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.
‘And that you, madame, have English soldiers in your own house, guarding you.’
‘They forced themselves on my house!’ she said indignantly. ‘Your grace must believe me! I did not want them there!’
The Duke shook his head. ‘It seems to us, madame, that you have given a welcome to our enemies. Your father was a vintner, was he not?’
Jeanette was too astonished to say anything. It was slowly dawning on her that Belas had betrayed her utterly, yet she still clung to the hope that the Duke would be convinced of her innocence. ‘I offered them no welcome,’ she insisted. ‘I fought against them!’
‘Merchants,’ the Duke said, ‘have no loyalties other than to money. They have no honour. Honour is not learned, madame. It is bred. Just as you breed a horse for bravery and speed, or a hound for agility and ferocity, so you breed a nobleman for honour. You cannot turn a plough-horse into a destrier, nor a merchant into a gentleman. It is against nature and the laws of God.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Your son is Count of Armorica, and we shall raise him in honour, but you, madame, are the daughter of a merchant and a Jewess.’
‘It is not true!’ Jeanette protested.
‘Do not shout at me, madame,’ the Duke said icily. ‘You are a burden on me. You dare to come here, tricked out in fox fur, expecting me to give you shelter? What else? Money? I will give your son a home, but you, madame, I shall give you a husband.’ He walked towards her, his feet silent on the deerskin rugs. ‘You are not fit to be the Count of Armorica’s mother. You have offered comfort to the enemy, you have no honour.’
‘I –’ Jeanette began to protest again, but the Duke slapped her hard across the cheek.
‘You will be silent, madame,’ he commanded, ‘silent.’ He pulled at the laces of her bodice and, when she dared to resist, he slapped her again. ‘You are a whore, madame,’ the Duke said, then lost patience with the intricate cross-laces, retrieved the discarded scissors from the rug and used them to cut through the laces to expose Jeanette’s breasts. She was so astonished, stunned and horrified that she made no attempt to protect herself. This was not Sir Simon Jekyll, but her liege lord, the King’s nephew and her husband’s uncle. ‘You are a pretty whore, madame,’ the Duke said with a sneer. ‘How did you enchant Henri? Was it Jewish witchcraft?’
‘No,’ Jeanette whimpered, ‘please, no!’
The Duke unhooked his gown and Jeanette saw he was naked beneath.
‘No,’ she said again, ‘please, no.’
The Duke pushed her hard so that she fell on the bed. His face still showed no emotion – not lust, not pleasure, not anger. He hauled her skirts up, then knelt on the bed and raped her with no sign of enjoyment. He seemed, if anything, angry, and when he was done he collapsed on her, then shuddered. Jeanette was weeping. He wiped himself on her velvet skirt. ‘I shall take that experience,’ he said, ‘as payment of the missing rents from Plabennec.’ He crawled off her, stood and hooked the ermine edges of his gown. ‘You will be placed in a chamber here, madame, and tomorrow I shall give you in marriage to one of my men-at-arms. Your son will stay here, but you will go wherever your new husband is posted.’
Jeanette was whimpering on the bed. The Duke grimaced with distaste, then crossed the room and kneeled on the prie-dieu. ‘Arrange your gown, madame,’ he said coldly, ‘and compose yourself.’
Jeanette rescued enough of the cut laces to tie her bodice into place, then looked at the Duke through the candle flames. ‘You have no honour,’ she hissed, ‘you have no honour.’
The Duke ignored her. He rang a small handbell, then clasped his hands and closed his eyes in prayer. He was still praying when the priest and a servant came and, without a word, took Jeanette by her arms and walked her to a small room on the floor beneath the Duke’s chamber. They thrust her inside, shut the door and she heard a bolt slide into place on the far side. There was a straw-filled mattress and a stack of brooms in the makeshift cell, but no other furnishing.
She lay on the mattress and sobbed till her broken heart was raw.
The wind howled at the window and rain beat on its shutters, and Jeanette wished she was dead.
The city’s cockerels woke Thomas to a brisk wind and pouring rain that beat on the cart’s leaking cover. He opened the flap and sat watching the puddles spread across the cobbles of the inn yard. No message had come from Jeanette, nor, he thought, would there be one. Will Skeat had been right. She was as hard as mail and, now she was in her proper place –
