My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The newfound knowledge she harbored a growing love caused Catrin a sleepless night. Next morning, she sat propped up in the master’s bed watching the firelight dance among the shadows of the room and feeling the weight of an overwhelming weariness. So much time had passed while she had lain near death. The mere thought rendered her speechless.

Not so Meg who chatted gaily about the coming twelve days of Christmas. Bran ordered the festivities to proceed as usual, the maid said. While Cook prepared for the many feasts, servants were in the forest selecting the Yule log.

Was this another proof the new lord of Northbridge concealed a generous heart? Catrin struggled to deny the black knight possessed such an instrument of caring. If she saw him strike a horse out of anger or scold the stable boy, she’d find it easier to retain her loathing. Like her strength, her hate was fast seeping away.

Of course, her tiredness could result from the prolonged inactivity of illness. She was bored. Moreover, she had spent many idle hours in fantasy, imagining Bran’s strong arms around her and reliving that look of love that flitted so briefly through his eyes when he looked at her.

She had also spent many hours despising her whims because she believed in such make-believe.

“I will go downstairs,” she suddenly announced, tossing off her lethargy.

Meg halted near the fire, raising her head, a look of concern in her eyes. “Do you think it wise, my lady?”

“Wise or not, I am going.” Catrin threw back the coverlet. A rush of cold air chilled her through her thin shift. “I will be surrounded by castle folk. No one will harm me.”

“’Tis not that.” Meg came toward her and placed a hand on her forehead. “I fear you aren’t well enough.”

Catrin brushed the maid’s hand away. “Neither am I ill enough to stay in bed! I will dress and go downstairs.” She softened at Meg’s look of anxiety. “I know you mean well, dear Meg, but it will do me good.”

Meg nodded and helped her climb out of bed. Shame flushed Catrin’s face. She need not be rude to the woman who cared for her so diligently.

“Here are your slippers, my lady.” Meg placed the soft kid shoes on the floor by the bed.

“Thank you.” Catrin pushed away glum thoughts and slid her feet into the slippers. “Now, please help me dress.”

At least, she maintained a small measure of control over her person. After days of being near the brink of death, this tiny victory felt like a triumph.

The great hall bustled with activity. Servants dashed hither and yon, carrying out their assigned chores. Catrin halted at the foot of the spiral steps and, bracing herself, placed her hand against the cold stone wall. Dizziness played with her sense of balance. She struggled against it, wavering slightly, hesitant to step into the chaos within the hall.

Ah! But what a feast for her weary eyes. Festive garlands of holly, ivy, and laurel draped the walls, adding touches of green to remind all present of the infant Christ. Someone had dragged the Yule log near the hearth. ’Twould be added to the fire tonight and burn for the whole twelve-day celebration. And something smelled heavenly, wafting up from the open-air cook pits near the walls of the tower keep below.

She had felt so isolated from this endless hubbub that was everyday life. Once more, a sense of gratitude washed over her. She was on the mend. Alive. She was charged with excitement and vowed to say an extra prayer of thanks at Mass tomorrow.

Richard looked up from where he sat near the hearth with Bran’s great helm in his lap. She saw him mouth her real name and then glance around in fright when he realized his mistake. But no one seemed to hear for there was too much noise.

Then her brother sprang to his feet and dashed toward her. He wore a mail hauberk and mail chausses on his legs. His sleeveless surcoat mirrored an adult’s, reaching to mid-calf and slit on the sides for riding. “Olwen, you’ve come down!”

His eyes were bright, this time with pleasure, not sickness, and his cheeks and nose were splashed with red from the chill. Cold was ever-present in the winter, and Catrin suddenly felt it, more so now than when she was healthy and active. She drew her fur-lined cape around her.

“Aye, sweeting, I have come down,” she replied with a smile. “I found boredom an unhappy companion.”

Richard looked chagrinned. “I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you today.” He took her hand and, as if already a courtly knight, pulled her toward the warmth of the hearth.

“You’ve been busy.” Catrin acknowledged his handiwork with a tip of her head. Bran’s dented battle helm gleamed like a jewel.

Richard settled beside her and took up his task again. “Not only that, but Bran has let me wear this set of armor. It is just my size,” he said proudly.

Catrin tucked her cape around her feet. “I noticed. ’Tis not too heavy?”

“Nay.” He was matter-of-fact. “’Twas made for a boy about my size, Bran thinks. I do not find it heavy or cramping. I can move about freely.”

“Are you made to wear it all day? Won’t you grow weary?”

“Bran says I need to get used to its feel. He’s going to instruct me this afternoon in the use of a sword.”

Sparks, like the ones that popped and crackled in the fire, shot through Catrin. She tried to be indifferent to Richard’s news. Bran had kept away from her once he stationed the guards outside her door. Now that she might see him again, she fought to control her eagerness.

“What else have you done today?” she asked for diversion.

Richard brightened once more. “Bran took me to the stables. He introduced me to a boy named Will who is about my age. Bran told Will to teach me about the workings of the stable and all about the horses. Bran even let me feed his raven. Then I helped Will saddle the black destrier.”

“Taran?”

“Aye.” Richard nodded. “I held Bran’s stirrup while he mounted.”

Certainly, her brother glowed from the honor bestowed on him. For that Catrin thanked God. She smiled fondly. “What else?”

“Bran and his men-at-arms hunted for wild boar.”

That explained the heavenly smells from the bailey below.

“He said he’d take me some time,” Richard finished with pride.

Alarm shot through her. Catrin sat straighter. Hunting wild boar was dangerous. “Richard, do you think it wise?”

Her brother pulled a frown and turned back to burnishing Bran’s war sword. “He will take me when I’m ready.”

Rebuffed, Catrin sat back. They had already discussed her over-protectiveness. She was a mere woman, after all, unschooled in these things. Frustration rippled inside. Let him go, she told herself one more time.

Bran this and Bran that , Catrin thought. The black knight truly made an impression on Richard. Would he also be a good influence?

After a moment, Catrin put these thoughts aside and grew content just watching her brother’s careful attention to detail. He took seriously his job as page. She drew in a deep breath and nestled into her warm cape. Lulled by the heat of the fire and the silent companionship, she let a sigh escape her lips and shut her eyes for just a moment .

“Why are you here?” Bran barked.

Catrin awakened, her eyes flying open. She had not heard him approach. Tamping down a sudden panic, she straightened herself in the master’s chair and looked up at the armed knight looming above her. Under his black surcoat, Bran was covered from head to foot from his mail coif to the mail chausses on his legs, and he presented a fearsome sight.

“You’re not well enough to be here,” he accused sharply.

“That is for me to decide, my lord.” She tilted up her chin in defiance, struggling for control over her emotions.

“’Tis not safe.”

“I am perfectly safe with Richard to guard me.”

He grunted and turned from her but not before she caught a look of resignation in his eyes.

“Richard, time for your lessons.”

“My lord, I am ready.” Richard stood stiffly by the hearth and lowered his head in a brief acknowledgment of respect.

Bran carried a small sword by his side. “I found this sword in the armory. You will practice with this every day.” He then held out the sword hilt first.

Richard almost jumped out of his mail with excitement. “For me?”

“Take the pommel in your hand and check the blade for balance.”

Richard grasped the sword in his right hand, holding it up and away from him as if he knew by instinct what to do.

“’Tis not too heavy?”

Richard shook his head. “Nay, my lord.”

“Not now, anyway.” Bran glanced at Catrin and grinned as if to share an inside joke. She accepted his quick camaraderie and tension left the back of her neck. “As you grow, you will use a larger and heavier weapon,” he continued. “By then, you will have strengthened the muscles of your arms, shoulders, and back. For now, you will practice with this every day.”

With a strange sort of contentment, Catrin settled back to watch the teacher and his pupil silhouetted in the glow of the firelight.

“You make a blow from the shoulder with your arm straight.” Bran positioned Richard’s body and adjusted his outstretched arm. “The sword is a rigid, yet responsive and flexible extension of your arm.”

Bran moved Richard’s arm downward as he spoke. “You’ll slash like this and this. Keep your eyes on your opponent. Never let your defenses down. Now practice.” He stepped out of the way.

For long minutes, Richards slashed with his child’s sword, eventually learning the knack of it. Catrin saw that he grew weary, but she said nothing. Neither did Richard. The boy would die before admitting any weakness in front of his instructor.

Finally, Bran raised his hand. Richard lowered his arm, staring up at him wide-eyed. “Now, I will show you how to use a shield.”

Bran picked up his shield from near the hearth, carrying it on his left arm. In his right hand, he grasped his newly burnished war sword. Standing there, in battle dress, all but his helm, he presented the perfect picture of a warrior knight.

“You use the shield to parry your opponent’s blow,” he told Richard. “You must be quick on your feet. If you cannot parry with the shield, you must duck or leap out of the way. One favorite blow is at your knees. To avoid the sweeping slash, you must jump over it.”

Bran demonstrated every move. He was a good swordsman, nimble on his feet with lightning quick reactions. He put on his display, twisting sideways from the hips, bending sideways, and jumping as if he leaped over a slashing sword. Catrin could not help but admire him. Bran was magnificent at the art of war.

She shuddered, reality slamming hard against her chest. How had she let herself forget? This knight may have killed Father and Gilbert.

Bran paused and faced Richard. “Now, come at me.”

Catrin recognized her brother’s sudden fear.

“I’ll not hurt you,” Bran said good-naturedly. The boy hesitated still. “Come or are you a coward?”

Richard charged in, swinging. Bran parried his first and second strokes, not fighting back. He nimbly avoided the strikes. He twisted away from the third blow. Still, Richard pressed forward.

As Catrin watched, the two of them began laughing, so caught up were they in the game of cat and mouse. She recognized Bran’s purpose with Richard, that of practice. Her woman’s heart rebelled, understanding that war games were a necessary function that prepared men for real war. Yet did they have to enjoy the game so much?

“Enough!” Bran called, dropping to the hearthstone near Catrin’s feet. “Rest easy, Lord Rothmore.”

The lad lowered his arm, panting, but giggling all the same. “What, my lord? You tire of practice?” He and Bran exchanged jovial glances.

“Nay, ’tis time we devote our attention to your lovely cousin,” Bran answered. His searching gaze caught Catrin’s .

She stared into his intent black eyes until the lower part of her body began to throb with unholy yearning. Avoiding him, she turned her head away in time to see Richard drop his sword. It clattered to the rush-strewn stones.

Alarmed, Catrin pushed herself up from the chair as her brother suddenly uttered a strangled cry.

Catrin’s own scream echoed throughout the hall. “Richard!”

The boy crumbled to the floor, writhing, his muscles jerking and his breathing shallow. His eyelids blinked rapidly and his eyes rolled back in his head, showing the whites. Both Catrin and Bran rushed toward him.

“ Mon Dieu ! What is wrong?”

“Give him room!” she ordered and held Bran’s arm when he would go down on his knees to restrain him.

Catrin analyzed her brother’s condition, noting there was nothing nearby that could harm him. His arms and legs twitched, but he appeared to be breathing well enough. She glanced over her shoulder to see servants crowding around. “Make them stand back,” she begged Bran.

“Go back to your work!” The new lord of Northbridge’s tone permitted no defiance.

All but Meg faded away. Catrin swallowed her fear, dropping down now on one knee to place a shaking hand on Richard’s forehead. He was calmer now. The spasms, thankfully, lasted for only a few minutes.

“Catrin?”

“Shh,” she warned, hoping she covered his use of her name.

“Where am I?” He was confused. “What happened?”

“You had a fit.” Catrin crossed herself. “You were overly tired. ”

Tears of defeat seeped from the corners of both his eyes. He shut them tightly as if facing the world were too much. “Oh,” he moaned.

Catrin soothed his brow, much as she’d done on other occasions when the fits had lasted longer. “Hush, little one. All will be well,” she crooned.

Yet would it? What would Bran do now that he knew the horrible truth?

Richard held a brain sickness. He was possessed by demons, some said. Some would put him away, lock him in chains, or isolate him in a dudgeon. Fearful of this, Isadora had been careful to keep the fact of his illness from those at court. She protected her son, just as Catrin guarded him now.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze. Bran towered above her, the firelight casting him in dark, menacing shadows. She blinked once to bring him into focus, only to find his forbidding eyes staring back at her with vicious anger.