My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

The callused hand of Father Ellis settled on Catrin’s shoulder. “Walk with me.” Olwen had insisted they take the castle chaplain into their confidence.

Together the priest and Catrin strolled toward the kitchen garden where Olwen grew her medicinal herbs—betony for the cough and diseases of the lungs, chamomile for headaches, and lavender for apoplexy and falling-sickness. Olwen cultivated her plants with care, picking them at full maturity and greatest vigor, and drying them for use when she tended the sick.

Catrin glanced up at the Father Ellis’ plump and kindly face as they entered the open gate. Thomas de Belleme, Olwen’s father, had installed the monk at Northbridge to shepherd the castle flock. That the clergyman was capable with his sums and could read and write had made him very useful in ways temporal, as well as spiritual.

The autumn had been warm, and the foliage of columbine was an island of green in the otherwise gray and barren garden. Catrin paused to take in the beauty of the small enclosure.

“If it is as you say, you have no certain proof the black knight killed your brother,” Father Ellis pointed out.

Catrin’s heart ached with an unrelenting sadness. “What about the second piece of silk scarf I found near my brother’s body?”

“Mayhap you jump to conclusions,” the clergyman suggested. “You know not who dropped it.”

Catrin glared at him. She wanted to believe she knew the name of Gilbert’s murderer—The King’s Raven—for she had no other suspect.

“Your words of caution do not interest me, Father,” she said with firm determination. “I shall avenge my brother’s untimely death—an eye for an eye.”

“Harsh words.” The priest glanced down at her. “They do not become you.”

“I am tired of having all of mine taken from me.”

“Take care you do not let your anger and grief turn into hatred.”

Catrin held his gaze. “Your words of counsel come too late.”

“I do not like this,” he said with a frown. “The Bible says, ‘Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer; and you know that no murderer has eternal life abiding in him.’ Catrin, I beg you to reconsider. I fear for your soul.”

She let out a breath. Life had presented her without much control. All she ruled were her emotions. Hatred and anger hurt less than the sadness of loss.

She lowered her eyes, feigning submission. “I will consider your words, Father.”

“Your scheme is risky and ill-advised. ”

“Is it not ill-advised to let my sweet cousin marry a man who is suspected of cold-bloodied murder?” Catrin glanced up. “Olwen clearly belongs in a convent.”

Father Ellis regarded her, still frowning, but not denying her words.

“Our plan will work,” Catrin declared. “The King’s Raven already thinks me Olwen. We met at Acton Burnell. Few castle folk will suspect and those who do will be sworn to secrecy.”

The clergyman grunted. “You are na?ve. What of this knight? He is no fool.”

“He will be the last to discover, and if he does find out the truth, I will follow Olwen to her place of sanctuary.” Catrin shrugged, knowing full well the walls of the convent might provide an insufficient hiding place from a betrayed husband.

Father Ellis quietly considered her. “You are determined to do this.”

She nodded.

“I cannot agree to officiate,” he said. “To marry you ’twould be placing us both in mortal sin.”

“I will not be thwarted in this! Think of my cousin’s happiness and safety. Think of your duty to her.” Father Ellis stiffened, and Catrin pressed him. “You baptized Olwen as a babe and educated her. You’ve seen her grow into a woman. You comforted her when her parents died. Do your duty, Father, and protect the only child of Lord Northbridge.”

“Do not speak to me of duty,” he rejoined. “Olwen is like my own child. For that reason alone, I have made arrangements at the nunnery of the White Ladies. I will take her there today where she will be safe.” Father Ellis drew himself up and looked down his nose at Catrin. “In so doing I jeopardize my soul.”

“Thank you.” Tears welled behind her eyelids with relief. She didn’t want to pressure him, but felt she must. Switching places was necessary as well if she was to learn the truth. Helping Olwen in the process was an added boon.

“I wish I could guarantee your safety, my child. I fear this false marriage will bode ill for you.”

She offered a fatalistic smile. “We have no guarantees in this life. For the sake of my cousin and my family, I have chosen this path.”

“You are foolish, but brave,” he conceded.

Catrin sighed. “Nay, not brave. Simply stubborn, I think.”

The old man’s eyes glimmered with cautious humor. “Then I will pray for this king’s man, for he knows not his fate.”

The sudden eerie stillness, like calm winds before a coming storm, alerted Catrin to the arrival of the King’s Raven and his entourage. ’Twas like the dying of the winds before a coming storm. Then chaos broke out in the bailey below. Dogs barked, grooms shouted, the trample of horses’ hooves and the jingle of their trappings cut the quiet of the day.

Catrin abandoned her embroidery, slipping out to Olwen’s herb garden, the blustery day more welcoming than the cold, damp confines of the castle. She had completed her transformation to Olwen only scant hours earlier. With the help of Meg and a reluctant Father Ellis, her cousin now resided at White Ladies, where she found refuge and, hopefully, a measure of peace.

So he had come. The carrion-eater. At Acton Burnell, he’d asked her to call him by his given name—Bran, the raven.

Her nerves jangled. Catrin raised her head and stared at the gray sky. The bridegroom had come to claim his bride, and Catrin, pretending to be Olwen, was that bride. As Olwen, she would take marriage vows, and then he would expect to bed her, as was custom with the traditional ceremony.

Unable to quell her sudden trepidation, Catrin picked up a garden hoe. Fear was best met by physical action.

What would she do? Delay? Play the virgin until she learned the truth of her brother’s death? If circumstances were, as she believed, she would eventually exact revenge on her “bridegroom.” If not, the Church could annul the marriage. A simple strategy.

Catrin smiled at her cleverness. In her year at court, she had studied the rule of present consent to better discuss holy matrimony with Queen Eleanor. The Church said both parties must freely give consent for the marriage to be valid. Vows given under duress or deception were invalid. Obviously, Bran ap Madog would exchange vows with an imposter.

In the eyes of the Church, they would not truly be married.

Catrin released a breath of sharp October air slowly. She mustn’t question herself, her actions, or her motives. She must be brave, as Father Ellis believed her to be.

As she wanted to be.

An hour later, Bran found her in the garden hoeing the dead stalks of summer’s encroaching weeds.

“You did not come to welcome me, my lady.”

She didn’t glance up, hoping to put him off. “I am busy.”

“Too busy to meet your bridegroom? ’Tis not well met, Olwen. I expected more courage from you.”

Her head snapped up. “My whole life has been one of courage, my lord.”

“Bran,” he corrected and came toward her.

She stared at him in disbelief, for riding on his outstretched, gloved wrist—much like a nobleman carried a hawk—was a sleek raven. Her knuckles whitened on the hoe.

He stroked the glistening ebony feathers. “What think you of Mair?”

Catrin gaped at the black-clad figure and his hideous bird. To her, the knight’s affable manner rang false. He held the bird of death. All she had seen and experienced in the last days settled like lead in her chest.

What have I done ?

The import of her decision to switch places with Olwen suddenly struck her.

Could Father Ellis be right ?

She was about to marry a man who approached so stealthily she had not heard him come. A man who carried a bird of doom. What if she proved unable to carry out the ruse and seek the revenge she sought?

Trreeck!

Startled by the raven’s cry, Catrin dropped the hoe and lifted her arm to cover her face .

“Fie, bird!” The black knight flicked his wrist and in a whoosh of feathery wings, the raven flew upward to alight on a bare branch. “I must beg pardon, my lady. Mair won’t hurt you, though she’s oft protective of me.”

How very odd. Catrin’s gaze never left the face of her tormentor. He spoke of the bird as a friend.

She gathered her nerve and lifted her chin. “You talk with affection about such a terrible creature.”

“Mair is not so terrible.” He smiled. “We have much in common.”

“Yea, you both live off rotten spoils of your victims.”

His eyes narrowed, then he shrugged. “We are both oft misunderstood.”

“So you remind me,” Catrin continued in a terse tone. “I find it hard to believe you’re not the fierce creature reputed by others.”

“An image I have carefully crafted at the behest of our king,” he said. “When you know me longer, you will learn the truth.”

“’Tis not that truth I seek from you, sir.”

“Bran,” he prompted. “You forget again, cariad .”

“Do not call me that!”

“What?” He arched a playful brow. “You want me to have no endearment for my wife and helpmate?”

The only help Catrin wanted to give him was a swift kick to send him on his way like the cur he was.

“Wife I may become, thanks to the king’s command,” she said with a defiant glare, “but I will never welcome an endearment from one such as you.” She dared not call him bastard again, but he caught her meaning nonetheless.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, so that’s the lay of the land. I remember another day in another garden, cariad , when you welcomed my endearments. Do you not remember you promised to do your duty? How soon you forget.”

“I forget nothing.”

He looked down at her, his eyes merry. Did he think she flirted with him?

“Too bad, for I had hoped to remind you.”

Catrin took a step backward. “I need no reminding.”

“What a shame.” He removed his leather gloves, a symbol of his power. She was vaguely aware of them dropping to the ground. “Will you not temper your intractable manner?”

“You may find my temper instead, my lord.”

“Call me, Bran, cariad , as I asked.”

His kiss, when it came, was as swift as the strike of a gyrfalcon after its prey. Caught off guard, Catrin was unable to flee. He seized her in his mighty grasp, pulling her toward him, upward, crushing her to his chest. As his mouth captured hers, she struggled to free herself.

Afraid of his overt masculinity, his strength, she fought against him. He devoured her lips, causing hot panic to rise in her throat. He was so powerful. The ultimate warrior. She was his quarry. Weak. Helpless.

“Do not resist. I’ll not hurt you,” he murmured against her mouth.

How could she believe him when he used his power against her? How could she fight him? The impossibility of her situation struck her like a deathblow. Catrin went limp in his arms.

“Ah, cariad .”

His kiss gentled then, as did his grip. His questing lips softened on hers, but were insistent still. Releasing a shoulder, he reached up under her crespine, under her heavy, knee-length braid, and placed a strong hand on the bare flesh of her neck. Her skin twitched at his touch. As he pressed her toward him once more, his tongue sought her own.

Her stomach tight, Catrin felt sudden desire surge throughout her body. She recognized the sensations she feared, and her intellect rebelled. Yet her treasonous, arousing flesh paid no attention. A deep and needy pain throbbed inside. His lips continued to compel her response, and her lungs ached for air. A faint sound escaped from her throat.

Pulling back from the kiss, his dark eyes examined her face. She couldn’t break the spell of his gaze. His breath was hot upon her eyes…her lips. He slowly lifted his other hand from her shoulder. His fingertips assaulted her, tracing liquid fire over her brows and down the curve of her cheek, and she forgot everything but a new heightened sensitivity that spread through her.

“The king has blessed me well,” he murmured. “Do you know how I want to see more than the fair outline of your charming face?”

His lips took hers again. The silken heat of his tongue sent a quiver through her body. Catrin succumbed to his torture, returning his kiss with a growing excitement of her own. His hand strayed from her face into the folds of her surcoat. When his fingers brushed the wool fabric that covered her breast, shock waves reverberated up and down her spine. Her legs weakened. He caught her to him tightly. She felt the hard shape of him through the folds of their clothing. She felt her own melting capitulation.

She was his for the taking.

“Nay,” he said under his breath, “we will be husband and wife first. ”

Bran stepped back a pace and dropped his hands. He appeared visibly shaken, his mouth open, his eyes glazed. In shock, she stared at him. Slowly, her fingertips strayed to her swollen lips.

What have I done ?

“The king commands we wed immediately, my lady. He wants these lands secured. I find I agree, for I want more than lands secured. You will find I am eager to be your husband and will love you as is fitting for a husband to love a wife.”

Catrin gathered what pride that remained within and looked upon him with disdain. “The king may bind us together, but he cannot order my heart. We may wed on the morrow, sir, but you will never secure that part of me,” she taunted. “My devotion belongs to my cousin Gilbert Fitzalan, the late Earl Rothmore, whom many say you have murdered.”

His countenance darkened. “I’m sorry for your grief, but I care not for your affection. I have my orders from the king, and I will do my duty.”

She looked away and refused to answer. He retrieved his leather gloves and with angry deliberation pulled them on, his gaze never leaving hers, and then he whistled shrilly through his teeth. With a flap of wings, Mair swooped from the tree and settled on his outstretched, gloved wrist.

“Go. Make your preparations for the morrow when we will wed.”

He left Catrin standing silently in the garden, alone with her anger and even more determined to prove him guilty of slaying her brother.

“This time I will not fail,” Catrin vowed.