My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Twenty-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Someone wanted to kill her. Again. Catrin needed only to shut her eyes to see once more the sharp, single-minded glare of her attacker and smell his unwashed body and foul breath. She shuddered, remembering his harsh hands restraining her and the pillow smothering her face. Her weakened lungs had burned, and she had grunted in fear.

Then she was set free. Suddenly. Thankfully. Bran’s face bent over hers, and she stared into the look of fright in his eyes.

He saved her life. Now guards were posted outside her door and another serving wench helped Meg with her care. She was never alone. Even now, as morning sunshine bore through the glazing above the window seat, her room was crowded. The bright light diffused the vision of her black-clad husband who stood beside her bed looking down at her with an expression of odd disquiet.

“Because someone tried to smother you last night, I took another look at the arrow that was imbedded in your shoulder,” Bran told her .

She squinted up at him to see his eyes shuttered, giving her no glimpse of the love she saw there the night before. Had she dreamed it? And what of the other dreams she faintly remembered? Of someone strong and caring, bathing her and holding her tight, sustaining her will to live with his very conviction.

Catrin rubbed her right hand across her eyes. Her left shoulder ached like a firebrand, restricting her movements. Still weak, she lay against the linen-covered pillows, sinking deeply into the cushions, weary from a profound, abiding exhaustion.

She dropped her hand to the coverlet. “What did you find?”

“’Twas not a hunting arrow as I had earlier assumed,” he said.

She lifted her eyebrows, startled. Bran appeared ill at ease.

“The arrowhead had not a y-shaped forked hunting head, but a larger, bodkin head usually used for war. The fletching was made of pinion feathers, much larger than those used for hunting.”

Catrin absorbed his information. The frightful implications of Bran’s discovery settled in her stomach. “A yeoman skilled with a longbow and using an arrow made for war can be deadly accurate. Yet I was only hit in the shoulder.”

“I believe your movement to dismount ruined the bowman’s shot.” Bran raised his gaze to hers, transmitting an uncharacteristic anguish. “Mercifully,” he said softly, almost in an afterthought.

Catrin studied his face, her breathing shallow. Confusion spun in her head. She didn’t know what to make of Bran’s revelation. His concern .

“Verily, ’tis a miracle the arrow did not strike me in a more critical place,” she said, “and that I did not die.”

Bran nodded, frowning at her. “In the confusion, I failed to investigate your attacker.”

“You thought it was an accident.”

“I should have not assumed.”

Bran gave himself no quarter. Angry now, he spun from her to pace the room, his black robes whipping around him with each stride.

“Because of my neglect, you were almost murdered last night.” He pounded a fist against the wall. “I will not let that happen a third time.” He turned to face her. “I protect what is mine!”

Her perplexity ended. Catrin lowered her head. “Aye, my lord. ’Tis proper you protect the things that are yours.”

She felt him take a step toward her, but he hesitated and did not come nearer. Keeping her eyes cast downward, she gave no quarter either and would not look up. What made her think the King’s Raven, the knight-errant who sought land and property above all else, would find concern in his heart for her? A mere woman.

Aye, what made her want for something more from him? He was her enemy, was he not?

She sensed his departure. The energy level in the room evaporated. She felt depleted once more. Finally, Catrin raised her head, sadly craving more than she had a right to expect from the man she had tricked so foully when she married him.

Richard came for visits. Many of them. Between his sessions with Bran, her half-brother sat beside Catrin in the solar, so full of life, chattering and laughing. He read haltingly from the Arthurian romance to ease the boredom of her slow recovery.

“I have never seen you so happy,” Catrin said to him one day a fortnight later. She had regained more use of her arm and shoulder and had recovered enough to want to leave the confines of the solar.

The boy paused, thoughtful. He glanced at his sister as if judging what to say. “Lord Northbridge has made me his page,” he said. “I know some of my duties, because Father allowed me to learn them, even though Mother was against it.”

“I remember you were a very good page,” Catrin said, thinking back at the serious way Richard had attended his father at dinner, bringing the wine and carving joints of meat.

“Lord Northbridge—Bran—says that I am behind in my fighting skills,” Richard said as if he suddenly wanted to talk about it. “He started teaching me how to care for his armor and has given me my own to wear.”

Catrin pushed herself up in the bed. Bran was right. Richard was long overdue to be fostered. Isadora had begged her husband not to send the boy away, using the excuse that he was ever sickly. Earl Rothmore, older and indulgent, had conceded hoping to please his young wife and keep peace. Much in the same way he had indulged Catrin, his only daughter, not demanding her marriage, John Fitzalan had failed to make a decision until she was almost beyond marriageable age.

That Richard was now learning the art of war, three years behind other boys of his age, gnawed at Catrin’s heart. His military schooling must be started, yet it troubled her. Like Isadora, she feared for his safety.

“I pray he will not push you beyond what you can do.” Catrin stretched her hand out toward him.

Richard pulled back, the pride of his young manhood showing. “Bran says a boy must leave his mother’s side, for ’tis her natural tendency to keep him with her. Else he will never become a man.”

Catrin shrugged. “There is wisdom in what Bran says.”

Richard’s small jaw jutted forward. “Bran guides me with a wisdom and charity you fail to appreciate. He is not a bad man, Catrin, and he is right. I am sorely lacking in my skills. I must know the art of war if I am to tend to my land and people.” The young earl’s jaw remained firm.

Catrin dropped her hand. Like so much in her life, others controlled what she did. Or society dictated it. Bitterness rose in her throat. She couldn’t prevent Richard’s growing up any more than later on she could prevent him from riding in a tourney or into battle. Her lack of control was magnified by her desire to protect the one person she had left, her very determined young brother.

“You must not worry so,” Richard urged after a moment when she failed to speak. “If you opened your eyes, you would see the worth in your husband.”

Even Richard, who knew the truth, called Bran her husband. Not Olwen’s husband. The irony bit into Catrin’s conscience. She smiled. “Then tell me about your guardian, this veritable paragon of virtue.”

Richard was no lackwit. He caught her sarcasm and bristled at it. “Do you not remember how Bran nursed you night and day, never letting any other tend you? ”

Catrin sat back. Even the plush pillows could not cushion her shock. “I thought Meg tended me. When I awoke, Bran was in the room, but he sent Meg to me soon after.”

Seeming eager to prove his point, Richard persisted, “You’re wrong. Bran let no one else attend you. He was with you morning and night, nursing you through the shock of the wound and then the contagion.”

She took a deep breath, settling against the pillows, allowing Richard’s words to sink in. She hadn’t known. Not really. Bran hadn’t told her. Neither had Meg, for that matter.

Her memories of that time were hazy. Incomplete. She thought them dreams. When she closed her eyes and thought back, she had the sensation of strength around her. A tender caring. A determination. And love.

Love had brought her back. She knew that now with a certainty. Yet had it been Bran’s love? Surely, not! He thought of her as he would his destrier Taran or the lowly scullery boy who worked in his kitchen. She was his possession. He owned her. In truth, if he had fought to save her life, he was only doing his duty, as any chivalrous knight.

Catrin battled hard to keep hatred burning brightly in her chest. She couldn’t let herself believe anything positive about her husband. ’Twould be too costly.

Richard watched her, his eyes narrowing. “This makes the third time someone has tried to kill you,” he said simply.

Wrenched out of her musing, Catrin reacted with a frown. “Nay, Catrin is dead, remember? These last two attacks came against our cousin Olwen .”

“I see the right of that,” he said with a nod. “Are you going to tell Bran that you are not Olwen? ”

“Do you want me to?” she asked, biding time to regain her clarity of thought.

He nodded again, looking down. “’Tis not fair for him not to know.”

Bran had an ally. Surprise rendered her speechless for a moment as fear gnawed inside. “I cannot tell him the truth,” she said at last.

Richard’s head jerked up and his gaze slammed hard against hers. “Why not? He saved your life. He cares for you.”

Catrin recoiled. “He cares about Olwen, the wife the king gave him.”

Her little brother made a dismissive snort. “You are wrong.”

She sat forward. “Think this through, Richard. If I tell him the truth, he goes to find Olwen and takes her away from the safety of the convent of White Ladies.”

“Think again. Mayhap he plays the game,” he suggested. “Content with the truth, maybe he’ll let the real Olwen live in peace.”

“He is the king’s man. We have exchanged marriage vows. I have sinned in doing so because I’m not Olwen. His ignorance will be no excuse to the church or to the court. Bran will be punished if authorities find out the truth.”

Cold fear cramped Catrin’s stomach. Richard failed to see reality. Could filling him full of tales of chivalry and King Arthur have been wrong?

“Where, then, does it end?” he asked with a wisdom that amazed her.

She stared at him, wondering herself. “It ends when we discover who killed Father and Gilbert,” she whispered.

Richard rose abruptly. “You are a silly female to have placed yourself and Bran in this predicament. All I know is that Bran did not kill Father and Gilbert. There is too much honor in him. Someone else did it, probably the same person who tried to murder you.” He stood beside her bed like the dangerous knight he was to become. “Bran didn’t do it or else he wouldn’t have saved your life!”

He turned his back on her, muttering something under his breath, and then marched from the room with the righteous air of a Crusader.

“Richard,” she called out. “Do not be angry with me!”

As so many men were wont to do, he didn’t stop to listen, to discuss.

Fighting the burning tears threatening her eyes, she turned her head away as the new maid entered and smiled uncertainly at Catrin. What a mess she had made of things. By discovering the murderer and protecting Olwen, she’d only wanted to do what was right and noble. How could she have known she would dig herself into a deep hole from where no logical escape existed?

Some part of her had begun to suspect Bran’s innocence. For one thing, he had been with her when the arrow had struck her. That someone was now trying to kill Olwen, as well as the rest of her family, meant someone was trying to eliminate the whole Fitzalan family. Olwen was a Fitzalan through her mother. She had a stake, however small, in the Rothmore earldom. Which meant Richard was in danger too.

Catrin curled her hand into a fist, thoughts of crying gone. Richard was next—unless it was for Richard the killing was done.

Sudden pangs of fear and bewilderment bolted through her. Who stood to gain from Richard’s inheriting the earldom? Besides Richard himself, of course? The boy was too innocent and na?ve to scheme to put himself forward. He would never stoop to murder.

But his mother Isadora might.

Catrin’s native animosity for her stepmother surfaced. Still, she tried to consider the situation once more with dispassion. Her assumption fit, however. Isadora now had new standing as a widow owning one-third of her deceased husband’s property for life. Further, she had power as the mother of the young earl.

What if the obnoxious Guy de Hastings was aiding her?

The more Catrin considered her theory, the more she came to believe it. Yet what was she to do about it? For one, she couldn’t tell Richard unless she had proof. Isadora was his mother, after all, and although Catrin despised her, Richard didn’t hate his mother.

And then there was Bran. The thought of telling him sent ripples of fear through her veins. To explain her accusations, she must admit the truth of her deception.

“ I am sorry, my lord, but you have married an imposter ,” she would tell him. “ I am not Olwen de Belleme, the woman King Edward gave you as reward for your service. You have married the wrong woman. ”

He would stop her there and not let her finish. The implications of just those few words were many. Bran would no longer hold the lordship over Northbridge and its lands along the Severn River. All that he worked for would be lost. Catrin doubted whether he’d be able to see much past that ugly truth.

She had her own ugly truth. As Catrin rested in the master’s bed, watching the new maid sewing by the fire and seeing the bright sunshine fade into the light of late afternoon, she honestly examined her actions. What had she done?

Shivering because of the ever-present winter cold, Catrin slid down in the bed and snuggled deeply under the covers. Clutching a pillow, she turned on her side and shut her eyes.

She couldn’t reveal to Bran her identity simply because she didn’t want to see hatred and anger cloud his dark eyes, the ones that so recently held concern.

Dare she hope he loved her?

She sighed. The simple fact was she didn’t want to tell Bran the truth because she was beginning to care for him.

And that fact scared her more than the thought of taking another arrow in her shoulder.