My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

The second day after the attack, Catrin reached the wooded sandstone hills near Northbridge Castle. The rising sun was but a pink promise on the horizon when below her vantage point overlooking the valley she spied the broad water meadows stretching to the banks of the Severn. Beyond them, high on the western edge of an escarpment overlooking the river, a formidable Norman keep stood guard over the autumn countryside.

Catrin’s hands fell to her sides. What remaining willpower she had used to navigate the distance at night and reach Olwen’s castle drained from her with a whoosh. Now she only longed for a bath and a meal. The pang of hunger in her stomach was a familiar, but unwelcome, guest. Instead of seeking refreshment, she had to await nightfall and find her way into the castle without being seen.

Crawling into a thicket by the side of the road, she shut her eyes, overcome by weariness. Yet sleep did not come swiftly. Her mind replayed the events of the past few days. Father. Gilbert. Gwendolyn and her men. Dead. Gone. She loathed her enemies. Her hatred was as unforgiving as the Clee Hills she’d so recently traversed. Eleanor had given fair warning. Still yourself against the fires of hatred, my lady. N’er mind. Catrin preferred hatred to heartache.

She curled her fingers, her nails biting into her palms. Was the King’s Raven to blame for her misfortunes? Did he employ a Saxon lackey named “Harry?” Many a boy was named after old King Henry. A small clue. The pieces of silk scarf were other clues—pieces of a puzzle. Surely, a greater purpose lay behind her brother’s death, for whomever murdered Gilbert had tried to kill her too.

Catrin awoke with a start. It was dark. A lone horse thundered past her hiding place. Only the brave or the desperate traveled the king’s road at night.

Moments passed and the pounding hoof beats faded into the distance. When she thought it safe, Catrin uncoiled her cramped limbs from her hiding spot. She steadied herself mentally and climbed to her feet. Her neck and shoulders ached. Hunger pangs made her head woozy.

The normal sounds of nocturnal creatures and the sigh of the wind filled the air. Time to go. Lifting her chin for courage, Catrin stepped boldly onto the roadway and strode down the hillock into the valley of the Severn.

The darkness was a welcoming shroud. As she approached a cluster of humble huts gathered by the wooden bridge, a dog howled long and mournful. She heard a muffled curse and then a yelp. The dog quieted inside one of the huts.

Smoke from banked fires played in the air, tracing gray finger patterns into the sky. Only one dwelling displayed a pinpoint of light, and someone snuffed it just as the clouds broke, allowing moonlight to illuminate her path.

Catrin quickly crossed the bridge. Her pulse pounded in her ears. A cartway wound its way up the escarpment to Northbridge, but she avoided it, choosing instead to climb the steep steps cut out of stone on the face of the cliff. Peasants made their homes in caves dotting the rocks. Catrin slipped quietly by these openings, maintaining a cautious pace.

Near the summit, she spotted a familiar rock masked by brush. She glanced over her shoulder, then slipped into the tiny opening of a secret cave, losing what light the moon had provided. With heavy gulps, she sucked dank air into her lungs and gathered her courage once more.

Trusting her childhood memory of summer games played with Olwen among the cliffs, Catrin placed a palm on the cold, clammy side of the cave wall. Cautiously, she moved forward step by step into the black hole.

Fear closed her throat. No. The forbidding tunnel would not overcome her. Creeping forward, she pressed a hand against the rock. ’Twas her only guide. Had she chosen the wrong cave? Surely this led to the secret escape passage Olwen’s father had shown them long ago when she and her cousin were children.

Suddenly, her hand struck air, and she stumbled forward as the cave wall ended.

Catrin fought a stab of alarm. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She inched her right foot forward until the toe of her riding boot touched stone. Spiral stairs veered to the right. She placed her palms on both sides of the narrow wall and cautiously started up the steep ascent. How many steps? Fifty, she remembered. Catrin counted them silently until she felt a solid, wooden door.

Dieu merci!

Without pausing to catch her breath, she tripped the hidden latch that threw the bolt. The door moved inward on well-oiled hinges hardly making a sound. Catrin shouldered aside a heavy damask wall hanging and entered the private solar of the lady of the castle.

One lone candle lit the murky darkness.

“Olwen?”

“Who goes there?”

“’Tis I. Catrin.”

Her cousin emerged from the shadows, her pale face streaked with tears. Prayer beads dangled from a hand.

“Mercy!” Olwen crossed herself. “Catrin? Can it be you? We had word of your death!”

“You see that I’m very much alive,” Catrin said with a laugh of relief. She opened her arms, and Olwen, sobs shaking her slim body, stumbled into them. “Do not cry so, cuz.”

They clung to each other for many minutes. When the hinges of the solar door squeaked, Catrin stepped back, releasing Olwen.

“’Tis only Meg, my maid,” Olwen said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

The maid entered carrying a laver of water. She gaped, fingers flying to cover her mouth, and dropped the crockery. “A ghost! Lord, preserve us!”

“Meg, Catrin is alive!”

“We had word of your murder at the hands of outlaws.” The maid dropped to her knees to pick up pieces of the broken bowl. “I have only now shown the messenger from your stepmother to the kitchen.”

“Someone did try to kill me.” Catrin knelt beside the maid. “Odd that word reached Isadora so fast.”

“The messenger said Lady Rothmore learned of your death at Acton Burnell from my lady’s betrothed, the one they call the King’s Raven.”

Anger wrenched Catrin’s heart. “Why am I not surprised?”

“The knight said he came upon the scene of a battle,” Meg explained. “He recognized the arms on the dead men’s liveries, found your brother’s shrouded corpse, and brought the body back to court.”

They stood at the same time, and Catrin handed the maid the broken crockery she’d collected. “How did he explain my death?”

“The messenger said your bloodied cloak was with the dead men, outlaws he presumed, that he discovered on the highway.”

“You say the outlaws were murdered too?” Catrin tried to understand. “Who killed them?”

“The messenger did not know,” Olwen said. “He said the King’s Raven did not know either.”

Catrin glanced at her cousin. “I see.”

“What are you thinking, Catrin?”

“From the sound of a voice I heard while hiding, I believe a nobleman wanted me dead. He must have killed the outlaws in his employ to prevent them from revealing their part in the plot.”

Olwen wrung her hands. “Was that nobleman my betrothed? ”

“I know not.” Catrin wiped her hands on her soiled garment, feeling grimy. Her legs suddenly grew unsteady.

“Catrin, what’s wrong?”

She met Olwen’s gaze. Waves of hot and cold washed over her. Her head spun like dancing maidens on May Day. “I feel lightheaded.”

“You are exhausted. Sit, cuz.” Olwen ordered. She guided Catrin back toward the small chair near the fireplace. “Meg, be quick! Bring water, food, and mead. Do not speak of our guest. Catrin’s presence shall remain our secret.”

“Aye, my lady.” Meg rushed from the room.

Later, after cleaning her face and hands and eating her fill of bread and cheese, Catrin rested by the fire. Heat radiated through her, warming her body, yet nothing penetrated her icy mood.

“We need to discuss what’s to be done,” Catrin said. Olwen sat opposite while Meg lingered nearby.

“Do you wish me to leave, my lady?”

“No, Meg. We may need your help.”

Olwen leaned toward Catrin. “What do you plan to do, cuz?”

“The world believes me dead.” Catrin drew a deep breath. Saying the words aloud sent a strange tingle through her body. “But I cannot hide away in this solar forever.”

“Especially with my lady’s coming nuptials,” Meg reminded them. “Her betrothed arrives on the morrow.”

Olwen’s eyes grew cold. “I want nothing to do with marriage to one so wicked. I must go to the convent.”

“Verily, ’tis the place for you, sweet, as we agreed,” Catrin said, “but we have little time.”

“I know.” Olwen flushed and looked down. “I am sorry I had not heeded your advice sooner. ”

Trying to gather her uncontrolled thoughts, Catrin rose and began to pace the solar.

“Bran ap Madog’s arrival poses a problem greater than you know.” She dared not look at Olwen. “You see I have already angered him.”

“How could you anger him? I thought you had never met him.” Olwen shook her head, not understanding. “You said he did not come to the garden.”

“I did not want you to worry.” Catrin stopped and faced her cousin. “But he did come. He thought me to be you, and I let him believe it. And I angered him.”

Olwen gasped and lifted trembling fingertips to her lips. “Oh, Catrin. What happened?”

“I called him a bastard to his face.”

“You did not?”

“I did, Olwen.” Catrin looked away. “Right after he kissed me.”

“Catrin!”

“My ill-timed remarks have made it impossible for you to marry him.” Catrin fought a chill of certainty. “He was furious because I spoke to him in such manner. He will still be angry. He will take it out on you.”

“You must come with me to the convent, Catrin.” Olwen’s face grew determined. “We will both go.”

How could she let this beast harm Olwen? Further, there was no assurance her cousin would be safe even in a convent. Church walls held no sanctity for one such as he.

She set her jaw with resolve. “I will not go to the convent.”

“Where will you go?” Meg asked. “If people believe you dead, where can you live? Your life may be in danger still.”

Catrin gazed at the two women. “I will go nowhere,” she said. “Catrin Fitzalan is dead. For the first time in my life, I am free of the constraints of society and, therefore, free to make my own choices.”

“If the King’s Raven arrives tomorrow, he will find his bride awaiting him.” She lifted her chin. “I will be that bride, sweet cuz.”

Olwen gasped. “How can that be?”

“Easy enough.” The plot formed quickly in her mind. “Remember when I fostered with you as children, we oft traded places to confuse the servants? The other day, e’en Queen Eleanor commented how much we favor each other.”

“You both have an uncanny resemblance,” Meg agreed.

Olwen shook her head. “You talk foolishly. I cannot let you do it.”

“There is no other way,” Catrin said as her purpose firmed. “Someone must be here to hoodwink the king’s man so he will not come looking for you.”

“’Tis too dangerous.”

“Maybe so, but I will make it work. He already believes me to be Olwen.”

Olwen looked worried. “How will he not recognize you?”

“I do not think so,” Catrin said. “I did see him at the tourney. At the time, I was dressed in a green gown. When he saw me later, thinking me you, I was dressed in your old gown. Both times he only saw my face, and I have already told him Olwen resembles her cousin Catrin.”

“Who is now dead ,” Meg said, as if understanding the deception. “It may work, my lady.”

“It must work!”

Olwen had gone pale. “’Tis a sin. You cannot do this. God will punish us both. ”

“God has already punished us.” Catrin’s voice was hushed by the weight of her words.

She had a plan, however dubious. It gave her a measure of control, however small. With it, she would not be forced to suffer her ill fate silently. She might meet it head on and fight like the warrior she had always wanted to be.