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 grandnephew,’ 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
