Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (18 page)

‘Who bears this accursed name?’ he shouted. ‘Who is called Legoix?’

‘Why … I am, messire. It’s my name. I am called Catherine Legoix.’

‘You!’

In a few seconds the knight’s face expressed first stupefaction, then fury, then a look of implacable hatred that transformed his features. His jaws stood out and his lips curled back on his white teeth like those of a beast about to spring and bite. He looked at her as if he had suddenly seen her for the first time, and his black eyes held not a trace now of the passion she had seen there such a little while before.

‘Your name is Legoix,’ he said, in a voice simmering with barely-controlled anger. ‘Then tell me … are you related to those Parisian butchers who made … such a stir a few years ago?’

‘They were my cousins, but –’

‘Be quiet! Don’t say another word. But get out!’

‘What!’

‘Get out, I tell you! Get out before I throw you out! One black day of despair, I vowed to kill everyone who bore that name. I won’t kill you, because you are a woman … but I don’t want to see you again, ever!’

Catherine stood there, stunned and uncomprehending, as his fury exploded around her. A few minutes before, this very man had been murmuring and holding her in his arms, gazing at her with eyes full of passion; and now, in a senseless metamorphosis, he had become her enemy, he rejected her…. He spoke again, between clenched teeth.

‘Listen to me carefully. I had a brother … a wonderful brother whom I adored. He was in the service of Louis de Guyenne. During Caboche’s riots, the butchers got him and slaughtered him. They cut off his head like an animal in the slaughterhouse. He was young, handsome and honourable, he never did anyone any harm, but they cut his throat like a pig’s. And the man who killed him was a butcher called Guillaume Legoix. Now you know. So be gone with you, and pray to God that we never meet again.’

There was so much fury, and so much anguish, in the young man’s voice that Catherine’s eyes filled with tears. Such a disappointment was too cruel to be borne, and the sudden destruction of that universe of love that had grown up around this meeting was too brutal! First to find a dream one had thought buried forever, and then to see it vanish in this absurd fashion! How could he accuse her so brutally of Michel’s killing, when it was she who had risked and lost everything for an unknown boy? She tried to defend herself.

‘Have pity, messire. Listen to me and do not condemn me without hearing me first. Don’t you know what actually happened on that dreadful day when your brother died? Don’t you know –’

Arnaud’s voice interrupted her brusquely, and he pointed toward the door.

‘I know only too well. Get out! You disgust me! The sight of you makes me feel sick! Besides, they are waiting for you down below. Did I not hear that knight who has just arrived announce that the Duke of Burgundy had sent him to protect you? What an honour, what courtesy! It’s not difficult to see what sort of a woman you are, my beauty! The Duke Philippe is said to fancy women like you.’

‘I am nothing to the Duke Philippe,’ Catherine protested angrily, scarlet to the roots of her hair. ‘On the contrary, he actually had me arrested a short time ago. What can you be imagining about me?’

Arnaud’s laugh was even more insolent than his words.

‘Imagining? He can’t have had much difficulty in winning your favours if my own experience is any guide. You are a good whore, and you don’t set too high a price on your charms …’

Catherine’s cry was that of a wounded animal. Tears started from her wide-open eyes and streamed down her cheeks and neck. She stretched out trembling hands toward the knight.

‘For pity’s sake, messire. What have I done to you that you should treat me so? Don’t you understand?’

‘What?’ said Arnaud sarcastically. ‘That you could happily climb into my bed only a few hours after getting out of the Duke’s? Who knows, perhaps you were acting under instructions? That attack – and that dramatic rescue last night – were perhaps all part of a cunning plot. And your role was to wheedle the purpose of my mission out of me while I was in the throes of passion. Congratulations! I must admit that you all but succeeded. Upon my word, you drove me out of my senses for a moment! It must be that I haven’t often met whores as attractive as you. Now, be gone with you! I have told you that I don’t want anything more to do with you.’

Mad with rage now, forgetting the passion that the knight had awakened in her, Catherine stalked with clenched fists up to the bed. ‘I won’t go until you have heard me out – and apologised to me!’

‘Apologised? To a whore?’

He spat the word at her. At this cruel attack, the girl fell back and put her hands over her face as if he had hit her. Her courage and her anger seemed to have abandoned her all of a sudden. The whole gentle romance had turned into a grotesque and humiliating farce. It was no use arguing, she realised, because Arnaud was blinded and deafened by fury. She turned away, her hands hung limply at her sides, and went toward the door. She was about to open it when a sudden surge of pride made her turn back for a moment. Her elegant little head was thrown proudly back under the magnificent mane of hair that formed an untidy halo around her face. She fixed scornful eyes on the young man. Propped up on one elbow, his head lowered a little, all his muscles tense with anger, he looked like a wild beast about to spring, despite the absurd white turban that had got rather disarranged by recent events and detracted somewhat from the ferocity of his appearance.

‘One day,’ said Catherine coldly, ‘you will go down on your knees in front of me to beg my forgiveness for your words, Arnaud de Montsalvy, Seigneur de la Châtaignerie. But you will get neither pardon nor mercy from me. Your brother was good and gentle and I loved him. Adieu …’

She was about to leave the room when a violent blow made her stumble. She managed to lean against the wall in time to stop herself falling. A large pillow, hurled by an expert marksman, had just hit her in the back. It took more than womanly dignity to subdue Arnaud when he had flown into a rage. Astounded, she turned to look at him. He was sat up in bed, shouting with laughter, and looking at her with eyes that sparkled with malice.

‘Next time you dare speak of my brother, you little slut, I will strangle you with my own hands,’ he said, holding his large brown hands toward her. ‘Thank the Lord that I cannot move. The name of Montsalvy shall not be sullied by lips like yours, and women of your sort …’

He would have gone on, but his angry diatribe was cut short. Catherine ran to the bed and dealt him a stunning blow across the face.

The dressing had been knocked awry and the wound on his temple had opened again, letting a thin trickle of blood run onto his stubbly cheek. Beside herself with rage and indignation, Catherine had forgotten that he was wounded and struck him with all her strength. The sight of his blood flowing calmed her down, but did not cause her the slightest twinge of regret or compunction. He had insulted her basely, and she had been far too patient with him. She felt obscurely happy at having been able to inflict pain on him. She could even have wished it were greater. She would have liked to lash out at him with her teeth and nails and gouge out those insolent eyes in which, for the moment, surprise had taken the place of contempt. Mechanically, Arnaud raised a hand to his cheek, now much redder than the other. To all appearances it was the first time such a thing had ever happened to him, and he could not get over it. The slap had reduced him to silence and Catherine, realising this, contemplated him with satisfaction.

‘Like this,’ she said sweetly, ‘you will remember me much better, messire …’

Dropping a curtsey, she exited the room with all the majesty of an outraged queen, leaving the knight to his own thoughts. But she did not go far. She was at the end of her strength. When the door closed behind her, she leant against the wall, trying to quieten down a little. She could hear Arnaud swearing hideously on the other side of the stout wooden door, but this left her unmoved. What did his fury matter to her now? What mattered was that he had inflicted a cruel wound on her, one that made her want to scream out in pain. What had happened between them was irrevocable. Love could never bring them together again. They were destined to hate each other for all eternity, and all because of a misunderstanding that Catherine was too proud ever to try to clear up. He had refused to hear her explanation, so he would never learn the truth. Besides, even if he had heard it, his pride of caste would have led him to reject it as a fabrication on the girl’s part. She took little sobbing gasps and tried to get her breath back. She closed her eyes for a second. The wild beating of her heart seemed to slow a little. A little peace welled up from deep within her, calming the tempest … When she re-opened her eyes, the little Arab doctor was stood in front of her, looking solemnly at her from under the huge turban that looked like a giant peony. Catherine was astonished to see so much understanding in the Moor’s tranquil gaze.

‘The road of true love is paved with flesh and blood,’ he quoted gently. ‘You who pass that way must raise the hem of your skirts.’

The young girl hurriedly dashed away a tear that hung on her cheek. ‘Who said that?’ she asked.

Abou-al-Khayr shrugged his shoulders and put his hand on the door knob. He was a good half head shorter than Catherine, turban included, but his dignity was such that he seemed immensely tall.

‘A Persian poet who died many long years ago,’ he replied. ‘His name was Háfiz, and he understood the workings of men’s hearts. He understood women’s hearts less well, and was to suffer as a result … But I see that this time the tables are turned, young woman, and it is you who suffer. You have come up against a man as beautiful and dangerous as a Toledo blade, and you bleed … I would not have believed it, by Allah, for looking at you both I thought that you were destined to form one of those rare and blessed couples that are so rarely encountered.’

‘You were wrong,’ Catherine sighed, ‘and so was I. I too believed for a moment that he was going to love me. But he hates and despises me. I can’t tell you why. He says he never wants to see me again.’

The little doctor burst out laughing, taking no notice of the indignant look Catherine gave him. She found his merriment ill-timed to say the least.

‘Háfiz also said: “It is to be feared that those virtuous and pious ones who scoff at drunkards may one day find themselves chanting their prayers in the tavern.” He detests and desires you. What more can you ask? When a woman kindles a man’s desire she can always be certain of meeting him again one day. You must know that an angry man lets his speech, that wild mare, run on unbridled. The voices of the tempest within him shriek much too loudly for him to hear the rather muted voice of reason. Go and join your uncle, who is beginning to worry about you, and leave me to deal with this difficult man in here. I shall stay with him and accompany him to the Duke of Burgundy. I will also try to find out what is going on in that obstinate head of his. Go in peace, young woman.’

Without another word, Abou-al-Khayr bowed to Catherine and then, making a sign to his black servant, who stood a little way off looking like an ebony statue, went into the room. Catherine, pensive but a little comforted, went back to her own room, in which she had spent so little time, to start putting her rumpled appearance to rights.

Mathieu was still calling her name from the courtyard below. She leant over the balustrade and called down, ‘One moment, Uncle, I’m just coming.’ Then she went back in again. A few minutes later, dressed in a fine brown wool dress under the Duke’s splendid coat, with her braids hidden under a close-fitting silk hood that gave her the look of a young monk, she swept majestically down the stairs into the courtyard, followed by the half-angry, half-delighted gaze of her uncle and the frankly admiring one of young Roussay. The Burgundian captain was clearly delighted to see the girl again, and he leapt forward to hand her down the last step and help her across the puddles left behind by the storm.

With a distant smile, Catherine let her fingers rest on the hand outstretched to her, and went up to Mathieu, who was watching the scene with his arms akimbo and his hood stood up on end as was its wont.

‘Good morning to you, Uncle. Did you sleep well?’

‘Where have you sprung from?’ Mathieu grumbled, dropping a hurried kiss on his niece’s proffered brow. ‘I have been looking for you for hours.’

‘I went for a walk, but the grass was wet and I had to change my clothes. Are we leaving?’

‘You seem to be in a hurry now. I thought you were in such a state of anxiety about our last night’s discovery …’

Catherine flashed a dazzling smile at her uncle and then, raising her voice sufficiently to make it carry as far as a certain window that stood open just above her head, she replied, ‘We have found him a doctor, so there is nothing more we can do for him. We need not carry our charity toward him any further. Let us leave now – I am in a hurry to get home.’

With a firm step, she went toward the mules, which stood waiting, saddled and ready to leave. She allowed Jacques de Roussay to hold her stirrup for her instead of old Pierre, thanking him with a smile and a pretty speech: ‘Many thanks, messire. I am grateful to Monseigneur Philippe for having sent you to us. It is a great honour, and a pleasure, too, since it means we shall be travelling companions.’

Crimson with pleasure, the young man remounted and gave his men the signal to depart. Catherine’s gracious remarks had opened wide a door that up till then he had believed firmly closed to him. This courtesy of the Duke’s was only too clearly a sign of the value he set on the beautiful Dijonnaise, and Jacques had no doubt that Catherine was destined, in the none too distant future, for his master’s love. But a woman always has the right to pick and choose, and there was nothing to prevent the young captain from trying to press his own suit while the voyage lasted.