The Rightful Heir Read online

  LEGACY OF

  BLOOD

  A TRILOGY

  by

  DIANA DICKINSON

  BOOK TWO

  THE

  RIGHTFUL

  HEIR

  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

  978-83-63678-02-9

  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

  THE MINSTREL

  1141-46

  Chapter One

  “Peace at last!”

  Raoul de Metz, rightful Lord of Radenoc, shifted his position in the broad forked branch of the tree and felt in the pocket of his torn faded tunic for the apple that he had sneaked from the kitchen. Judging by the position of the sun he could reckon on two hours of luxurious solitude. Brother Mark was snoring peacefully in his cell, relieved that his young pupil was working hard on his weapons practice; Sergeant Bouchard was equally contented – knowing that the young master was wrestling with his Latin grammar. This way all three of them were happy. He chuckled and bit deeply into the crunchy ripe fruit.

  Below him, beside the track, a squirrel began to dig energetically in the mossy bank. The clear fluting notes of a blackbird came from near at hand, loud against the background chorus of bird song. The afternoon sun was warm and golden, mellowed by the creeping russet tints of the leaves. Raoul finished his apple, tossed the core away, then settled back against the gnarled trunk. He closed his eyes and allowed his imagination to wing him away.

  Far from the damp isolated manor of Valsemé, in his dreams Raoul was a fierce heroic warrior – a Trojan, perhaps, fending off the treacherous Greeks, a Roman centurion, pitted against the wild German tribes. Or more frequently of late, and just as fantastic, he saw himself as a bold crusader, leading the charge against the Infidel on the burning plains of the Holy Land. He heard the shouted war cries, the excited neighing of the huge horses, the whips cracking over the baggage train...

  Suddenly awake, puzzling over why the baggage carts should be in the thick of battle, Raoul realised that he could really hear creaking wheels, the crack of a whip and voices raised, not in shouts of heroic fervour, but in fierce argument. He peered gingerly through the branches. As he realised that they were speaking in Breton, he recalled all his grandmother’s frenzied warnings, and felt suddenly afraid.

  “I could kill the boy with my own bare hands,” one of the men walking alongside the lumbering ox cart was shouting.

  “Aye, little swine!” another agreed. “He’s ruined everything for us.”

  “Lay the whip on, Guennec, get us to Valsemé at speed!”

  They were heading for the manor. Why? Who was the boy they spoke of? Could they mean him? Raoul’s blood ran cold. He must listen carefully, dredge up the unfamiliar words from his memory. How glad he was that Anne, his grandmother’s friend, had insisted that he learn his native tongue. Perhaps it would save his life. He held his breath and watched furtively.

  There were three men on foot, dark haired and swarthy, rough-looking and stoutly armed, and a fourth, somewhat older, was driving the covered cart.

  “I don’t see why we’re going to the manor now,” one man objected. He was tall, heavily bearded. “We’ve little to offer.”

  “That’s rubbish, Jean, and well you know it!” The driver cracked his whip again. “And besides, where else is there round here where we’d get a drop of comfort?”

  “Turn around, Guennec! Go back to St.Lo!” the first speaker roared. “Haul the little rat out of hiding and make him play his part.”

  “Drop it, man. We know you were sweet on the lad...” There was a coarse burst of laughter from the others which drowned out Guennec, the driver’s words. “I’d hoped one time that he and Damona...but what’s done is done. There’s no sense in running after him. He’d sworn no vows.”

  For Raoul, curiosity was starting to replace fear. Clearly the men were not talking about him. Lady Eleanor’s dire predictions about paid assassins, in unlikely disguises, could be dismissed again as the fretful imaginings of an old woman. Indeed, something about these men was starting to seem familiar. Raoul racked his brains. Where could he have seen them before? No one ever came to Valsemé and he’d barely left it in all the seventeen years of his life – had never be
en further than St. Sauveur, a mere two miles down the road.

  “We’re going to the manor,” Guennec insisted stubbornly.

  “Go back to St. Lo!” shouted the angriest man.

  “I say, make for the Abbey and head south in the morning,” Jean suggested forcefully.

  “If you don’t turn this cart around, Daniel Guennec, I’ll go to St. Lo on my own, whether you...”

  His threat was interrupted by an almost inhuman sounding shriek of rage. Momentarily startled, Raoul started to laugh helplessly as a small rounded figure with flaming red hair burst from the leather curtains drawn across the front of the cart. Guennec hauled on the reins and dragged the oxen to a stand-still as she scrambled past him, leapt off the cart and flew at the speaker, hitting at him wildly with the flat of her hands.

  “No, Maeve, stop it, will you... Give over...get off!” The man folded his arms protectively round his head, protesting ineffectually as the blows rained round him. All the time, the woman, who seemed more like a whirlwind than a human being, kept up a barrage of abuse – at least that is what Raoul assumed it to be. Some of what she said was recognisably Breton, but some phrases seemed to belong to another, unfamiliar language.

  After a time her rage seemed to cool a little. She left her victim cringing by the cart and swept her fierce gaze round the others, her hands on her hips. They all seemed to shrink and shuffle like naughty children, any vestiges of grins hurriedly removed from their faces. Raoul found it hilarious. He pressed his hand over his mouth, desperately trying to contain his laughter. These big fierce looking men had been reduced to shamefaced helplessness by this one small woman.

  “So what’s all this nonsense?” she demanded, fixing each one in turn with her merciless gaze. “Are we going to Valsemé or not?”

  “We’ll do as you bid, Maeve,” said the tallest and fiercest looking, staring down at his feet.

  Try as Raoul might, his laugh seemed determined to escape somehow. He pinched his nose with one hand and clamped his lips shut with the other, wondering if he was going to explode.

  “And what’s all this about you leaving us, Cof Le Braz?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, Maeve.”

  “I should say not! Right. Let’s get to the manor, then. Lady Eleanor will give us a good welcome.”

  She turned to remount the wagon, stretching a hand out to haul herself up. When Cof ducked out of her way as though avoiding another slap, Raoul’s attempted control failed. A strangled splutter, somewhere between a cough and guffaw burst out of him. Tears sprang from his eyes; he choked and shook with hysterical mirth. Clutching his sides, gasping for breath, he lost his balance on the branch and fell with a crash out of the tree.

  The ground was muddy from recent rain and his landing was further softened by beech mast and fallen leaves. Raoul stayed where he had fallen, trying to control himself and catch his breath. A terrible silence seemed to be growing around him. He was jarred and winded from the heavy landing but not hurt, he thought. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and sat up cautiously, reaching into his pocket for a kerchief. There was a rasp of metal, the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn. The formerly ridiculous figures of the three men now towered over him, naked daggers in their hands. The laughter died in his throat.

  “And just who might you be that you find us so amusing?” Jean, the tall bearded one demanded in French.

  “Been spying on us, have you?” said Cof.

  Raoul gulped, wondering what to say.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said, using the same language. “I was just...just having a little rest in the tree when you came along and I...”

  “A rest in a tree?” the third man echoed. “And you thought you’d listen in to our affairs and have a laugh at them – that right?”

  “Not at all. Naturally I couldn’t comprehend what you were saying as you spoke in a foreign tongue...Langue d’oc, perhaps? I was laughing...at something...that I read...in a book...” He tailed off lamely, knowing what he was saying sounded absurd.

  “What book?”

  “Well, there’s a really funny story about how Odysseus...” Even as he sat there, trying gamely to recount the tale, he knew that they weren’t listening.

  One had moved over to the cart and was speaking quietly in Breton to Guennec and Maeve. Most likely, they agreed, he was an outlaw, part of a gang. Perhaps he was the decoy and the others would spring out in ambush. They must take him to Valsemé without delay, hand him over to the Lady...

  “No, please,” Raoul said, the exploits of Odysseus abandoned. He sprang to his feet and found the point of a dagger instantly pressed against his throat, “I’m not an outlaw, truly, but I...”

  “I thought you couldn’t understand our ‘langue d’oc’ as you called it.” The woman, Maeve, came forward.

  “Please ask them to let go of me,” Raoul whispered, his eyes fixed pleadingly on her face.

  She touched Cof’s arm, and he lowered the weapon.

  “Now let’s have the truth, young man,” she said firmly.

  “I belong to the manor,” he told her, speaking now in Breton. “I learnt this language from Anne Le Hir – she was a friend of my...she served Lady Eleanor de Metz, who herself lived in Brittany for some years, I believe.”

  “And what are you, boy? You can read, evidently.” Again Maeve seemed to be taking control.

  “Yes...I...was born near the village. They decided to rear me in the castle...” That was almost true. “I’m... I’m Brother Mark’s assistant, his clerk, you see. They may let me become a monk, although I’d far rather be a knight, or a minstrel – anything that would let me see the world.”

  The woman grinned and the men exchanged what seemed to be amused glances. The threat suddenly seemed past.

  “You’d see plenty of the world with us,” Guennec commented from his perch.

  “We’re minstrels, you see,” Jean added.

  “Or mummers,” said Cof.

  “Or vagabonds – call us what you please!” Maeve swept an ironic curtsy.

  “So that’s why you seem familiar! I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Though not recently, I think.”

  “It’s been four years since we passed this way -what with sickness and skirmishes. We’re on our way home for the winter.”

  “To Brittany?”

  “Aye, to the south: to Vannetais.”

  “And you’re to play at the castle? I remember the piece you played before! Cleopatra, Queen of old Nile, royally entertaining Julius Caesar. And there was something else, too – it was at Anne’s request...I know, Dahut, the Breton princess, who fell in love with the devil and...”

  “You’ve a good memory, lad, “ Guennec commented mournfully, “but Mistress Le Hir will have to content herself with songs and a bit of juggling this time around.”

  “She’s no longer with us, sir, I’m afraid,” Raoul told him. “She died of the ague last spring.”

  There was a polite murmur of regret.

  “And Lady de Metz?” Guennec asked.

  “Is strong as ever...” Raoul sighed. “And talking of Lady de Metz, what are you going to do with me? I do most sincerely apologise for my rudeness. It was unforgivable, I know. But Lady Eleanor will KILL me if you take me along and hand me over to her. I’m supposed to be in the Abbey with Brother Mark, you see, and I...”

  “Decided to skip off, I suppose,” Maeve grinned, dimples appearing in her round cheeks. “And meet a girl, perhaps?”

  “Not at all, no!” Raoul blushed rosily.

  “But why should we let you off? What’s in it for us?” Jean, the big man, scowled at Raoul, although the boy suspected it was in jest. “I vote we take him to the Lady and earn a just reward for teaching a young ‘un the error of his ways.”

  “Huh! Who are you to preach virtue?” Cof objected. “We’re hardly going to be popular at the castle anyhow – ‘here’s your errant clerk...now about the play-acting, we’re a bit short handed this visit’. What we’ll get i
s a polite invitation to take ourselves off – and without any supper!”

  “I don’t understand. Why can’t you perform a piece?” Raoul demanded. “She’s not so very fussy. There are plenty of stories that would suit...”

  “The problem, young sir,” Guennec explained crossly, “is that we’ve no one to play the female parts!”

  Raoul looked helplessly at Maeve.

  “You needn’t look at me, dear – or at my daughter either, if she was awake, the lazy slut! I’m a woman. Such parts in enacted entertainments are played by pretty, fresh-faced young BOYS- and as you can see, this lot scarcely fill the bill!”

  “Antoine Cudenec – Pol here’s nephew,” Jean indicated to the man beside him, “ran out on us at St. Lo.”

  “God rot him,” Cof muttered.

  “And we only discovered this half a mile up the road.”

  “So we’re stuck,” said Maeve sadly. “Cleopatra...”

  “With no queen...”

  “The tragic legend of Is...”

  “With no Princess Dahut!”

  “Merlin...”

  “Without Vivienne!”

  “Tristan...

  “Without Iseult!”

  “A problem...”

  “With no solution!”

  “Oh yes there is!” Raoul said sharply.

  The mummers broke out of what had become almost a ritual chant and stared at him in surprise.

  “As payment for NOT being handed over to Lady Eleanor, I’ll play the ladies’ parts. I can do it – I’m sure I can.”

  There was a stunned silence, everyone staring at Raoul in disbelief.

  “How?” said Cof, “You don’t know the words.”

  The others nodded agreement.

  “Well, no,” Raoul admitted. “But I know lots of stories and you could tell me what to say. There’d be time for a bit of practice, wouldn’t there? You’re not performing today.”

  There were muttered comments agreeing that that was so.