The Rightful Heir Page 2

  “Let’s get this straight,” Guennec said. “Are you saying you want to join the troupe, as a replacement for young Antoine – “ Cof spat eloquently. “Or are you just offering to help us out at Valsemé?”

  “Much as I might like to come with you, I can only help out for a performance or two. I doubt if I’d get permission to become a minstrel.” He grinned, imagining what his grandmother would say.

  “Very well, I think we can sort something out.” Guennec started to instruct the others on how their roles could be expanded and his reduced to a minimum number of words.

  “You’ll be all right for Cleopatra,” Maeve said, measuring him up with a critical eye. “You’re a shade taller than the other lad but your bearing’s better.”

  “What will I have to wear?” The Cleopatra Raoul had seen before had had long black hair, scarlet lips and a voluptuous figure. Not for a second had he, at thirteen, suspected the gender of the actor. He faintly recalled some ribald jokes, incomprehensible at the time, which now started to make sense. “I’d rather not be recognised!”

  “Don’t worry, lad,” Guennec replied. “Once you’ve the wig on, and a bit of padding, your own mother wouldn’t know you.”

  “He could wear a mask – there’s that white one,” Jean suggested, “That would help.”

  “It’s a pity, though.” Maeve studied him intently. “Looks like yours shouldn’t be covered up. A lass’d give half her dowry for those sensuous lips and long lashes. It’s a crying shame. You should have been a girl.”

  “He blushes like one, anyway!” Pol commented wryly.

  “Don’t mind her, lad,” Guennec advised, “She never knows when she’s going too far.”

  Maeve raised her fist and they all laughed.

  “What’s happening, Mam? Are we there?”

  A tousled ginger head appeared between the curtains behind Guennec.

  “Not yet, son.” Guennec lifted the child out and sat him on his knee. “This is young Connell – a future Cleopatra, perhaps.”

  “Naw! I’m not wearing maid’s stuff,” the boy said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “It’s stupid.”

  “Don’t say that! You’ll upset our new friend – this is...What is your name, lad?”

  “Raoul. Raoul d...Raoul Bouillet.” He hastily substituted his mother’s surname for his own, praying that no one had noticed.

  “Some noble’s sideslip, I reckon,” he heard Jean mutter to Pol. He felt himself redden.

  “No offence, lad,” Jean said, noticing his reaction.

  “It’s all right.” Let them think that, it was much safer.

  “And this is me son Connell,” Maeve said, lifting the boy down. He looked about seven or eight. “Where’s your sister, Con, still sleeping?”

  “Aye. She said she had a sore head.”

  There was a general laugh.

  “Look, I’d better be getting back to the Abbey now,” Raoul said, aware that the sun was markedly lower in the sky. “I’ll find out where you’re sleeping and come and see you in the morning.”

  “The great barn, she generally gives us,” Guennec said. “You know, on the edge of the village. You come and see us tomorrow.”

  “But not too early, mind – play-acting folk stay abed until Prime, not like Abbey folk!”

  “Some stay abed until Vespers, don’t they, Con?”

  “My sister does,” the child told him, pulling a face. “Are you going to live with us?”

  “Not exactly. But I’m going to be in one of your plays.”

  “As Cleopatra,” someone added.

  “Ooh, yuk!” said Connell and his mother cuffed him round the ears.

  Raoul gave a knock-kneed curtsy, holding out the skirts of an imaginary gown, then he gave a graceful bow, waved both hands and ran off into the wood. The sound of the mummers’ laughter drifted after him.

  The castle of Valsemé was built in a low-lying hollow, surrounded not so much by a moat as by a small lake. After Robert, Raoul’s father had died, Eleanor de Metz had substantially improved its defences. A system of carefully maintained sluice gates controlled the streams nearby so that, in the event of an attack, the whole area could be flooded. A water-gate, whose existence was known only to Raoul’s grandmother and himself, allowed a secret way out. The village was half a mile away, built on higher, firmer ground.

  Once, people said, there had only been a single drawbridge across the moat. The castle gate-house had been expensively rebuilt in stone during Raoul’s childhood so that now a single, often slippery plank was let down for foot-travellers. Both it and the broader bridge for horse traffic were kept closed and guarded at all times and the larger gate was reinforced by a stout portcullis.

  The locals shook their heads and doubted their Lady’s sanity. While some rebuilding had been done within the bailey, many felt that new cookhouses or improved stables would be of far more value than thicker walls and higher ramparts. Granted it had infuriated Lady Eleanor when her son Robert had abandoned his training to marry Claudine Bouillet, daughter of the local blacksmith – and when they’d both been killed by outlaws just a few months after they were wed, it had been a real tragedy. But to say that some Breton Lord had hired assassins to dispose of them was just so much fantastic nonsense. Clearly grief had unbalanced Lady Eleanor’s mind. Many felt sorry for young Raoul and connived with him to escape the vigilance of Sergeant Bouchard and Brother Mark, the faithful watchdogs, as the boy called them.

  As Raoul came within hailing distance of the gates, he whistled softly, a pattern of three notes, repeating them in rapid succession until the man-at-arms looked over the parapet. The soldier waved cheerfully and let the plank fall into place against the narrow approach bridge (well below the water level when the flood gates were open).

  Raoul skipped nimbly across and tugged the chain to let it swing back in place. While rarely downcast or depressed, since his encounter with the mummers he felt giddy with excitement. Tomorrow something new would happen; for once in his life he had something to look forward to.

  “How are you, Jacques?” he asked the guard.

  “Oh, bearing up, young sir. The rheumatics is easier today, thanks be. But lad,” he lowered his voice, “her ladyship was looking for you. She was speaking to the Sergeant.”

  “Hell’s teeth! What did Bouchard say?”

  Jacques chuckled. “He’s getting as bad as the rest of us! Said you’d gone to the Abbey – with a strong guard, if you please. I suppose you told him you would, did you?”

  “Of course. He needs to be assured of my safety.” Raoul winked.

  “Huh,” Jacques snorted. “Such a fuss over nothing. I’d back you to see off an outlaw or two any day, such a good little swordsman as you’re getting to be.”

  Raoul ruefully reflected that he wouldn’t have managed too well against the mummers, had they been out for his blood. And he’d been armed with nothing more than a pen-knife.

  “’Tain’t fair,” Jacques muttered, “I was just saying to Marcus t’other day: you should be off at some great castle, winning your spurs like other lads – like your Dad would’ve done if he’d stuck to it! You shouldn’t be mewed up here with a pack of old grey-beards like us. What’s she going to do when we all gets too...”

  “Master Raoul!” Sergeant Bouchard’s peremptory voice cut in. “Go to Lady Eleanor’s solar. She wishes to speak with you.”

  “Certainly, Sergeant. I will go at once. I gave my guard leave to refresh themselves in the tavern. I trust that was in order?”

  “Hmmm, yes, well, I suppose...”

  Raoul caught Jacques’s eye. They both knew that any off duty soldiers would be there anyway. And they’d all be keen to say that they had indeed escorted him to the Abbey. It was a fine game, keeping them all fooled. Raoul just prayed that his grandmother would never find out. The thought of what she would do gave him nightmares!

  “Right, well, I’ll be off then.”

  He slipped past the sergeant’s burly figure a
nd darted across the courtyard, scattering the geese and hens, and setting the dogs barking frantically.

  “Damn shame,” Jacques growled, shaking his head. “Like a sky-lark in a cage!”

  Sergeant Bouchard shook his head and mumbled something under his breath which could have been a grudging agreement.

  Raoul bounded up the steps to the Hall two at a time, narrowly missing colliding with a serving girl. Another new one, he noticed with a sigh, and an even uglier one.

  “Can you bring hot water to my room, please,” he asked her. He would have to change his clothes before he went to the solar.

  “I’ll send the boy up with it,” the girl said, backing away and looking scared.

  Raoul felt a stab of irritation. When would his grandmother realise that he was prepared to respect her wishes, even if he thought them somewhat unreasonable? Even Brother Mark had had a more tolerant attitude towards sins of the flesh. It must be because of his father, he supposed; it wasn’t as if Lady Eleanor was particularly religious. Thinking of the terrible incident the previous year made Raoul’s blood run cold.

  He ran up the winding stair behind the Hall and entered the small square room which he shared with Sergeant Bouchard. He had slept there with his nurse until he was eight years old and then the Sergeant had replaced her. His demands to be allowed to have a space of his own had been furiously refused. He was fortunate, he supposed, that Eleanor had not installed him in her closet when Anne Le Hir had died!

  He flung off his muddy tunic, untied his hose and then rummaged in his coffer for clean ones. The scullion knocked and set down a steaming jug.

  “Thanks. Who’s the new girl?”

  Raoul laid the clothes on the bed and poured the water.

  “Some reject from a nunnery!” the boy said rudely, lounging in the doorway.

  Raoul laughed. “Where does she get ‘em, eh?”

  “Don’t ask me, sir! D’you want anything else?”

  “No, off you go. Thanks.”

  As he washed, Raoul recalled again his grandmother’s violent anger about poor Sévrine. She was such a pretty girl. Flaxen hair, eyes the colour of the summer sky, and the sweetest lips, like wild strawberries... He towelled himself vigorously, banishing her memory from his mind and his rebelliously healthy body. She’d been a laundry maid, working in the castle. And he’d loved her...well, he’d thought so at the time. Certainly he’d wanted her – and she had wanted him too... but he mustn’t think about that now. When Brother Mark had found them together in the hayloft, and had hauled him in front of Lady Eleanor, Raoul had been unashamed and unabashed, totally unprepared for the fury which was unleashed upon him.

  Brother Mark had been ordered to give him penances of unprecedented severity (which luckily the gentle monk was too kindly or too lazy to insist upon). Sévrine had been banished to relatives many miles away, not even permitted to say goodbye. And, since then, no female with even mildly presentable looks had been permitted inside the castle; even the ones who were allowed to work there stayed for only a matter of weeks. Raoul supposed it was just in case he became sufficiently used to their warts, deformities and foul breath to feel inclined to tempt them into his bed!

  He might have normal male inclinations, he thought, adjusting his tunic and fastening his belt, but he wasn’t quite that desperate. Celibacy was undoubtedly preferable...which presumably was his grandmother’s intention!

  He set off up the stairs to her room, aggrieved again by her lack of trust in him. Then he remembered the players and laughed. Whatever would she say if he told her he was going to become a female? He lifted his hand to knock on the solar door. He didn’t dare even to think about it!

  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 t
he 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.”