOK THREE

  ARMAND’S

  DAUGHTER

  by

  DIANA DICKINSON

  Published in Poland in 2012

  by STRATUS s.c.

  Po. Box 123,

  27-600 Sandomierz 1, Poland

  e-mail: [email protected]

  for

  Mushroom Model Publications,

  3 Gloucester Close,

  Petersfield,

  Hampshire GU32 3AX

  e-mail: [email protected]

  © 2012 Mushroom Model

  Publications.

  http://www.mmpbooks.biz

  All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism

  or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrical, chemical, mechanical, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission. All enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.

  ISBN

  978-83-63678-03-6

  DTP & Layout

  Stratus

  PROLOGUE

  AUGUST 1105

  ***

  Eleanor awoke with a start. Something had disturbed her. What? With a struggle, impeded by the swollen mound of her belly, she propped herself on her elbows, looking anxiously round the tower room.

  A single shaft of moonlight lay across the bed, making the rest of the room, if anything, darker still. The night was hot; not even a faint sea-breeze penetrated the unglazed windows to stir the heavy air. Henri lay sprawled on his back beside her, the sleeping furs discarded. In the distance waves could be heard against the shore; from the faintness of the sound she knew that the tide was low.

  She could have heard nothing. It was absurd. The thick oak door was not only barred but guarded too; the room was high in the tower. The deeply recessed windows looked out onto a sheer drop of more than a hundred feet to the cliffs below and they in turn fell steeply to the rocky shore, only exposed at low tide. The chamber was impenetrable; that was why, since the castle had been built, this room had always been occupied by the ruling lord.

  It must have been her imagination. At this late stage of pregnancy, she had heard them say, women were subject to strange fancies. But even as she lay back again upon the pillows, the conviction returned, stronger than ever, that there was someone else in the chamber with them. She lay quite still, her heart pounding. Sure enough, a darker shadow was detaching itself from the shadows around it and moving towards the bed.

  Frantically, Eleanor reached her hand out to her husband, shaking him, furtively but urgently. He only sighed and muttered. She redoubled her efforts but Henri, normally alert in an instant, seemed overwhelmed by sleep – or by something more sinister. She suddenly remembered the tempting wine jug waiting in their chamber which she knew she had not ordered and which, as presently wine disagreed with her, she had not touched.

  Even as the thoughts flashed through her mind, the dark shape had reached them. It pinned Henri to the bed, pressing down on his face with what seemed to be a thick pad of cloth.

  The sleeping man barely stirred.

  Careless of possible consequences, Eleanor flung herself on the intruder, tearing at his leather jerkin, desperately trying to drag him away. Abandoning for the moment his hold on her husband, the man turned and grabbed her arm. She fought with all her strength, slapping him and kicking. As they grappled his face was caught for a second in the moonlight. With an icy shock Eleanor recognised the assassin.

  A moment later, he swung his fist, landing a heavy blow. She fell backwards into darkness.

  PART ONE

  STRUGGLE

  1146 – 52

  Chapter One

  Despite what the boy had said, Catherine remained huddled against the rough stone parapet, listening anxiously while he made his slow descent of the sheer castle wall. She dreaded that he would miss his footing and fall. Despite his confidence in his, she was by no means convinced that the feat was possible. If it was, why had no-one escaped that way before? Eventually all sound ceased. She peered forward into the darkness. It was no good. She could see nothing without hoisting herself up and leaning out – and she couldn’t do that. She shuddered even at the thought. It was bad enough just being up here on the narrow walk-way that ran round the inside of the battlements without making it worse. She listened again, trying to catch the slightest sound. There was nothing. He must be safe.

  She bent and picked up the discarded garments which he had worn while crossing the courtyard, then made her way cautiously to the steps which hugged the great dark bulk of the North Tower. Clutching the awkward bundle in one hand, she rested the other against the wall’s reassuring stone solidity as she clambered down.

  Well, she had done it! She, Catherine de Metz, the twelve year old daughter of Armand, Lord of Radenoc, had saved the life of another human being. And this boy, this young minstrel, surely he had been more than he seemed. Why had he stayed behind when the band of players had left? Why was he being pursued by the guards? And why had he asked so many questions about her mother and Gilles, her brother? One thing delighted her – he had obviously incurred her father’s anger – and anyone who was Armand’s enemy must automatically be Catherine’s friend. She didn’t really understand why Armand had always hated her, apart from the fact that she was a girl and he only valued sons, but he did and Catherine hated him fiercely in return.

  So she was pleased that the boy had taken refuge in her room that night and that she had been able to help him get away. Dressing as Sévrine, her maid, had been an ingenious idea of his. She was just sorry that she would never see him again. He had been so good-looking, like some of her half-brothers with his green eyes and black hair, but infinitely more attractive than them. There had been an air of brittle sadness, a vulnerability about him which she had been drawn to. And his smile had made her feel strangely breathless in a way that no one else’s had ever done before. Perhaps she was in love! No, that was ridiculous – she had spent barely an hour in his company. And in any case, even if she did see him again, he wouldn’t look at her: she was skinny, her figure was undeveloped, she had awful freckles and funny coloured hair -like rotten plums, Michel Gilbert had once said. So it was just as well he had gone...wasn’t it? But it was a pity that she’d forgotten to ask his name. She would have to invent one for him; what should it be?

  She reached the courtyard and hesitated. Should she go straight back to the keep or should she go and see her mother after all? What if someone had gone to her room in the meantime and found it empty? It would be safer to visit Lady Françoise for a while so that the guards could vouch for her story.

  She boldly ran up the steps of the North Tower, in through its stout, studded door and up the winding stairs. Outside her mother’s room, a solitary guard dozed on a low stool, an empty-looking wine-skin on the floor beside him.

  “Oh, Le Barazer, I’m so glad it’s you!” she exclaimed loudly. The man awoke with a start. “Is my mother all right? I had such a terrible dream! The baby was coming and she was screaming with pain but no-one had heard her. But you would have, wouldn’t you, Le Barazer?”

  “Of course, my lady. I’d have heard the smallest sound. But tell you what, Lady Catherine, you pop in for a while and put your mind at rest.”

  “Could I? Thank you. How kind you are.”

  He stood up and fumbled in his pouch for the key, fitting it clumsily into the lock then turning it and pushing the door open for the girl to ent
er.

  The circular room was bright after the dark passageway outside and two torches burned in each of the wall-brackets. The door was firmly shut and locked behind her.

  “Armand?” gasped a voice from behind the drawn bed-curtains.

  “No, Mother, it’s me.”

  Catherine pulled back a corner of the curtain and went over to take the woman’s hand reassuringly.

  After her initial agitation had subsided, Lady Françoise looked anxiously at her daughter.

  “What are you doing here at this time of night? Where’s Sévrine?”

  “She went to the revels on the Island and she’s not back yet.”

  Luckily for the boy, Catherine thought. What should she call him? ‘The Wanderer’? The Minstrel’?

  “My poor love.” Lady Françoise squeezed her daughter’s hand, regaining her attention. “And you were frightened all alone, were you?”

  She allowed herself to be drawn into her mother’s soft embrace.

  “I was a bit nervous, yes,” she said, freeing herself. “They were hunting for someone – Captain Rénard came to my room.”

  What other names were there? ‘The Hunted One’? ‘The Quarry’? No, they wouldn’t do – it should be something heroic...

  “Poor lamb. You stay here with me for a while. Veronique can brew us a tisane. Go and ask her, dear.”

  “I’ll make it, Mother,” Catherine said, getting to her feet and abandoning her search for the moment. “I’m sure Veronique’s asleep and there’s no need to disturb her.”

  “Very well. Draw back the bed-curtains a little and help me with these pillows. Is it a warm night for their festival?”

  While she coaxed the dying embers of the fire alight and boiled the water for their drink, Catherine chattered cheerfully about the weather, what Sévrine had worn to go to Melgorn and how excited she had been. Lady Françoise was more animated than usual, although she seemed to be totally unaware of the exact nature of the bloody rituals taking place a few miles from the castle. It didn’t surprise Catherine that her mother was so ignorant – Armand had kept her a virtual prisoner for all of her married life and clearly wouldn’t trust her with a dangerous secret like that. What Catherine didn’t understand was why he treated his wife as he did. And why had she married him in the first place?

  There was no sound but rhythmic snores coming from the curtained closet where the maid was sleeping. Veronique Kerjean had travelled with her mistress from the north west of Léon, from the castle in Plouscat where they had both grown up, and had shared her lady’s seclusion ever since without complaint.

  Catherine sat on the bed, watching her mother’s slightly flushed face as she sipped the herbal brew.

  “Are you quite well, Mother? There’s no pain?”

  “No. In fact I feel better than I have for months. Perhaps tomorrow I shall get dressed and dine in the Hall. It might please your father.”

  “Why did you marry him?” Catherine asked abruptly.

  Françoise’s startled eyes met her daughter’s fleetingly before she looked away, twisting the heavy gold ring round and round on her finger.

  “I was just your age when my father died,” she said quietly. “He was crossing to England with the young Prince and many other noblemen when their ship sank in a storm. ‘The White Ship’, they called it. Hubert, my brother, drowned too – though I don’t remember him well. He’d been sent off to Belle-Isle before I was even born.”

  Catherine took a drink, forcing herself to be patient with the seeming irrelevance of this story – one that she had often heard before.

  “My brother Guillaume became Count of Léon then. He didn’t want to be – he was more of a scholar than a knight, really. I think he’d happily have entered the cloister – but that wasn’t to be. There was only Roland, you know, apart from Anne and me – and he was far too young – only ten: he’d just become a page in the Count of Tréguier’s household. Guillaume was determined to do his duty by us all. When he died last year I was so sad that all those years had passed since we had seen each other. I don’t know where time goes to...”

  “But Lord Armand?”

  “Oh yes.” She roused herself from her reverie. “Guillaume knew Armand, of course: as Count of Léon he was his over-lord (although Armand was many years his senior). Armand’s first wife had died some years before but he suddenly seemed determined to re-marry. I was a good match for him – an heiress, you see, and of high birth.”

  “I can see why HE wanted to marry YOU. But why did YOU want to marry HIM?” Catherine demanded.

  “Well...” Françoise gazed down at her hand. The ruby glinted malevolently in the light. “Whatever your father wants, he gets – you should know that.” She was silent for a moment then spoke again, a wistful note in her soft voice. “I’ll never forget our first meeting. He was...breath-taking: the way he looked at me, his charm. I was overwhelmed by him.”

  “But he was much older than you! You were just a girl.”

  “It didn’t matter. He was so handsome! He’s changed terribly in recent years – he looks ill now and his hair is grey – but then – then he was irresistible. They didn’t have to persuade me into the marriage. I was overjoyed when I heard that he wanted me.”

  “And now?” Catherine’s tone was scathing. She had heard the fear in her mother’s voice when she had entered the room that night.

  “I have...disappointed him. My babies died. I behaved stupidly when we were married first and he was angry with me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “You’re too young. I shouldn’t be talking like this.”

  “Please tell me. I expect I’ll have to marry in a few years. Perhaps I ought to know.”

  Françoise reached across the coverlet and squeezed her daughter’s hand. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Perhaps you’re right, sweetheart.” She lay back against the pillows. “I believed him when he said I was beautiful and that he loved only me, but as soon as we came here I realised that he’d lied. My only use was to bear him sons. Whatever love he felt was for his mistress.”

  “Odette?” The name sprang involuntarily to Catherine’s lips.

  Françoise smiled wanly.

  “It wasn’t Odette then. It was another girl, Sylvie, I think she was called. And after her there were others, many others. I was hurt and angry. I told your father that if he could break his marriage vows, so could I. I would take a lover, I said, or possibly several.” She groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “I should have kept quiet. I should have accepted what I could not cure. But I was young and foolish ...and so jealous. He banished me from his bed in the Western Tower and had me brought here. And for twenty-two years, except when he’s been sure that I’m pregnant, he has come here every night and... and... possessed me. I would have no need, no desire for any other man, he told me.”

  “But if he was so determined that you should be faithful to him, he must have loved you,” Catherine exclaimed.

  “No, sweetheart. I can’t flatter myself with that thought. Your father only really cares about two things in this world: power and Radenoc. I defied him, you see, so he had to break me. Despite everything he has only one legitimate son and Gilles...well...”

  “I know Gilles doesn’t like women and won’t want to marry. Sévrine told me.”

  “She’s right. Though she should not have discussed such things with you.”

  “Who will inherit Radenoc if Gilles had no heir? Did my grandfather have no other children? Have I no cousins, no aunts or uncles? I’ve never heard of any.”

  “Armand had a brother: Henri, I think he was called. He was the previous baron, apparently, and I suppose what happened to him put Armand doubly on his guard. It was a tragic story – Ahmed told it to me: when Lord Girard, Henri and Armand’s father died, Henri became the new baron and Eleanor, his young wife, was expecting their first child. It was never clear exactly what happened: either Henri had some sort of seizure or, more sinister
than that, Lady Eleanor herself may have poisoned him. The next morning he was found dead with the chamber door still barred on the inside.”

  “How terrible.”

  “The lady then made all sorts of wild accusations – mainly that Lord Armand had murdered his own brother! Then, when her son was born, it was discovered that she had been having a sinful liaison with the captain of the guard and that the child was his. This fellow managed to smuggle her and the child away to safety but, as you can imagine, he had to be most severely punished.”

  “What happened to Lady Eleanor then?”

  “Nothing really. She’s still alive, I think, living somewhere in Normandy.”

  “And her son?”

  “Died the year that Armand married me – though how Ahmed knew that, I can’t imagine.”

  Catherine shivered.

  “Ahmed always seems to know everything.” An image of her father’s Arab servant with his wizened monkey face and sly, cunning eyes swam unbidden into her mind. She shook her head to clear it; Lady Françoise was still speaking.

  “Henri’s only child was Lady Elise – you know, Antoine Kerboul’s widow. After his brother’s death Armand inherited the barony and married Lady Isabelle – she was Antoine’s sister. But she was barren after Gilles was born: the birth had damaged her inside, they said. Then Armand married me so I could bear him more sons – and my only child to survive has been you. He’s never had a daughter before – countless sons – but you’re the only girl. No wonder he believed that I’d betrayed him.”

  “Did you?”

  Françoise looked away.

  “Really,” Catherine insisted, “I wouldn’t mind. In fact it would be a relief to know that he’d had nothing to do with me. I’d rather have anyone else as my father, even...even a hunch-backed swineherd...or...or a one-legged Infidel with no teeth!”

  Lady Françoise managed to smile.