My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Will Tabor, the new stable boy, held the sleek, black raven on his outstretched gloved wrist. “She’s not a bad bird, my lady,” he said.

Catrin eyed the horrible, screeching creature with a doleful look. “Perchance I would rather keep a large hawk,” she murmured. “I see no purpose for such a creature.”

“In the fields they eat rotten carrion. They’re quite clever,” the boy explained. “I once saw a raven steal food right from beneath the nose of a dog.”

Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, Catrin marveled at his enthusiasm. The lad, who had been lazy and shiftless under the care of the cook, was now responsible for Bran’s treasured bird.

“Do you want to touch her?”

She took a step nearer and stretched out her fingers, keeping them away from the scary beak. Carefully, she smoothed the slick feathers on the raven’s head. As if she knew she was facing a stern test, the raven behaved herself, regarding Catrin with beady black eyes .

“She’s called Mair, my lady.”

“So I have heard.” Catrin had also heard ravens possessed a great gift of perception. They were soothsayers, as she claimed to be. Did Mair know the truth about her brother’s death? Did she know who ambushed her on the way to Clun?

“Thank you for showing the bird to me, Will,” she said with a smile.

The boy bobbed his head and returned to the mews, empty now except for the raven.

At a loss for something to do, Catrin wandered toward the stable. For days she had been confined inside by the constant drizzle. Therefore, when today broke fair and clear, she donned an old pair of men’s braes under a woolen gown, surcoat, and cape. After morning Mass, she escaped into the bailey, where much of the real work of the castle took place.

Restless now, hoping to find peace in the quiet of the stable, she walked the dirt aisle between two rows of stalls. As she passed Bran’s string of prize horses, black as midnight, they lifted their heads from fragrant hay bags, and stared at her with wide eyes. Her husband was rich in horseflesh, if nothing else, she thought with a sigh.

After taking her hard and fast on the cold window seat and then coupling with her much more gently in midst of the lord’s great bed, Bran had called a silent truce. He’d not touched her since. Always up before dawn, Bran left the bed while she slept. Not bothering to eat the midday meal in the great hall, he returned to the castle long after she crawled into bed for the night.

When she queried Meg, Catrin learned her husband traveled the length of the lands, surveying the tenants, settling disputes, and providing the strong hand Northbridge had lacked since the death of Olwen’s father. Bran rode out in the rain by day and by night sat in front of the hearth in the great hall. Catrin watched him from the secret squint, wondering why he suddenly avoided her. Had she grown three heads and added bat wings?

A dark bay mare, almost black but for the brown around her muzzle, stuck her head over the restraining rope that kept her within her stall. Catrin stopped and offered the palm of her hand, letting the well-bred mare snuffle at her straight, outstretched fingers. Gentle brown eyes surveyed her. Catrin looked into them, sighing, and then moved her hand to the well-muscled neck.

“I have no carrots to offer,” she murmured, rubbing her palm over the shiny coat “I’m sorry, girl.”

The horse pawed a complaint and bobbed her head up and down. ’Twas quiet here, but for the movement of horses in the dim light. An uneasy calm came over Catrin amidst the smell of hay and horses. Marriage to Bran had accomplished only one of her goals. She’d saved Olwen from a difficult fate, for her cousin couldn’t have abided the rough coupling she had withstood. Olwen’s gentle spirit would have broken from it.

As if hers would not!

A fretful knot twisted in her stomach. Catrin soothed herself by soothing the mare, crooning soft words with no meaning and stroking the dark neck. She must admit her new fear, if only to herself. Why did Bran leave her alone in bed, only to join her for short periods when she was already fast asleep? Why was he avoiding her? Did he suspect the truth? Had she done something to cause his suspicion?

That she even cared what he thought was troubling.

Anger stiffened her spine, and she turned away from the mare lest the animal sense her disquiet. Aye, why did she care? And why had the woman part of her ache and pulsate as she stealthily watched him through that secret squint?

Catrin crossed the aisle to survey a striking black stallion with the distinctive feathering of a horse from Freesland. She did not dare approach such a vicious creature, wary of him as she was of his master.

“Ride with me, my lady,” Bran’s deep voice vibrated through the cavernous stable. “The destrier I call Taran, which means Thunder in Welch, needs exercise.”

Catrin whirled around. “Is that a command?” she asked, her face feeling hot.

He shook his head. “Nay, a simple request.”

She studied him, watching the muscles flex along his jaw line. She heard her pulse beating in her ears and wondered once more about her reaction to this man. They battled silently, their gazes colliding.

Finally, she lowered her eyes. “I would like that.”

’Twas almost as if he too held his breath. He remained motionless staring at her. All of a sudden, Bran sprang into action calling out instructions. Grooms appeared from nowhere, bustling about, readying the horses.

“Saddle Merch for my lady,” Bran ordered. He turned to her. “‘Merch’ means ‘girl.’ I think the palfrey will suit you fine.”

Catrin stood in the middle of the aisle while a stable boy saddled the dark bay mare she had just stroked. She turned in circles, watching the commotion, wondering about the efficiency the servants of Northbridge exhibited so soon after the arrival of their new lord. Had Bran instituted such change?

“I will ride Taran,” he told the head groom. Turning to Catrin, he asked, “Do you think you can handle a frisky mare? She’s been cooped up because of the rain.”

She lifted her shoulder with disdain. “I think you know I can ride anything, my lord.”

Bran laughed aloud. “You’re right! I have found your horsemanship to be excellent.” He stepped nearer so only she heard his words. “In fact, I fear you may geld me with your competence.”

He left abruptly to check the girth on the mare’s saddle. Her face flamed at his remark. Still her heart danced nervously, and she marveled at him. Today Bran seemed in a fine mood, even joking about their lovemaking.

Nay, she refused to think of it as such, for love she did not feel. Copulation. The mating of two animals. ’Twas all it was. And if he found her so experienced, why did he leave her alone for so many days? As if he had disappeared into a cave of his own making, sour on the world?

Bran led the mare from the stall and handed the horse over to the groom, who held the reins at the head.

He came toward Catrin. “My lady, I will help you mount.”

Catrin spotted the twisting of his lips. Still joking and using sexual references, was he? Fine. She could rise above his rough coarseness. She had survived Gilbert’s common male language, after all, those many years.

Lifting her chin as if she were the queen herself, Catrin placed her hand in his, allowing him to usher her toward the mare. Her gown and surcoat were split on the sides, allowing her to ride astride, the way she liked it. Fortunately, a stone mounting block was nearby, and she didn’t need her husband’s help or his hands upon her body. Catrin climbed aboard Merch, gathered her reins expertly, and adjusted her skirts and cape. Then she jabbed her heels into the sides of the mare, bolting forward out of the stable.

Catrin carefully maneuvered through the bailey and out the open gate picking her way past huts clustered on the plateau near the castle keep that made up the high town. Her bold action must have surprised Bran, who still had to saddle his stallion, mount, and follow her. She didn’t care. For once, she felt carefree with the little mare between her thighs and not a rutting knight.

The sandstone cliff fell steeply to the river below. Catrin took the winding cartway she had avoided on the night of her arrival. By the time she reached the bridge, Bran had caught up with her.

“You should not go out alone.”

His brows furrowed, and his lips drew into a thin line. He was angry now. She didn’t care.

They crossed the wooden bridge, the clomping of the hooves sounding hollow above the roar of the rushing water below. Although the river had risen because of the rain, the Severn still retained its boundaries. On its banks, mallards and geese gathered, searching for food.

They turned left, passed through low town, and followed the riverbank. Soon, leaving Castle Mount behind, they entered woodland, the trees already winter-bare. The air was crisp and smelled of smoke and fallen leaves. A wild excitement stirred Catrin’s blood. Her horse wanted a good gallop, but she carefully controlled the mare, letting her settle into a comfortable amble for a few strides. Bran relaxed his stallion into a prancing walk. His horse’s head tossed up and down as the animal fought the bit.

Catrin knew the stretch of ground ahead was flat. “Let’s run them! ”

Before he could utter a reply, she kicked her horse into a gallop, leaned forward in the saddle, and urged the mare into a faster pace. The wind whipped her cloak behind her like a battle flag and stung her eyes and her face. The illusion of freedom spurred her on. She wanted to shout with joy.

In only a few strides, Bran caught up with her and rode precariously side-by-side with her on the narrow dirt track. She glanced over her shoulder at his wind-reddened cheeks, his eyes alight with pleasure. Like a boy released from his studies, he grinned mischievously, seeming to goad her forward.

Soon, the road grew muddy and Catrin slowed, fearing for the safety of the gallant mare. She caught her breath, feeling winded like the horse, her mind eased of its worries.

“You ride well, my lady.”

“Ha! High praise from the King’s Raven! I am honored.”

He frowned at her sarcasm. “You give no quarter, do you?”

“I have none to give. This marriage is not of my choosing. The king selected for me.”

They rode a little way in silence until they reached a shallow ford of a millrace. In the distance, a mill emerged through the trees, the sound of its wheel groaning as it turned, providing the power to grind grain into flour. They paused to let the horses drink.

Bran shifted in his saddle. “I want to give you something.”

“I want nothing from you, but the truth.” Her answer sounded curt.

“And I have given you the truth.”

“Then spare me more gifts.” Catrin raised the mare’s head and turned toward Northbridge .

“Be that as it may, I want to give you a morning gift.”

His words stopped her. A morning gift, or a thanks offering, was meant to pay the bride for the loss of her virginity.

“If love passed between us, there would be no need for such a gift,” she said.

“Love is not part of the bargain I seek.”

“Only my cooperation .”

Scowling, he reached into the folds of his black cloak and pulled forth a jewel. He let out an exasperated breath as he handed it to her across the gap between the now restive horses. “’Tis a brooch to pin together your cloak.”

Catrin accepted the beautiful bauble in the palm of her right hand. She smiled at the irony of it for he had given her another one in their marriage bed.

The silver-encrusted brooch was made from red jasper, a stone symbolizing love. Did Bran realize that? Surely not. He wanted love from her no more than she wanted it from him.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said with a proper bow. “I will treasure it as long as we are married.”

His lips pressed tightly together, Bran spurred his black horse into a gallop, leaving her to pick up her gait and sprint after him. She clutched the red jasper brooch in her hand along with the reins.

As they retraced their ride, she speculated about their change in mood. Gone was the cheerful exuberance of the earlier gallop. How quickly did their differences manifest between them. What could she expect, given the circumstances of their marriage and her deception?

Catrin knew something was amiss when they trotted silently side-by-side into the bailey now crowded with retainers all bearing the Rothmore crest. A groom took her horse’s reins, and Meg ran across the courtyard toward her.

Fear stabbed Catrin in the gut.

“My lady.” Meg reached the mare and looking up, whispered, “Your brother, Earl Rothmore, has come to Northbridge Castle!”