My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

When a bank of gray clouds swept across the sun snuffing out the morning’s bright sunshine, the air grew chilly. Overhead, the jarring kraa of a raven pierced an otherwise complacent noontide around Acton Burnell. Drawing her cloak closely around her, Catrin fought back a sudden premonition of death.

Gilbert’s squire and her maid Gwendolyn had prepared for the journey while she and Olwen sought out the queen and later she’d played an impostor to Olwen’s betrothed.

Her maid’s eyes shifted nervously around the busy campground. “We’d best be on our way, milady.”

“Aye.” Catrin understood her anxiousness. “Let me wish Olwen farewell.”

Catrin approached her cousin, who stood beside Gilbert’s shroud-covered body, slung ingloriously across the back of a packhorse—a sad, dishonorable end for her proud brother. Catrin knotted her fists against the pain and choked down the lump in her throat .

She reached out to cup the Olwen’s cheek with her right hand. “We must go before Isadora discovers our departure.”

Her cousin’s eyes filled once more with tears. “Oh, Catrin, my heart shall break.”

“No, it shall not break. You must be strong. To honor Gilbert’s memory.”

“I cannot bear it.”

“You must.” Her cousin had no choice but to be brave. She was a woman.

Olwen clutched her arm. “Let me go with you.”

Catrin shook her head. How could she admit she’d made matters worse for Olwen by her quick tongue? So she’d lied, telling her sweet cousin Bran ap Madog had failed to come to the garden. How could she now tell Olwen he promised to come for her in three days at Northbridge? How could she admit her deception?

With a sigh, Catrin drew Olwen’s hands down. “Go home, and then make haste to the nunnery. Do not delay.”

“I will go,” Olwen said, “for I have no desire to wed. I wish you God’s speed, my dear cousin.”

Catrin hugged Olwen then broke away. She mounted her palfrey and pulled Gwendolyn up behind her. Gilbert’s squire led the string of packhorses, and the small group turned onto the old Roman road. Two Rothmore men-at-arms joined them.

Casting a glance behind her, Catrin lifted her hand in farewell. Olwen stood like a nun at confession, head bowed, eyes lowered, and palms up in supplication.

At the stark image, a chill rippled down Catrin’s spine.

Reality was harsh. Throughout her life, loss had been her constant companion. Catrin had never known her mother, and now all her immediate family had been taken from her— all but for a half-brother, a mere boy of ten. ’Twas hard now to invest oneself in a relationship of any kind, knowing all affiliation was transient, fleeting—like white wisps of morning clouds fleeing on the wind.

Yet part of her dreamed of the heroic knights in tales of chivalry. She longed for romantic love. Yet e’en that was risky.

A cold knot of longing settled in Catrin’s core. She shut her eyes, picturing Queen Eleanor, so in love with her royal husband and animated because of a coming child. Too many of the queen’s children had died. Her daughters. Even the little prince was sickly. Catrin didn’t want the sorrow. Better to keep her heart closed. Better not to love. Better never to marry.

Gwendolyn’s arms pressed her waist and her maid’s breath was warm on her neck. Catrin opened her eyes. Shifting in the saddle, she glared at the cloud-shrouded sky. Gray like Gilbert’s burial cloths. Gray like her mood.

Aloft, a band of ravens soared, their black bodies contrasting sharply with the pall of the sky. Catrin grew anxious.

’Twas easier to give into hate than to love. Like the boiling of a cauldron, her fury flared. The black knight. The King’s Raven . He was the cause of her latest anguish, no matter his claim of innocence.

Or suggestion that duty might turn to love.

Or her unwelcome response to his kiss.

“He will regret what he has done,” Catrin spoke aloud.

“Milady?”

“We will bury my brother, Gwendolyn, and then I will discover who killed Gilbert.”

“Aye, milady, God willing. ”

“God has nothing to do with it.”

Catrin urged the patient palfrey into a comfortable amble. Vengeance was up to her and her alone.

They rode in silence for many miles, attempting to make Clun before nightfall. Catrin let her mind drift while she rode, the comfortable pace of the palfrey lulling her into the netherworld between wakefulness and sleep. Gwendolyn’s arms were warm around her waist. The steady rhythm of her maid’s breathing imparted solace against the October wind.

Suddenly, a shout severed the early evening air. Catrin jerked the reins.

A rabble of men on foot burst from the trees.

“Outlaws!” Gwendolyn cried.

Cold fear surged through Catrin’s veins. She watched in horror while her small band of men defended her. They were outnumbered two to one and taking the worst of it.

“Flee, milady! These are no common outlaws. They carry Norman broadswords!”

Gwendolyn’s words were like shattering ice.

“My men!” Catrin froze, held by her sense of duty as well as fear.

“We do them no good.”

Catrin hesitated.

“Go, milady!”

The note of entreaty in Gwendolyn’s voice ripped into Catrin’s consciousness. Quickly, she wrenched the horse’s neck around, digging her heels into the flanks. The mare shot forward, back over the muddy road they had just traversed.

A hue and cry arose from the outlaws. Dread clogging her throat, Catrin bent low over the horse’s neck, pushing the mare forward. The extra burden of a second rider slowed the gallant palfrey. Realizing this, Catrin pulled the animal off the road and into the deep forest.

“Our only chance is to hide,” she said, her words coming in ragged gasps.

Gwendolyn clutched tightly to Catrin’s waist. When she rested her head against her back, Catrin sensed the other woman’s terror as if it were a living thing.

The tall trunks of the old wood proved a complicated maze. Slowing their pace, Catrin guided her winded horse through the coarse undergrowth. Even through the cold of her fear, she felt sweat trickle down her neck. Removing one hand from the reins, she laid a palm on the lathered shoulder of the laboring palfrey.

The din of battle had ebbed by the time Catrin pulled the mare down to a walk. In the distance, she heard the sound of horses plunging through the underbrush.

“They have our men’s horses.” Panic rose in Gwendolyn’s voice.

Had the men from Clun and Gilbert’s boy squire been overpowered? The thought of dying pricked Catrin’s mind like a knife. Eleanor had promised her marriage would come upon her swift enough, and now, it seemed, so would death. Catrin accepted this reality as she accepted the severity of life.

Yet she would not bow to the inevitable. The thought of surrender soured her blood. Catrin reached into her purse to finger Gilbert’s knife .

“Milady.” Gwendolyn’s hushed tone was spiked with urgency. “These men may mean to hold you for ransom. Give me your cloak and let me ride ahead while you hide in the woods. Perchance they will think both of us ride away and follow me. You’ll be safe.”

Catrin halted the horse and turned in the saddle. “No, we go on together.”

Gwendolyn’s fingers unclasped the heavy cloak from around her mistress’s neck.

Through the murky half-light of the dying day, she saw tears in her maid’s eyes. Catrin grabbed at her hands. “Gwendolyn! Have a care about what you do!”

“I do have a care, milady.” Gwendolyn brushed her mistress’s hands away. “Before your father left to fight the Welsh, he told me to care for you. You have no choice in the matter, for I do my duty.”

In the blink of an eye, the maid stripped the cloak from Catrin’s back and then shoved her. Caught off guard, Catrin fell from the saddle like a tinker’s bundle, her breath knocked out of her lungs.

“Save yourself,” Gwendolyn begged. “For my sake.”

Unable to speak and struggling for air, Catrin pleaded with her eyes. Their gazes connected in a final farewell.

Gwendolyn moved into the saddle and tossed the cloak over her shoulders. “God be with you, milady.”

With a nod, she was gone, goading the horse into a canter through the tangled wood. She made noise to draw the pursuit.

Numb and humbled by Gwendolyn’s sacrifice, Catrin did as she was bid. Crawling deep into the underbrush, she hid beneath the rotting log of an oak tree. She shut her eyes and prayed.

What felt like hours could only have been minutes before several horses trampled past, the shouts of their riders adding to the sounds of the chase. Catrin shivered in her dank hole.

Digging her fingers into the woodland soil, she clutched the dirt, unmindful of the soil caking under her nails or the damp, earthy aroma of her hideaway. Guilt cut into her soul. Why had she let Gwendolyn play decoy? She should have prevented her maid’s foolhardy heroics.

A distant hurrah sounded and then the pounding of the pursuit drifted over the crisp currents of air. Had the outlaws spotted Gwendolyn?

Soon a blood-curdling scream echoed through the forest. The shriek pierced straight into Catrin’s heart like a well-aimed arrow.

Two horses and their riders approached from the road, halting in a clearing a scant fifty feet from her. Soon the original band of outlaws joined them. Catrin sucked in air and closed her eyes.

“Did you catch them?” demanded a deep voice as brittle as winter’s death.

She knew that voice. But from where?

“Nay,” another man answered. “The wench purposely rode her horse over a cliff.”

Catrin shuddered. Gwendolyn was dead. She couldn’t quite believe it. Not her surrogate mother and trusted maid, the woman who had care for her through childhood illnesses and knew her better than any other living creature.

Dear God, guide her soul. For Gwendolyn’s sake, she hoped her silent supplication was heard .

“Are both women dead?”

“I know not, sir.”

“Zounds! Find out!” The first man sounded forbidding. “I must have proof or your life will be forfeit as well!”

The troop of cutthroats clattered away, leaving a strange lingering silence.

Catrin’s pulse pounded. She squeezed her eyes tighter as if to quiet the fear that threatened to rout whatever courage she still possessed.

A hair’s breath away, horses’ hooves trounced the underbrush. She heard the metal clank of chain mail, caught the scent of unwashed bodies, and sensed the intensity of the leader’s purpose.

Was this man Gilbert’s murderer? Was he the King’s Raven? Were they the same person?

“They must be dead.” The slap of a leather gauntlet striking a saddle emphasized the leader’s point. “Harry, follow them and make sure those louts have done what they claim.”

Another horse departed. Catrin opened her eyes and stared at the tangled brush like someone blind. She didn’t know how long it was before the horses returned.

“Milady’s cloak covered in her blood,” a rough voice boasted.

Sickened, Catrin stifled a gasp.

“I climbed down the cliff face to retrieve it,” one of them said. “I took me life in me hands.”

“And her maid?” the leader asked.

“Dead as well.”

“Harry?”

“Aye, my lord, I saw both bodies with mine eyes,” his companion replied in halting Norman French. “Unless you knew they were at the bottom of the cliff, you would never see them.”

The outlaws had lied and so had Harry. By his lie, the nefarious man had saved his worthless skin, for if the leader knew the truth, all these men would pay dearly.

The leader grunted. “I shall take the cloak as proof of our success.”

“What about Rothmore’s body?” Harry asked.

“Leave it. Let us ride!”

In a heartbeat, they were gone, the sounds of the horses fading fast.

All grew quiet. Catrin was alone.

Unable to quell the horror gripping her, Catrin crawled from her hiding place and slowly climbed to her feet. Was Gwendolyn truly dead? She had to see for herself.

Somehow, Catrin picked her way over fallen wood and through thick brush. She followed the path eked out of the forest by men and horses until she reached the edge of the cliff. Far below lay her dead horse. Nearby, Gwendolyn’s lifeless and broken body was sprawled among the rocks.

Catrin began to shake. Her legs buckled and she crumbled to the ground. All those she loved died. She shut her eyes and sobbed, succumbing to the overbearing anguish.

’Twas better not to love or care.

Time passed slowly. Catrin hugged her knees, rocking back and forth, her head bowed to her chest. She crooned soft sounds of mourning.

Soon a chilly rain fell over her sorrow-shattered body.

Enough! She could weep no more. Catrin stood, and in a defiant motion, flipped her heavy braid over her shoulder. She raised her eyes to the heavens. Cold raindrops touched her upturned face, mingling with the salt of her tears .

She took a deep breath. Somehow she had changed. The world around her looked the same, but she was no longer the girl who had tied a favor around her brother’s arm only a day ago.

What now? She dared not go to Clun Castle or return to court and face Isadora. Alive, her life might be in jeopardy still. Dead, she was safe and free.

The storm gathered strength, savage and unforgiving. The force of the wind pushed against her surcoat, wrapping the garment around her legs. Catrin welcomed the cold and bitter rain, for with its sting came her answer.

She could only rely on herself. Alone, she must find and punish the man who had murdered her loved ones.

Catrin fumbled for her purse and rubbed her thumb and forefinger over the smooth silk pieces inside. She had proof. The King’s Raven had motive. She would start with him.

Yet she must first go to Northbridge Castle and tell Olwen not to worry. She was not dead at the hands of villains as someone evil had wished.