My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Twenty-Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Did Olwen believe he would harm the young earl?

Scowling, his anger rising, Bran stared down at his wife’s upturned face filled with fear. Did she not yet trust him?

Granted, his first reaction had been surprise. He thought he’d somehow harmed the boy, but then he recognized Richard was having a brain attack. Had no one thought well enough of him to confide the truth?

He knew about such attacks. His foster brother, Waryn de Grey, had been plagued with seizures as a lad. By the time Bran left the care of Waryn’s family, the boy’s body seemed to cure itself with age.

“Stand aside, my lady.” Bran failed to keep the anger from his voice. When she made no move to rise, he reached down and grasped her by the arm, pulling her up. She started to say something. “Peace! I’ll not harm the lad,” he said, resenting the fact he needed to say the words.

Kneeling, he placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder.

The boy’s lip quivered and he looked away. “I’m sorry, my lord. ”

“I once knew a lad much as you,” Bran began, softening his voice. “He outgrew such fits, as I know you will too.”

“Do you think I might?” Richard’s gaze connected with his.

“I am sure of it.” The relief in the young earl’s eyes touched Bran’s heart. “Yet you must not let those around you see your weakness. The convulsion is over. Stand now, hold your head high, and comport yourself as one of your rank.”

Richard nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

Bran grasped the boy by his upper arms and stood him on his feet, holding him a moment to let him gain his balance. “You have others to think about now, my lord, not just yourself.” The weight of his new responsibilities seemed to tug on the lad. He raised his chin with a haughty look of someone older. Bran grinned at the change in attitude. “Now take yourself upstairs and rest before tonight’s celebration.”

With a glance toward his cousin, Richard darted away. Bran was left facing Olwen, her look of reproach an unspoken barrier between them.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said in a halting voice.

Once more anger suffused him, making his jaw tighten. “For what? Not sending the earl to the dudgeon? What think you of me? That I’m an unruly barbarian?”

Her face paled, betraying her thoughts. “I oft know not what to think, my lord.”

Bran looked down at her, aching to touch her as he’d done while she lay wounded. Once more a silver net crespine and an elaborate headdress banding her chin hid her flaxen hair. He longed to strip the coverings from her head and rake his fingers through her long silken tresses. Could she not see what she did to him?

Her sapphire eyes scowled at him, this time in what seemed more like confusion than hatred. Still, the fact she did not trust him swelled his impatience. “Will you sup with us tonight?” he asked formally as if he spoke to a distant acquaintance.

She dropped her gaze and took a long breath. “Nay, I am tired. I’ll dine upstairs.”

“So be it,” he snapped. “Meg! Where are you? See to your mistress.”

He turned from her then, seeking the warmth of the fire, pretending indifference. A moment passed, and then he heard the rustle of her skirts as she departed. After he was sure she had climbed the stairs, Bran let himself relax. He sought the lord’s chair and flung himself into it. Calling for a flagon of ale, he allowed himself the pleasure of downing the dark, bitter liquid until there was not a drop left.

He thought land and property would solve his problems. Ha! A fool’s philosophy! His troubles had magnified a hundred times over. Sometimes he wished for the freedom of travel and the comradeship of a few good men like Rhys. Sometimes he wished he had never done the king’s bidding so well.

Bran frowned at the firelight. Why delude himself? His problem lay not with the castle and the folk of Northbridge, but with their mistress. And with his sudden, unexplainable devotion to a woman who cared naught for him.

The next day, Christmas day, Catrin prayed and attended Mass. For most of the day, on her knees in the castle’s drafty chapel, she pleaded harder than she e’er prayed in her life. For the souls of her father, brother, and maid. For Richard, that he overcome his sickness. For herself, that she overcome her obsession with a man who bewildered her.

Was this man wickedly vile or deceptively noble? Had he done what she accused him of doing? Kill Father and Gilbert? Or was her assumption only another evil trick played upon her by a false specter?

Weary, she rocked back on her heels, her knees aching, and stared at the crucifix above her. Votive candles cast an eerie glow on the altar, their smoke curling heavenward just as she hoped her prayers were doing.

Was this why the real Olwen spent so much time with her beads and her prayers? Seeking answers for life’s mysteries where no answers existed? Catrin had been always much more grounded in the world and worldly things. Now in the quiet coolness of the darkened chapel, she sought comfort in the spiritual.

After another moment, her shoulders sagged. Father Ellis was right. Her scheme was risky and ill advised. She had not yet discovered the answers she longed for, nor had she gained peace. For the most part, she uncovered only uncertainty and a newfound disregard for her own ability to reason. A practical person would never let emotion overwhelm her spirit.

Why couldn’t she control her raw feelings of wanton desire that shamelessly oozed from every fiber of her being whenever Bran was near?

Catrin sighed. Recriminations ran rampant through her mind. She should do better. Be better. She arched her back and then straightened once more on her knees in the pose of the penitent. In front of the cross, in the sight of God, she returned to reciting the words of her beads.

Perchance tomorrow would be different. Today, the day of Christ’s birth, she sought His help and longed for a certain, palpable peace.

Boredom brought her downstairs once more several days into the twelve-day feasting. She could think of no other reason to hide away, especially when she remembered Bran’s admonition to Richard. “Comport yourself as one of your rank,” he had said, and Catrin took the words to heart. She was a Fitzalan, after all. Why skulk away like a thief? Surely, the peace she sought could be attained if she faced her problems head on.

Again, she miscalculated. Catrin knew it as soon as she took a seat once more beside her “problem.” From the head table, she gazed at the rows of lower tables filled with celebrating guests and castle folk and tried to ignore the man by her side.

“Your appetite has not returned,” Bran commented, leaning nearer to her with an offering of boar meat.

The smell cramped her stomach, and she felt lightheaded. “I am able to eat only little bits at a time,” she told him and accepted the juicy bite from his fingertips, chewing it slowly.

“You must regain your strength,” he said simply. “Richard, bring your cousin something sweet to tempt her appetite. ”

Richard, who stood at Bran’s left shoulder as befitting his position of page, nodded quickly, and dashed off.

Catrin watched him leave. His recovery seemed assured, yet she nonetheless feared for his safety. Her heart throbbed with the love she felt for the gallant boy. She longed to reach out, pull him nearer, and keep him protected forever.

“You must not fear letting him go,” Bran said. Catrin turned to find his black eyes watching her. “The lad must fulfill his destiny, whatever it may be.”

Had he read her mind? She stared at him, nonplused. “You’re telling me what I have told myself many times, my lord.”

“But you do not believe it.” His regard searched her face, and Catrin felt another shimmer of fervor sweep her body.

She glanced away. “No, I have a hard time believing ’tis not in my power to protect him forever.”

All that she loved died. She’d lost everyone, even Olwen whom she could never contact again. Why had she ever longed for love? It hurt too much.

“You have but the natural tendency of a woman.” Bran picked up his cup and drank deeply. After he put it down, he placed a hand on her sleeve. “Do not vilify yourself for what is normal.”

He meant well. Catrin could see it in his eyes when she looked at him. She had a hard time meeting those eyes, so soul-searching they seemed.

“Thank you, my lord, for your encouragement,” she said, “and thank you for your kindness to Richard when…” She could not finish her sentence.

Bran removed his hand. “I accept your thanks. Yet I did nothing more than what someone with good breeding would do. ”

Catrin cocked her head and now readily surveyed his face. “You know full well many of the nobility would have treated him naught.”

“Then shame on them,” Bran stated, his eyes lighting with annoyance.

Catrin sank back in the chair with a sigh. “Aye. Shame on them.”

Why did he scramble her head? In appearance, he remained the formidable black knight, but in action, he took on another character. One she could even like.

“My lady, Cook has sent up a mince pie for you,” Richard interrupted her thoughts.

Catrin turned and smiled at him. “Thank you, my lord. Tell Cook this pleases me.”

And it did, for the steaming oblong pastry smelled of spices—cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg—tempting enough to whet the puniest appetite. She took a spoon and carefully dipped it into the pie, breaking the crust and letting the heavenly aroma escape with the steam.

As she ate, she felt Bran’s gaze upon her flushed face. Ill-at-ease, she tried not to let his presence shake her. But it did. To the very core.

After a few bites, she stopped eating.

The noise around them grew, magnified by the vastness of the hall. Laughing, shouting, clapping, dancing, everyone seemed to be having a joyous time. Yet, the two of them, seated in a place of honor at the head table, were isolated from the boisterous crowd. Catrin focused on Bran. She licked her lips as she glanced once more into his eyes.

“I would like to dance with you,” he said quietly.

His look spoke more than he must know. Catrin swallowed. She was vividly aware that he wanted to do more than dance.

“Yet, first I must speak to you of a serious matter.”

“My lord?”

“You told me some time ago about a man named ‘Harry’ who might have knowledge of your cousin’s death.”

Catrin twisted in her chair so she could better see him. Earlier, he thought her foolish when she mentioned the serving man. Had he changed his mind? Guilt pricked her that she had not been able to tell him the truth.

“Have you found him?” she asked breathlessly.

“Perchance.” He hesitated and then nodded. “I learned while you were ill that a stranger named Harry was skulking near the stables and around the castle outbuildings. He came with Lord Leighton but must have stayed when Leighton left.”

“I knew it!” Elation thundered through her. “I knew Guy de Hastings had something to do with the murders!”

Bran turned from her and tapped the rim of his cup with a forefinger. “Nay, we do not know that. All we know is what I said.”

“Certainly you cannot deny the implication?”

“Until I have proof, I will deny what seems too obvious.” Bran pushed away from the table and stood. “That is why I sent word to Rhys about the matter.” He smiled down at her. “Now come, my lady. Let us not dwell on the unpleasant. For once, let us make merry!”

A carol-dance was forming where the tables had been pushed aside. When he handed her down, everyone clapped and greeted them happily. Catrin smiled, her head buzzing with sudden excitement.

“May we?” Bran asked with a courteous bow .

A couple gave up their spot in the circle, so the lord and his wife could join the other four couples. Bran pulled her into position on his right, standing by her side and grasping her right hand with his right and her left hand with his left so that their arms crossed.

His nearness and the warmth of his hands sent shivers down her body. Catrin chanced a glance upward and found him looking down at her, his gaze bathing her with almost a worshipful light. She choked back her uneasiness and shifted hers away.

Guilt rose up once more, but she tamped it down. She would not think now. As Bran said, she would make merry for once. Turning off her consciousness, she let her body simply react to the music.

The leader began singing acapella the French carol Angelus ad Virginem , and the others joined in . The angel, coming secretly to the Virgin calming the Virgin’s fear, said: ‘Hail! Hail, Queen of Virgins!

The five couples circled clockwise eight steps and then opened out facing in, all ten dancers joining hands. With eight more steps, they converged on the center and then retired, facing their partners once more.

Catrin allowed the happy notes to pour over her. Her natural rhythm and her love of dance rinsed away all disappointment and fear. At the first clapping sequence, the strength of Bran’s hands against hers and the cautious pleasure in his eyes magnified her delight.

And then they were parted chaining their way around the circle to finish with a new partner, ready to repeat the steps to the words of a new stanza. When the carol ended after five stanzas, Catrin was reunited with Bran. The rightness of the reunion saturated her whole being .

But it was not right. She had lied to him. She was not his wife. Their marriage was counterfeit. Suddenly overpowered by a profound sadness, Catrin stood in the circle, clapping and congratulating the other dancers, and trying to act as if she was the true Mistress Olwen.

“Another dance, my lady?”

Catrin gazed into Bran’s face, the spell of his presence pulling her toward him. “Nay, I am tired,” she begged off, unable to silence the ever-present upsurge of guilt.

Bran looked back at her blandly not giving away his feelings. He made a stylish bow and taking her by the elbow, led her toward the high table.

Suddenly, the hall erupted with an uproar. They paused, turning, to see a traveler striding toward them from the entrance door. Catrin smelled the winter outdoors on his clothing and sensed agitation in his manner.

“My lord!” The man nodded in greeting. “I have word from your sergeant-at-arms.”

A smile lit Bran’s face. “What news? Is Rhys well?”

“Aye, well enough, but he finds life at court full of intrigue,” the messenger said with an uneasy laugh. Then his eyes became guarded.

“Go on, man. Lady Olwen can hear whatever you say. I keep no secrets from my wife.”

“You may not want others to hear.”

Catrin’s stomach churned. What was wrong? Bran ushered them both toward the hearth where they could have privacy. Turning his back on them, the messenger briefly warmed his hands before the fire.

“Out with it,” Bran ordered after a time, seeming as anxious as Catrin to hear the news.

The messenger turned around. “Rhys thanks you for sending word of the spy at Northbridge.” He glanced cautiously at Bran, as if reluctant to continue.

“Speak up!”

“Troubling rumors are rampant at court.” The man lowered his voice, unable to meet Bran’s eyes. “My lord, some say that you killed both of the earls of Rothmore.”

“’Tis but an old rumor, one discounted by the king,” Bran said, dismissing the news.

“But now they say you also killed Lady Catrin!”

“What!” Bran’s sudden outcry turned a few heads.

“There is also talk of fear for your wife, Lady Olwen,” the messenger went on, lowering his voice. “Some say her injury was no hunting accident as you claimed. Some say you tried to kill her too.”