My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Her half brother Richard, Isadora’s son, was now Earl Rothmore. Catrin wanted to flee, for his presence at Northbridge boded ill.

Did Meg read the panic in her stare? She must, because Catrin saw her own fear mirrored in the eyes of the faithful servant.

The maid clutched the hem of Catrin’s cloak. “My lady, the boy is not well.”

Alarm seized her as she slid from the mare. “Where is he?”

“In the hall.”

Sparing a quick glance at Bran, who watched her with curiosity, Catrin picked up her skirts and with Meg sprinted across the bailey. Servants scattered to let them pass. Together they climbed the sandstone steps to the door of the keep and entered the dimly-lit hall. Inside, several Rothmore retainers clustered in a group cast dubious glances at the sparse furnishings of Northbridge’s great hall. The lands and property Bran had claimed by marriage to “Olwen” paled in comparison to the lavish holdings Catrin’s ten-year-old brother had inherited.

Seeing so many people she knew, Catrin halted at the entrance. Meg seemed to understand her reluctance and uttered a soft, “Courage.”

Catrin squared her shoulders and gave the maid a slight smile. “Keep this for me.” She handed Meg the jeweled brooch.

Then she strode down the length of the hall, passing the new arrivals with her head high, her cloak whipping behind her because of her haste. She hoped her air of confidence would dissuade even the most suspicious.

Richard sat in the lord’s massive chair near the fire. He was a thin lad clad in the flowing robes of an adult. His face appeared paler than usual for all that he was always sickly. Eyes wide with trepidation and shadowed by dark circles, he cast sharp glances around the hall.

Catrin's soul filled with a cold ache. Richard had the look of her father and Gilbert. He was a Fitzalan. He was her brother, no matter his mother.

She went to him, dropping a curtsy, her eyes downcast. “My lord.”

Richard acknowledged her gravely with the nod of his head. Yet, when he spoke, it was with the voice of a child. “You may rise, cousin.”

As she stood and looked him full in the face, she heard him gasp. With his thin hands grasping the arms of the chair, he propelled himself upward to stand before her. “Catrin?” he whispered.

Compassion ripped her heart anew. In a foolhardy move, she went down on her knees and gathered her little brother in her arms, hugging him tightly and feeling the very bones of him beneath his garments. “Aye, I am alive,” she whispered. “But do not react for our enemies are all around. I will explain when we are alone.”

Richard nodded. “I have been afraid.” He caught himself before saying her name. He was wise beyond his years.

“As have I.” She looked at him. “You must be brave, for you are to take Gilbert’s place.”

Richard’s lip trembled. “I would rather not.”

“As with much in this life, you shall have no choice.” Catrin pulled him even closer.

“I know,” he whimpered. “I try to be brave.”

Slowly, she became aware of the heat radiating from her brother. Catrin rocked back on her heels and, holding him at arm’s length, placed a palm on his scorching forehead. “My lord, you are ill.”

He nodded his head. “I know, but since I am sick so often, I didn’t want to trouble anyone.”

Catrin rose abruptly, searching for Meg. Instead her gaze slammed against the speculative one of the Guy de Hastings, Lord Leighton.

She lifted a haughty chin. “My lord?”

He bowed with mock formality. “Lady de Belleme.”

“’Tis Lady Northbridge,” Catrin replied sharply, for her natural dislike of him rose within her like a striking viper. “I am now married.”

He smiled with condescension. “Yea, the king’s man. Where is your new husband, my lady? I have business with him.”

“What do you want, Leighton?” Bran’s voice boomed above the chattering household. All those in the great hall fell silent as the new master of Northbridge advanced through the crowd. He came to a halt in front of them, looking very much like the wild Welsh warrior of his reputation. “You have reason for your visit?”

Tension popped between the two men. Why this animosity? Bran’s lips pinched together with evident hostility, his stance rigid and unyielding.

Lord Leighton seemed no better disposed to be pleasant. He looked down his aquiline Norman nose at the darker, heavier knight. “Lady Rothmore, Richard’s mother, sent me to make sure her son arrives safely, what with Welsh raiders crossing the border murdering innocent English women.”

“What is the purpose of the earl’s visit?” Bran gave no quarter nor acknowledged the slur.

Lord Leighton’s eyes burned. “At the king’s command, I have brought you this dispatch.” He offered a sealed parchment to his host.

Bran took the missive, glanced at the royal seal, and then lifted his gaze to search the onlookers. “Where is Father Ellis?”

“What’s the matter, my lord?” Leighton scoffed. “You cannot decipher our liege’s message?”

Catrin’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. What if Bran could not read? Learning to read did not figure into the training of a common soldier. And wasn’t Bran a simple soldier before his elevation in rank by the king? That she knew so little about him pierced her conscience for an instant.

Bran remained stonily silent in the face of Leighton’s obvious satisfaction. Catrin’s aversion to the pompous neighbor of the Fitzalan family was magnified a hundredfold because of his humiliation of her husband. Her pulse quickened and so did her protective instincts.

“May I, my lord?” She extended her hand, wanting to end the standoff, but knowing as she did, she might humiliate her husband more.

His jaw clenching, Bran handed over the parchment, much as he had earlier offered her the brooch. She took it from him, their fingertips touching, and she quickly turned away, breaking the red wax seal bearing the king’s crest. Nearby, Richard coughed a dry hacking sound that testified to his poor health.

Once more, while Catrin scanned the Latin text, appreciation welled within her. Her mother’s dying instructions to her father were for him to promise that both her babies be taught to read and write—the girl as well as the boy. Illiterate herself, her mother had known her daughter’s half-Welsh heritage could be tempered by education. Thus, she and Olwen had spent many days under the tutelage of one tutor after another, often learning more aptly than Gilbert, who had oft been schooled with them.

Catrin looked up from the message, a mixture of dread and excitement seeping to her very core. Now, even more, the implication of her deception weighed upon her. As Olwen’s husband, Edward was honoring Bran.

If he was not the one who killed Gilbert, she wronged him sorely by pretending to be Olwen. The earlier glee she felt knowing Bran’s world would crumble some day when he found out the truth now ended abruptly, for she had involved her only remaining brother in the deception.

“King Edward has given you the guardianship of Richard Fitzalan, Earl Rothmore,” Catrin said, her voice growing husky with emotion. “He is to foster with you, learning the tasks and duties of a high lord of the realm.”

Bran stood a little straighter, letting the news sink in. Catrin saw the depth of feeling in his eyes. He would know the responsibility and the great honor of the king’s decree. He also would know of the wealth that came to him because of it.

Leighton knew it too. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. He hid his anger by narrowing his eyes.

He could not hide his fisted glove.

Tense silence followed, both men measuring each other like two barn cats protecting turf.

“We must return to Oswestry,” Leighton spoke, finally ending the standoff. “Yet, it grows dark early these days.”

Was he seeking an invitation? Good manners, as the lady of the castle, bid her to ask the king’s courier to stay. Fear held her tongue. With so much at stake, she didn’t need the prying glances of Guy de Hastings.

Bran’s look reproached her. She should speak. Swallowing her unease, Catrin murmured, “We will have our midday meal soon. Please dine with us, Lord Leighton. You and your retinue can start out early on the morrow.”

“I can never resist a beautiful lady,” he said bowing slightly and favoring her with another rude and speculative glace.

She thought Bran would take off his head.

“’Tis settled,” her husband said. “Let us eat!”

Hungry servants sprang into action at their lord’s command, dragging out trestle tables and benches for the largest meal of the day. Catrin sent Meg to check with the cook and called for the butler to offer ale and wine to her guests.

Then, her visitors attended to, she turned back to Richard. The boy slumped in the chair, looking more wan and pathetic than she’d ever seen him.

Before she could go to her brother, Bran stepped to her side and caught her arm. “You were quick to shame me in front of Leighton,” he growled close to her ear so no one else heard.

Catrin bristled. “What would you have me do? I tried to save you from embarrassment when I realized you cannot read.”

“You miss my meaning,” Bran countered. “You were slow to do your duty as wife and mistress of Northbridge. Word travels fast, and Lord Leighton has designs at court. Should we send him away without the hospitality of a full belly and a good night’s rest?”

Catrin flinched at his angry tone. She didn’t need this, not with Richard’s illness to deal with. She met Bran’s gaze, refusing to back away. Not even with the touch of his hand branding her flesh, his breath hot upon her face, his manly outdoor scent embracing her. Not even when she trembled with unwanted desire and then hated the way her body betrayed her.

“Mayhap, if you acted less like your hot-blooded ancestors, we could discuss this civilly,” she said with a pointed glance at his grip on her arm.

Something flickered in his eyes. He removed his hand. “I have treated you with respect.”

“You, my lord, have treated me as your raven namesake.”

Had they been alone in the hall, she knew he’d take her then and there. The anger in his gaze was a palpable thing. “I can play your pretty games,” he said, “but you will also play mine.”

“Fine. Then play the magnanimous host. Tend to our guests while I see to Richard.”

Pointedly, she turned her back on him. She felt him leave, for the air around her seemed to lighten as the charged energy of his presence vanished. Catrin knelt once more beside Richard and placed her hand against his forehead. Her mind whirled with concern and confusion.

She took a shaky breath. Could Bran be jealous?

Quickly, she checked that disturbing thought. And the notion that Lord Leighton’s voice sounded so strangely familiar to her.

Bran sent Meg to fetch Olwen from the solar where she’d taken the boy Richard. Now his tardy wife chatted with Leighton, her head demurely down, her laughter tempered, almost as if she responded politely when expected, nothing more. Still Bran was not amused.

He slouched in the lord’s chair, one arm draped over its back and the other rising every few moments when he brought a silver goblet to his lips. His irritated stare swept the two of them.

Damn Leighton! First the whoreson challenged him in Paris at the French king’s tournament, forcing him to best one of King Edward’s subjects in order to maintain his disguise. Now, Leighton challenged him with his pretty new wife, blatantly flirting with Olwen and making her laugh. Did she not know the man was a schemer? Prone to taking what he wanted?

Frustration rippled through him and he bit back a curse with another swig of ale. Leighton had a silver tongue. Bran had not the gift, nor the inclination. Olwen wanted courting and what had he done? He’d fair raped her the last time they’d been together. Damn his uncontrollable lust!

Damn her for making him feel so out of control !

Bran knew what she meant when she said he had treated her as his raven namesake. In the slang of the day, to raven a woman was to copulate with her roughly or even brutally. His gut twisted with shame. He had never meant to treat her so harshly. He wanted to go slow and bring her to climax.

Instead, she had bested him with her beauty and her innocent passion. They fed off one another, with anger, surely, but also with a sweet, insatiable desire. She had made him hunger so that he couldn’t stop wanting to feast on her charms.

This was his reward. To watch his young bride trifled with by the damn self-seeking lord.

He had stayed well away from Olwen for days; unable to be near her for fear he’d lose his control once more. Even now, a simple glance at her sent his pulse racing and his cock rising. She had that kind of effect on him.

Was it because he had long been without a woman? Now that he had a wife legally, his lust mounted because of his pride of ownership. Verily, he need not fear fathering a bastard ever again. Olwen would not think kindly of his pride in her as his possession.

He did not want to believe there was more to his obsession.

“Madog! Your bride has quite a wit!” Leighton waved a shank of venison in the air and then bit into it, ripping the juicy meat from the bone.

Bran’s hackles rose. His noisy guest was unashamed in his insult, for Bran was now Lord Northbridge and deserved to be addressed by that rank.

“Lord Leighton,” Olwen said with a sweet smile that Bran mistrusted, “please have more of my husband’s wine brought from Boudreaux. You’ll find it tasty as well as potent. ”

Olwen darted a glance his way, revealing an amused tilt to her lips. With a clunk, Bran slammed his goblet down on the table and scrubbed his hand down his face. What was she plotting? He sat forward, suddenly intent on watching his bride.

He watched her pinch a piece of dark, crusty bread and bring the bite up to her lips. Her movements were restrained and feminine much like her features, the simple oval of her face and bright blue of her eyes. Her pale hands were refined and elegant with long, tapering fingers meant, perchance, to use on a musical instrument. He could imagine them plucking the strings of a harp, a small Celtic one like his grandmother used to play.

Memory of those hands upon his back and the soft fullness of those lips on his mouth excited his passions. He could not stop wanting her again…and again…with a hunger not even close to slacking.

Catrin knew Bran watched her, just as surely as Guy de Hastings did. Their guest had known her, for however briefly, as Catrin. She doubted he had known Olwen, but discovery ’twas a chance she dared not take, and she was uneasy. Leighton’s suspicions must be thwarted.

Carefully, she toyed with Leighton as if she were a pawn in chess, manipulating him with a filled cup and murmuring sweet, nonsensical words that pumped his ego. All the while, anger simmered beneath the surface, and she was cautious not to show her contempt. Rumor said Leighton and Isadora were lovers. Both had denied it, but why else had her stepmother entrusted him to deliver her son to Northbridge ?

Richard . Worry plagued her. She had come to expect her brother’s frequent illnesses, but this was different. He burned with a fever she knew not how to ease. Thankfully, Meg was with him. She longed for this interminable meal to end.

“Welshman,” Leighton called, leaning on the table and pointing his eating knife at Bran, “the king honors you well with the care of Earl Rothmore.”

Bran’s eyes narrowed. “I am well aware of the king’s grace.”

“Lady Isadora means to make certain of her son’s welfare.”

“I would expect a mother to care thus for her son,” Bran answered evenly.

The sudden rush of pride she felt surprised Catrin. No wonder Edward had used Bran for his purposes. Her husband possessed the judgment of a diplomat and kept his thoughts well controlled.

Not so their guest. Wine loosened Leighton’s tongue. He turned to Catrin as if confiding in her. “Lady Isadora worries Richard will not be strong enough to learn the fighting skills of a knight. Further, she wonders how a barbaric Welshman can pass on the finer skills her son needs as a lord of the realm.”

Catrin drew a sharp breath at the blatant insult. Bran closed his fists upon the arms of the chair and looked as if he were about to rise. The fierce black knight of the tourney field had returned.

Men! They thought nothing about the welfare of poor Richard. They thought only of their silly pride and selfish greed.

“My lords, this meal has ended!” Catrin stood, placing her hands on the edge of the table. “I must go now to Richard, who you, Lord Leighton, brought to us with a raging fever.”

Leighton was not pleased by her indictment. “Harrumph! The foolish boy is always ill.” He swallowed more wine and glared up at her.

Anger rankled Catrin. “Please give Lady Isadora a message from my husband and myself when you see her on the morrow.” She glanced quickly at Bran. “Tell her she can rest assured that her son, my cousin, will be safe in the household of Lord Northbridge.”

Catrin pushed back her chair and gathered her skirts, pausing a moment to stare down at Bran. “And you, my lord,” she said softly, bending down as if to kiss him but letting no one else hear, “may take your rest elsewhere tonight, for I have given Earl Rothmore the lord’s great bed.”

With that, she whisked past him, head held high.

All the while, she attempted, unsuccessfully, to banish the thought of the hurt flitting, however briefly, through Bran’s raven eyes.