Pushing the pouch into its neat hollow, Yolande re-fixed the base and returned the statue to the shelf in front of Izabel’s prie-dieu. Then she tiptoed from the chamber.
Chapter Four
Five miles outside Vannes, Count François de Roncier’s favourite residence glowed in the moonlight like a monstrous egg nestling on a wooded hilltop. Once part of the de Wirce patrimony, the castle was known as the Château Ivoire to the French-speaking section of the population. The name derived from the fact that an earlier lord, Dagobert de Wirce, had whitewashed every wall of his castle, inside and out. Keep, bailey wall, curtain wall – everything down to the last pebble had been painted white. ‘My château,’ Dagobert had declared, ‘will shine bright as a beacon. It will be visible for miles, and all who look upon it will be reminded of my authority. No one will dare to challenge me.’
And now, though the ancient paint was cracked and peeling, and the wash was more grey than white, Château Ivoire still clung to its ancient name. A different lord was master now, but when the moon floated full and bright in a clear, cloudless sky, the old grey walls continued to blaze their defiant challenge into the encircling darkness.
The native Bretons had a less romantic name for the Count’s château – to them it was simply Huelgastel, or High Castle.
The castle solar was lit by four flaring cressets. It was close on midnight, but the Dowager Countess, Marie de Roncier, had not retired. She sat before the stone fireplace, in the loose black garment she considered suitable for her newly widowed status. A tapestry warmed her knees. The mother of François, Marie had seen the old Count, her adored husband Robert, buried less than a month ago.
Marie de Roncier was tired. She longed for the comfort and privacy of her bed, but she had a bone to pick with her son and was waiting up for him. Her vigil was a lonely one, for her daughter-in-law, Eleanor, and her granddaughter by her son’s first marriage, Arlette, had said their goodnights hours ago and she had only a tongue-tied young maid for company.
The Countess was making a poor pretence at working on the tapestry. Always a slender woman, grief had wasted away what little flesh she had, and the hands that rested on the tapestry were skeleton thin. Notwithstanding, she kept her back as straight as a spear. Her head was as high and haughty as a queen’s. Marie de Roncier gazed at the world past a splendid beak of a nose, and her jet-black eyes glared with a habitual defiance that the years had done nothing to diminish. Only the red circles faintly rimming her eyes betrayed human weakness. She had been weeping, but the set of eyes and head were fierce enough to keep sympathy at bay. Sagging folds of skin covered her cheekbones; they had a bruised look to them, which even the wavering cresset lights could not obscure. Bitter lines were firmly etched about a pale, thin mouth. Marie de Roncier had the air of a woman who had not laughed in a century.
Two iron firedogs held the burning logs in place in the great stone fireplace, preventing them from rolling onto the rush-covered floorboards. At the Countess’s side her maid, Lena, crouched on a stool. The girl was working on the tapestry despite the gloom. Being newly promoted from the laundry, she was in awe of her mistress. The tapestry, several yards long, was half worked. It depicted a hunting scene and bore the family coat of arms, of cinquefoils on argent in a circlet of black thorns. It had originally been destined for Marie de Roncier’s bedchamber, but now that her husband was gone, both bedchamber and tapestry must of course devolve to her son – and his Countess, Eleanor.
Marie sighed, something she invariably did when she thought about her current daughter-in-law. She did not believe for a moment that François’ useless second wife had gone to bed. ‘It’s more likely the woman’s wearing out her knees in the chapel praying that God might grant her a son,’ she muttered.
‘Countess?’
‘Nothing, girl.’ Marie answered in Breton for the benefit of her maid, who mangled French like the washerwoman she was. ‘I’m thinking aloud, and I’ll thank you to close your ears.’
‘Aye, madame.’ Diligently, Lena bent over her work, leaving Marie to muse in peace.
Eleanor had married François seven years ago, and in all that time there had been no sign of her quickening. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the woman was barren. The fault must lay at Eleanor’s door, not at her son’s, for had not François already got twelve year old Arlette out of his first wife, Joan? And later Joan had produced a boy child – a sickly infant who had not lived three days. Joan had not been barren. Would that Joan had lived, but she had caught an infection and had only out-lived her son by only a day. Joan and her babe had been buried together. And two years after Joan’s death, François had married Eleanor. After that there had been no more babies, not even girls.
A rustling in a corner brought a grimace to Marie’s thin lips. Mice again. She would have to remind young Arlette that she was doing the household no favours by over-feeding the cats. Wielding her needle like a dagger, Marie jabbed it into the wall-hanging. Then, holding her work at arm’s length the better to inspect it, she flung her section of the tapestry into the rushes. ‘It’s little more than a bird’s nest,’ she declared disgustedly. ‘My son will think I’ve gone senile on him. I used to set a fine stitch, Lena. I don’t know why I bother, I think I’ll let you finish it. You have a neat hand.’
‘It is very dark, my lady,’ Lena said, soothingly, ‘and the torches give an unsteady light. I could fetch a lantern, or more candles.’ She sprang to her feet with a litheness the older woman envied, and retrieved the dropped section of needlework. Grasses from the rush carpet clung to the fabric. Lena shook it, folded it, and set it neatly on a bench. This done, she looked to her mistress. ‘My lady?’
The embittered mouth eased when Marie saw the girl waiting meekly for her agreement. A tactful maid – that was rare. This Lena showed promise, she clearly had more sense than most her age. ‘Never mind, Lena,’ Marie relaxed enough to yawn. ‘My fingers are too stiff to sew any more. I’ve been waiting in vain. I’ll prepare myself for bed. The Count cannot be coming home tonight.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’
‘Pass me my stick and give me your arm. My legs have seized up with too much idling about.’ A distant door slammed, and a series of crashes and thuds floated up the stairwell. ‘Who the Devil disturbs the peace at this hour?’
Lena flushed. ‘It... I think it is your son, Countess. He...the Count must have returned.’
In confirmation of the maid’s words, François de Roncier erupted into the solar, spurs a-jangle and thick riding boots thumping across the wooden floorboards. Windblown, his jowls had a brazier’s glow to them.
Marie drew herself up and raised a disapproving brow. With her son she invariably spoke in French. ‘You’re wearing your sword in the solar, François.’
Mail gauntlets chinked like bags of money as the Count removed then and tossed them onto the table. They landed next to a wooden puzzle box Marie had asked Arlette to tidy away earlier. ‘Too busy feeding the cats,’ Marie muttered, clicking her tongue in irritation. It was plain her granddaughter needed a talking to.
Meek as a lamb, her son was unbuckling his sword belt. ‘Here, girl,’ he threw his belt at Lena, ‘drop this on the window seat, will you?’
The maid’s flush deepened, and Marie drew her own conclusions. She made no comment, for it was beneath her dignity to comment on her son’s philanderings with the lower orders. What a pity, she thought, reassessing her maid. The girl is just another common trollop. But she’s probably fertile, an unwelcome voice nagged inside her; she might be only a mindless peasant, but it is possible that she will be carrying your bastard grandchild in a couple of months. While delicate, high-bred Eleanor...