Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (37 page)

‘God’s death!’ cried Arthur de Richemont. ‘If he has not, I am ready to offer him my sword, for he is a brave comrade whom I fought beside at Agincourt. Do not see this as an insult to yourself though, brother Burgundy, but merely as a tribute to an old and valued brotherhood-at-arms.’

‘You have
my
approval, milord,’ said Marguerite, his fiancée, in a voice that shook with emotion. ‘This knight is the younger brother of a squire I once had in my service in my Guyenne household, a gentle knight and a good friend who was cruelly wronged by the people of Paris during those dreadful days of the rule of Caboche. I begged for his life to be spared, but my father refused. If you take up arms on behalf of Arnaud de Montsalvy, my dear Lord, you will be wearing my colours twice over. For I cannot support my brother.’

Richemont, touched by these words, took his fair-haired fiancée’s hand and kissed it tenderly. ‘Sweet lady, in choosing you, my heart chose wisely,’ he said.

Meanwhile, however, Arnaud, after saluting the Breton nobleman, had haughtily pointed out a second knight, likewise fully armoured, who had just appeared on the threshold.

‘The Sire de Xaintrailles will second my cause, should the need arise.’

The new arrival, who was bareheaded, had a shock of carroty orange hair and a mocking smile on his lips. He too was tall and sturdily built. On hearing his name mentioned, he took a few steps forward and bowed.

Philippe of Burgundy, making a visible effort to control himself, stood up, but kept one hand resting on the arm of his chair. ‘Messires,’ he said, ‘God willing, this encounter, the outcome of which God alone can foretell, shall take place in my own town of Arras so that no blood may be spilt on the land of our Lord Bishop of Amiens. You have my word that you will be received there courteously and without danger to yourselves. And now, since this occasion is a festive one, let us forget the battle to come. I bid you number yourselves among my guests.’

Philippe’s pride had come to his rescue at last. He had regained complete command over himself, and no-one could guess what savage and violent feelings might be raging within him as a result of Arnaud’s public insult. He had an overweening sense of his own dignity and pre-eminence as a ruling prince. Besides, given his confidence in the huge strength of the Bastard of Vendôme, he could allow himself the luxury of behaving magnanimously and acquitting himself of the duties of a host even toward an avowed enemy.

But Arnaud de Montsalvy coolly replaced his helmet, raising the visor with a tap of the forefinger. Once more his black eyes met Philippe’s cool grey stare.

‘I thank you, Milord Duke. But as far as I am concerned, my enemies are enemies, and foremost among them I place my King’s enemies. I drink only with my friends. We shall meet again in three days, for the single combat. For the moment we return to Guise. Make way!’

With a curt nod of his head the knight spun round on his heel and moved slowly toward the door. But before he had turned round, his gaze had wavered momentarily and lighted for one brief instant on Catherine. The young woman, almost in tears, had seen a flash of recognition light up those black pupils. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she half raised her hands toward him in an imploring gesture. But by now Arnaud de Montsalvy was far across the room, and a moment later the great doors swung shut behind the two knights. When the black knight’s figure vanished, Catherine felt suddenly as if all the lights had been dimmed and the huge room had grown dark and cold.

Then the trumpets sounded to announce that the banquet was to begin.

11

The Single Combat

The banquet was like a long-drawn-out torture for Catherine. All she wanted was to be left alone in the peace and silence of her own room to think about the man who had so unexpectedly reappeared in her life. When she had first caught sight of Arnaud that evening her heart had almost stopped beating, but after he had left it had started beating all the faster and stronger. When his black-armoured figure had vanished through the oak doors she had felt such an urge to run after him that it had needed all her self-control and common sense not to give way to it. She had felt herself drawn toward him as though by a powerful magnet. She could not guess what his reaction would have been, but for the joy of speaking to him, touching him, feeling his fierce black gaze upon her – for those scant pleasures Catherine would have given everything she had. And for the ecstasy of one brief moment in his arms she would have joyfully sold her soul to the Devil.

Throughout that evening she talked, smiled, and graciously accepted the attentions and compliments her beauty attracted. But her lips and eyes moved mechanically. In fact she was miles away from the palace at Amiens. She was galloping alongside Montsalvy and Xaintrailles on the road to Guise, where King Charles’s men were encamped. With a lover’s unerring accuracy, her mind’s eye conjured up the black-armoured silhouette stooped over the horse’s neck and his firm profile and set lips under the shadow of his visor. She could almost hear the dull thudding of the horses’ hooves, the clinking of their weapons, even the beating of Arnaud’s heart under his suit of armour. She was close to him, one with him, so much a part of him that she felt as if the knight were her own flesh, bones and blood. She paid no heed to Garin’s curt tone when he suddenly said:

‘Let us go home!’

Nothing mattered to her now that Arnaud had reappeared in her life. She had no thought for either Garin and his wealth or Philippe and his love. Not that the glance Arnaud had cast her as he left the room had been particularly encouraging, except perhaps that somewhere in the anger and contempt she had read there Catherine had seemed to detect something like a glimmer of admiration. And it was on this slender thread that she hung her hopes and dreams. He obviously detested her, and even more certainly despised her, but, as Abou-al-Khayr had pointed out, he desired her too.

As the boat glided homewards along the green canal waters, Catherine, sat at Garin’s side, felt challenged by the prospect of a duel with Arnaud. It was an exhilarating experience in some ways to come face to face with one’s destiny – a destiny that no longer seemed impossibly out of reach. The haughty Comte de Montsalvy might look down upon her as a cloth-merchant’s niece, but as the Dame de Brazey she was his social equal. Catherine realised that her marriage had placed her on almost the same footing as Arnaud. She was absorbed into his world of pomp and splendour now, whether he liked it or not. And that evening she had had the opportunity to try out the power of her dazzling beauty. How often Philippe’s eyes had rested upon her that evening! And other men’s, too, all with that same hungry, eager expression in them! That evening, for the first time, Catherine had felt strong enough to brush aside all the obstacles that stood between herself and her love, such as Arnaud’s hatred of the Legoix family. She promised herself she would soon cure him of that. How could he possibly go on holding her responsible for his brother’s death once he learnt that she herself had all but died, that her father had been hanged and her home destroyed as a result? Catherine knew that she wanted this man, who till now had seemed such a remote figure, with every passionate fibre of her body, and she would have neither rest nor respite until he had made her finally and irrevocably his own.

Catherine returned home and went up to her room absorbed in her secret thoughts. She was suddenly reminded of her husband’s existence when she noticed that he had followed her into her apartments. He stood with one elbow propped on the mantelpiece, staring at her curiously. Catherine could not guess what thoughts lay behind that impassive countenance. She gave him a vague smile as she relinquished her long black velvet coat into Sara’s waiting hands.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ she asked. ‘I feel quite exhausted. All those people, and the heat!’

As she spoke, she moved toward her dressing-table. The mirror reflected her dazzling beauty set off by the darkly flashing diamond on her brow. Supposing Garin to have followed her only in order to collect his precious jewel, she hurriedly unfastened the gold chain and held it out to him.

‘Here you are. Here is your beloved diamond back. I imagine you must be longing to put it in a safe place …’

Garin rejected the proffered jewel with an impatient gesture. A disdainful smile curved his thin lips.

‘Keep it!’ he said. ‘The diamond has nothing to do with my presence here tonight. I came because I wanted to ask you a question. How long have you known Messire de Montsalvy?’

The question took Catherine by surprise, and she looked round anxiously for Sara. But the gypsy woman, sensing that her master wished to speak privately to his wife, had vanished from the room in her usual noiseless fashion and left them alone together. The young woman turned her head away, picked up an ivory comb and began carefully combing out her long hair.

‘What makes you think I know him?’ she asked.

‘You gave yourself away with that show of emotion earlier this evening. The sight of a complete stranger would not have made you tremble so violently. Allow me to repeat my question. Where and when did you meet him?’

Garin’s manner was perfectly courteous and his voice had not risen a note above its usual low timbre, but Catherine was not deceived. He wanted an answer and he would wait till he got one. She decided that the wisest course would be to tell him the truth, or at least part of it, the part that he would understand. She briefly described how she and Mathieu had found the wounded man on the Tournai highway, and how they had taken him to the inn and Abou-al-Khayr had subsequently taken care of him and nursed him back to health.

‘As you see,’ she said smiling, ‘he is an old but distant acquaintance. It was only to be expected that I should show some emotion when he reappeared so suddenly and surprisingly this evening, and in such tragic circumstances too.’

‘Tragic is an apt word, my dear. It seems likely that you will soon be mourning your old acquaintance’s untimely demise. The Bastard of Vendôme is a formidable foe who combines the cunning and agility of a serpent with the strength of a bull … And it is a fight to the death. Perhaps you would rather not be present at the joust, in view of your impressionable nature?’

‘What an idea! Of course I shall see the combat. Has Monseigneur Philippe not invited us?’

‘Yes, he has. Very well then, if you feel strong enough for such an ordeal, we will go. I wish you good night, Catherine.’

Catherine was briefly tempted to detain him for a little while longer. His behaviour was puzzling, and she would have liked to engage him in further conversation so as to gauge how far he believed her explanations. But her longing to be left to her thoughts of Arnaud was stronger. She allowed Garin to leave, and even dismissed Sara when she returned to help her undress. She had no intention of confiding the hope that burgeoned within her as warmly and secretly as a child in the womb, and that she meant to nurture until the time came for her to reap her full harvest of happiness.

At that moment all her thoughts revolved around one word: Arras. She tried to forget that Arnaud would be risking his life there. All she could think of was that in two days’ time the same city walls would encompass them both, under the same sky. She told herself that this time she would not let Arnaud go without trying to win him back, whatever the consequences of that might be.

The Brazeys found it harder to get suitable lodgings in Arras than they had in Amiens. Philippe de Bourgogne was too solicitous of his good citizens of Arras to force them to make room for his guests in the cavalier fashion of the Bishop of Amiens. Catherine found herself obliged to share the two rooms that had been placed somewhat grudgingly at their disposal by a wool merchant in the centre of the town with Ermengarde de Châteauvillain, Marie de Vaugrigneuse and two other of the Princesses’ ladies-in-waiting. Garin meanwhile joined Nicolas Rollin and Lambert de Saulx in an inn. This arrangement delighted Catherine, who regarded Garin’s temporary separation from her as a good omen for the success of her plans.

The news that a single combat was to take place on the following day had filled the town to bursting point. People were streaming in from all the neighbouring castles and villages and even from quite distant towns. Tents were springing up like mushrooms right up to the city walls, so that Arras had somewhat the appearance of rising up out of a bed of enormous flowers. The joust was the only topic of conversation in the squares and at street corners, and many wagers were exchanged on the outcome of the fight. Catherine was furious to discover everywhere she went that the odds were heavily in favour of the Bastard of Vendôme. Nobody seemed prepared to take a high price on Arnaud de Montsalvy’s skin, and the marketplace seemed to be full of people loudly proclaiming that they would not like to be in his shoes. Catherine finally lost her temper.

‘Since when has brute strength had the advantage over skill and courage?’ she cried angrily as she helped Dame Ermengarde unpack her travelling chests and hang out the creases in her gowns in readiness for that evening’s banquet and the following day’s joust. ‘That Bastard is as strong as a bear, but that doesn’t mean that he is certain to win.’

‘A plague on’t, my dear,’ said Ermengarde, hastily snatching her precious Genoese velvet dress from Catherine, who was treating it somewhat roughly in her exasperation. ‘This presumptuous young fellow seems to have found at least one ardent supporter! And yet it seems to me that your prayers should all be devoted to the Bastard, since it is he who will be fighting to defend our Duke’s honour. Can it be that you are not quite the loyal Burgundian you would like to appear?’