The Grail Quest Books 1-3: Harlequin, Vagabond, Heretic (22 page)

Bells announced the shutting of the city's gates. Watchmen walked the streets, looking for fires that could destroy a city in a few hours. Sentries shivered on the walls and Duke Charles's banners flew from the citadel's summit. Thomas was among his enemies, protected by nothing more than wit and a Dominican's robe. And he was alone.

—«»—«»—«»—

Jeanette became increasingly nervous as she approached the citadel, but she had persuaded herself that Charles of Blois would accept her as a dependant once he met her son who was named for him, and Jeanette's husband had always said that the Duke would like Jeanette if only he could get to know her better. It was true that the Duke had been cold in the past, but her letters must have convinced him of her allegiance and, at the very least, she was certain he would possess the chivalry to look after a woman in distress.

To her surprise it was easier to enter the citadel than it had been to negotiate the city gate. The sentries waved her across the drawbridge, beneath the arch and so into a great courtyard ringed with stables, mews and storehouses. A.
score
of men-at-arms were practising with their swords which, in the gloom of the late afternoon, generated bright sparks. More sparks flowed from a smithy where a horse was being shoed, and Jeanette caught the whiff of burning hoof mingling with the stink of a dungheap and the reek of a decomposing corpse, which hung in chains high on the courtyard wall. A laconic and misspelled placard pronounced the man to have been a thief.

A steward guided her through a second arch and so into a great cold chamber where a score of petitioners waited to see the Duke. A clerk took her name, raising an eyebrow in silent surprise when she announced herself. 'His grace will be told of your presence,' the man said in a bored voice, then dismissed Jeanette to a stone bench that ran along one of the hall's high walls.

Pierre lowered the armour to the floor and squatted beside it while Jeanette sat. Some of the petitioners paced up and down, clutching scrolls and silently mouthing the words they would use when they saw the Duke, while others complained to the clerks that they had already been waiting three, four or even five days. How much longer? A dog lifted its leg against a pillar, then two small boys, six or seven years old, ran into the hall with mock wooden swords. They gazed at the petitioners for a second,
then
ran up some stairs that were guarded by men-at-arms. Were they the Duke's sons, Jeanette wondered, and she imagined Charles making friends with the boys.

'You're going to be happy here,' she told him.

'I'm hungry, Mama.'

'We shall eat soon.'

She waited. Two women strolled along the gallery at the head of the stairs wearing pale dresses made of expensive linen that seemed to float as they walked and Jeanette suddenly felt shabby in her wrinkled red velvet. 'You must be polite to the Duke,' she told Charles, who was getting fretful from hunger. 'You kneel to him, can you do that? Show me how you kneel.'

'I want to go home,' Charles said.

'Just for Mama, show me how you kneel. That's good!'

Jeanette ruffled her son's hair in praise, then immediately tried to stroke it back into place. From upstairs came the sound of a sweet harp and a breathy flute, and Jeanette thought longingly of the life she wanted. A life fit for a countess, edged with music and handsome men, elegance and power. She would rebuild Plabennec, though with what she did not know, but she would make the tower larger and have a staircase like the one in this hall. An hour passed, then another. It was dark now and the hall was dimly lit by two burning torches that sent smoke into the fan tracery of the high roof. Charles became ever more petulant so Jeanette took him in her arms and tried to rock him to sleep. Two priests, arm in arm, came slowly down the stairs, laughing, and then a servant in the Duke's livery ran down and all the petitioners straightened and looked at the man expectantly. He crossed to the clerk's table, spoke there for a moment, then turned and bowed to Jeanette.

She stood. 'You will wait here,' she told her two servants.

The other petitioners stared at her resentfully. She had been the last to enter the hall, yet she was the first to be summoned. Charles dragged his feet and Jeanette struck him lightly on the head to remind him of his manners. The servant walked silently beside her. 'His grace is in good health?' Jeanette asked nervously.

The servant did not reply, but just led her up the stairs, then turned right down the gallery where rain spat through open windows. They went under an arch and up a further flight of steps at the top of which the servant threw open a high door.
'The Count of Armorica,' he announced, 'and his mother.'

The room was evidently in one of the citadel's turrets for it was circular. A great fireplace was built into one side, while cruciform arrow slits opened onto the grey wet darkness beyond the walls. The circular chamber itself was brilliantly lit by forty or fifty candles that cast their light over hanging tapestries, a great polished table, a chair, a prie-dieu carved with scenes from Christ's passion, and a fur-covered couch. The floor was soft with deerskins. Two clerks worked at a smaller table, while the Duke, gorgeous in a deep blue robe edged with ermine and with a cap to match, sat at the great table. A middle-aged priest, gaunt, white-haired and narrow faced, stood beside the prie-dieu and watched Jeanette with an expression of distaste.

Jeanette curtsied to the Duke and nudged Charles. 'Kneel,' she whispered.

Charles began crying and hid his face in his mother's skirts.

The Duke flinched at the child's noise, but said nothing. He was still young, though closer to thirty than to twenty, and had a pale, watchful face. He was thin, had a fair beard and moustache, and long, bony white hands that were clasped in front of his down-turned mouth. His reputation was that of a learned and pious man, but there was
a petulance
in his expression that made Jeanette wary. She wished he would speak, but all four men in the room just watched her in silence.

'I have the honour of presenting your grace's grand-nephew,' Jeanette said, pushing her crying son forward, 'the Count of Armorica.'

The Duke looked at the boy. His face betrayed nothing.

'He is named Charles,' Jeanette said, but she might as well have stayed silent for the Duke still said nothing. The silence was broken only by the child's whimpering and the crackle of flames in the great hearth. 'I trust your grace received my letters,' Jeanette said nervously.

The priest suddenly spoke, making Jeanette jump with surprise. 'You came here,' he said in a high voice, 'with a servant carrying a burden. What is in it?'

Jeanette realized they must have thought she had brought the Duke a gift and she blushed for she had not thought to bring one. Even a small token would have been a tactful gesture, but she had simply not remembered that courtesy. 'It contains my dead husband's armour and sword,' she said, 'which I rescued from the English who have otherwise left me with nothing.
Nothing.
I am keeping the armour and sword for my son, so that one day he can use them to fight for his liege lord.' She bowed her head to the Duke.

The Duke steepled his fingers.
To Jeanette it seemed he never blinked and that was as unsettling as his silence.

'His grace would like to see the armour,' the priest announced, though the Duke had shown no sign of wishing anything at all. The priest snapped his fingers and one of the clerks left the room. The second clerk, armed with a small pair of scissors, went round the big chamber trimming the wicks of the many candles in their tall iron holders. The Duke and the priest ignored him.

'You say,' the priest spoke again, 'that you wrote letters to his grace. Concerning what?'

'I wrote about the new defences at La Roche-Derrien, father, and I warned his grace of the English attack on Lannion.'

'So you say,' the priest said, 'so you say.' Charles was still crying and Jeanette jerked his hand hard in the hope of stilling him, but he just whined more. The clerk, head averted from the Duke, went from candle to candle. The scissors snipped, a puff of smoke would writhe for a heartbeat,
then
the flame would brighten and settle. Charles began crying louder.

'His grace,' the priest said, 'does not like snivelling infants.'

'He is hungry, father,' Jeanette explained nervously.

'You came with two servants?'

'Yes, father,' Jeanette said.

'They can eat with the boy in the kitchens,' the priest said, and snapped his fingers towards the candle-trimming clerk, who, abandoning his scissors on a rug, took the frightened Charles by the hand. The boy did not want to leave his mother, but he was dragged away and Jeanette flinched as the sound of his crying receded down the stairs.

The Duke, other than steepling his fingers, had not moved. He just watched Jeanette with an unreadable expression.

'You say,' the priest took up the questioning again, 'that the English left you with nothing?'

'They stole all I had!'

The priest flinched at the passion in her voice. 'If they left you destitute, madame, then why did you not come for our help earlier?'

'I did not wish to be a burden, father.'

'But now you do wish to become a burden?'

Jeanette frowned. 'I have brought his grace's nephew, the Lord of Plabennec. Or would you rather that he grew up among the English?'

'Do not be impertinent, child,' the priest said placidly. The first clerk re-entered the room carrying the sack, which he emptied on the deerskins in front of the Duke's table. The Duke gazed at the armour for a few seconds,
then
settled back in his high carved chair.

'It is very fine,' the priest declared.

'It is most precious,' Jeanette agreed.

The Duke peered again at the armour. Not a muscle of his face moved.

'His grace approves,' the priest said, then gestured with a long white hand and the clerk, who seemed to understand what was wanted without words, gathered up the sword and armour and carried them from the room.

'I am glad your grace approves,' Jeanette said, and dropped another curtsy. She had a confused idea that the Duke, despite her earlier words, had assumed the armour and sword were a gift, but she did not want to enquire. It could all be cleared up later. A gust of cold wind came through the arrow slits to bring spots of rain and to flicker the candles in wild shudders.

'So what,' the priest asked, 'do you require of us?'

'My son needs shelter, father,' Jeanette said nervously. 'He needs a house, a place to grow and learn to be a warrior.'

'His grace is pleased to grant that request,' the priest said.

Jeanette felt a great wash of relief. The atmosphere in the room was so unfriendly that she had feared she would be thrown out as destitute as she had arrived, but the priest's words, though coldly stated, told her that she need not have worried. The Duke was taking his responsibility and she curtsied for a third time. 'I am grateful, your grace.'

The priest was about to respond, but, to Jeanette's surprise, the Duke held up one long white hand and the priest bowed. 'It is our pleasure,' the Duke said in an oddly high-pitched voice, 'for your son is dear to us and it is our desire that he grows to become a warrior like his father.' He turned to the priest and inclined his head, and the priest gave another stately bow then left the room.

The Duke stood and walked to the fire where he held his hands to the small flames. 'It has come to our notice,' he said distantly, '
that
the rents of Plabennec have not been paid these twelve quarters.'

'The English are in possession of the domain, your grace.'

'And you are in debt to me,' the Duke said, frowning at the flames.

'If you protect my son, your grace, then I shall be for ever in your debt,' Jeanette said humbly.

The Duke took off his cap and ran a hand through his fair hair. Jeanette thought he looked younger and kinder without the hat, but his next words chilled her. 'I did not want Henri to marry you.' He stopped abruptly.

For a heartbeat Jeanette was struck dumb by his frankness. 'My husband regretted your grace's disapproval,' she finally said in a small voice.

The Duke ignored Jeanette's words. 'He should have married Lisette of Picard. She had money, lands,
tenants
. She would have brought our family great wealth. In times of trouble wealth is a…' he paused, trying to find the right word, 'it is a cushion. You, madame, have no cushion.'

'Only your grace's kindness,' Jeanette said.

'Your son is my charge,' the Duke said. 'He will be raised in my household and trained in the arts of war and civilization as befits his rank.'

'I am grateful.' Jeanette was tired of grovelling. She wanted some sign of affection from the Duke, but ever since he had walked to the hearth he would not meet her eyes.

Now, suddenly, he turned on her. 'There is a lawyer called Belas in La Roche-Derrien?'

'Indeed, your grace.'

'He tells me your mother was a Jewess.' He spat the last word.

Jeanette gaped at him. For a few heartbeats she was unable to speak. Her mind was reeling with disbelief that Belas would say such a thing, but at last she managed to shake her head. 'She was not!' she protested.

'He tells us, too,' the Duke went on, 'that you petitioned Edward of England for the rents of Plabennec?'

'What choice did I have?'

'And that your son was made a ward of Edward's?' the Duke asked pointedly.

Jeanette opened and closed her mouth. The accusations were coming so thick and fast she did not know how to defend herself. It was true that her son had been named a ward of King Edward's, but it had not been Jeanette's doing; indeed, she had not even been present when the Earl of Northampton made that decision, but before she could protest or explain the Duke spoke again.

'Belas tells us,' he said, 'that many in the town of La Roche-Derrien have expressed satisfaction with the English occupiers?'

'Some have,' Jeanette admitted.