My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Twenty-Five

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“’Sdeath!” Bran fisted his hand and glanced quickly at Catrin, anger bright in his eyes. “What says the king?”

The messenger cleared his throat. “Rhys told me to tell you ’tis strange Edward has said nothing. No word of support. Nothing.”

Alarm squeezed in Catrin’s breast. She searched Bran’s face. In the moments after the courier’s reply, Bran drew himself up sharply, standing nobly erect, his eyes now shuttered.

“Thank you,” he said to the messenger. “You have served me well. Go ease your hunger and see to your thirst.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The man quickly bowed and backed away, leaving them alone.

Ignoring the chill that touched her, Catrin sought to comfort Bran. She gently touched his sleeve and felt him tense. His gaze slanted down at hers.

“The king’s silence means nothing.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “It means everything.” He turned his head away and stared into the fire. “It means I have lost favor with the crown.”

“How can that be?” Catrin inhaled quickly. “You are Edward’s faithful servant. He gave you Northbridge!”

Edward had also given Bran a wife. That his confidence in the King’s Raven could be so easily shaken was indeed troubling.

“I know not how this happened, Olwen,” Bran said. “Being away from Edward has not helped my position. Your cousin Catrin must have planted seeds of doubt in the king’s mind, and with her death and your wounding, he has come to question me.”

Insight blasted through Catrin, heating her with sudden fury. Guy and her stepmother must be at court. It took more than her complaints of Bran to the queen the day after Gilbert’s death to turn people against him. It took the concerted efforts of those bound to do him harm.

Her natural hatred of Isadora and distrust of Guy de Hastings added fuel to the fire of her anger. They must somehow be involved in spreading rumors. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

Yet what was her name?

Olwen or Catrin?

Her mouth ran dry as she fought to stop her crazy speculation. The truth was Catrin Fitzalan was not dead. She had switched places with her cousin in a mad scheme that fast spun out of control because of Catrin’s own weakness, her growing devotion to the man who was not her husband. Once again Father Ellis’ warning sounded in her head.

Sweet reason, what was she to do? Admit the truth? Accuse Lord Leighton and Isadora? Bran was right. She had no convincing evidence. Who would believe her stepmother or Guy were involved in any plot to murder the whole Fitzalan family, let alone to harm Bran?

Her fingers bit into the fabric of Bran’s sleeve. She had suspected him. But now, as he pressed his calloused palm over her cold fingers and felt the warmth of his hand, Catrin knew she was wrong. No truly cruel man could so devotedly care for her and be so understanding of Richard and his illness.

“At the end of the twelfth night celebration, we shall travel to court,” Bran said making up his mind. “You will accompany me so all can see you are unharmed. I must repair the damage and restore my good name.”

Catrin longed to say words of comfort, but they would not come. As Olwen, she was his possession. He could do with her as he would.

His property. His good name. All meant more to him than she.

Silly goose. She chided herself. What right had she, an imposter, to expect something more? And what more did she want?

A headache gripped her. She tilted her chin up to look once more at his shuttered eyes. She wanted to be let into his confidences—to truly comfort him as he comforted her during those long nights of her convalescence. She wanted him to lose his heart to her as she had lost hers.

Her head pounded like a solitary drum. She had fought so hard against the harshness of reality, trying not to trust or invest her love. She had failed with this black knight. She had failed as miserably as she’d fallen short in finding Gilbert’s murderer. The enormity of that failure oppressed her.

“I will be ready, my lord,” she said with dispassion .

Slipping her fingers out of his grasp, Catrin turned toward the spiral stone steps that led to the solar. She could do nothing more but continue the charade. Bran was already in trouble with Edward. If the king found out she had married him under false pretenses, he’d suffer the consequences. And she did not want that.

She protected those she loved.

As the days progressed, Bran lost interest in the twelve-day festivity of Christ’s birth. He was tired of feasting and drinking. He was tired of forcing himself to celebrate when, in truth, a dull ache of despair drummed within. The New Year had come and gone, bringing with it no joy for the future. Life had so often bestowed upon him trouble. Now, when his fortune had turned, when he’d become master of his own house and husband to his own wife, bad luck had once more befallen him.

Closing his fingers around his cup, Bran brought the silver vessel up to his lips and drank deeply. He knew he drank too much. Yet, it seemed the only way to ease the burden of the bad news Rhys sent. Beside him, Olwen chatted with the wife of a neighboring knight. Bran slanted his glance her way, heat rising in his groin.

There was one more way to ease his burden. He was tempted to take it and force himself once more upon his reluctant wife. He placed his cup back on the table, considering his options and trying to tamp down the growing need hiding itself well within the folds of his surcoat.

Having a wife such as Olwen should be balm for his lustiness. She should provide him with the physical comfort he needed when life played its vile tricks upon him. Instead, she teased him with her heated glances and tender touches, emasculating him with her compassion.

Taking up his cup again, Bran drank once more. His mood ran ugly. Enraged by what fate dealt, he was even more infuriated by his growing inaction where Olwen was concerned. As he stared at her over the rim of his cup, he vowed to do something soon about the desire that was fast driving him mad.

Catrin sensed the restlessness in Bran. She glanced at him from under lowered lashes, wondering about his unease. Why had he had not spoken about the news from court? He kept close counsel all week, and it chafed her as badly as an ill-fitting shoe.

Something had to happen. She felt it. Even a trip to court, where danger abounded for her, would be better than this perpetual inaction and disruption of her sanity.

“A dance, my lord?”

“Our thoughts run much alike,” he lowered his voice to a whisper. “I would be happy to dance with you.”

He stood abruptly, offering her his hand. She shifted in her seat, excusing herself to the lady on her left. Then drawing a deep breath, she rose. When she turned back to Bran, he captured her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. Heat blasted through her as tension popped between them. With their fingers clasped together, they were bound as surely as if a ghostly specter had blessed their union.

She sought out his eyes, black and glittering, full of promise. Her lips trembled with sudden excitement. She dared not glance away. His hair, so long and black, fell to his shoulders, reminding her once again of his heritage. This time she thrilled at the prospect of dancing with him, holding his hand for however briefly. She delighted at the chance to be with him. To touch him. Laugh with him. Sing with him.

Yet, there was no laughter on his lips or in his eyes, only an intense glare. He stood straight and motionless in front of her. Was he silently willing her compliance? Did he request her obedience? Wordlessly, they seemed to communicate. And Catrin knew what he wanted, for it was what she wanted. She throbbed with that wanting, feeling faint and energetic all at once.

Father Ellis burst into the crowded hall. “My lord! Make way, knave!” Shoving past dawdling servants and banqueting guests, the priest lumbered toward the high table.

Even from afar, Catrin discerned his urgency. Her fingers gripped Bran’s hand tightly.

“What say you, Father?” Bran called down from the head table.

“My lord, a courier has come from the king!” Father Ellis cried out so everyone heard. He lifted a weathered envelope. “Look! The king’s seal!”

Bran dropped her hand and reached for the royal missive. The loss of contact sliced through Catrin as keenly as the sudden fear that stabbed into her chest. In view of the latest news from Rhys and at this festive time of year, word from the king was especially ominous.

The whole of her predicament weighed upon Catrin with an all-encompassing sense of doom.

Bran tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter. Scowling, he scanned its contents and then lifted his blackened eyes. “Read this,” he said, thrusting the letter toward her.

“As you wish, my lord.” Catrin could hardly speak. With shaky hands, she took the message and squinted at the Latin phrases.

Horror struck her. She drew a quick breath and crossed herself.

Bran waved an impatient hand. “Read it!”

She glanced up, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

“If it is bad news, be quick! Read it!”

As if haste would overcome the news, she thought with dismay.

“My lord.” Her voice quivered. “Your liege lord, King Edward, sends word to you that your sergeant-at-arms, Rhys of Llangollen, was killed at court by a thief who stabbed him in the back with a knife and took his purse.”

The moment following the telling of the ill news unfolded with marked slowness. She saw Bran’s chest rise and fall. He briefly bowed his head. When he lifted it, his face was as expressionless as the stone facade of the castle. Yet, Catrin saw within his dark eyes the haunting shadow of anguish so fathomless and overpowering it frightened her.

“My lord,” she breathed, reaching out toward him with her hand.

Without a word, he spun away from her and strode the length of the hall, his footsteps echoing in the sudden stunned silence. She watched him go. Immobile. Unable to stop him. Unable to do more than utter his given name in heartfelt sympathy so massive it threatened to take her breath away.

Moments later, she motioned to draw her brother to her. “Richard, follow him, lest he hurt himself,” she whispered when the boy came to kneel at her feet, “but do not let him know you are near.”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Be quick with you!”

Richard, in his role of page, jumped up and scampered away, leaving Catrin to face the forbidding scowl of Father Ellis. I told you so. His condemnation was written across his countenance and in his unyielding stance.

She turned from him, smiling faintly at the curious neighbor and retreated to the hearth and its scant privacy. Father Ellis followed, his harsh breathing resounding in her ears.

“No need to scold me, Father,” she said to fend off his opening blow. “I have oft, of late, scolded myself.”

“Rhys is dead.” Father Ellis dropped his voice, his words hot on the back of her neck. “We will be next.”

Catrin waved her hand impatiently as if shooing a fly. There was no need to point out the obvious. Yet Rhys had been killed miles away from them wherever Edward was keeping court at the time.

“Then you better attend to your prayers for fear of your soul,” she snapped.

Her advice sounded harsh. Rude. She was suddenly sorry for it. Her hand rising to her lips, she turned. “Father, I did not mean it.”

“I will see to my soul,” he hissed with anger. “Be careful, my lady, you don’t condemn innocents to the hell you face because of your actions. ”

Catrin’s eyes narrowed. She had lost an ally. “I told you once I’m tired of having all of mine taken from me. Never fear. I will not doom those I love because of what I have done.”

He bowed stiffly, backed away, and left Catrin alone by the roaring fire. Her back warmed nicely, but the front of her remained cold—as cold as her heart. Lifting her chin, she turned away from the curious stares of the castle folk. They had not heard what passed between them, but they had seen in Father’s manner their disagreement.

Holding out her palms, she let heat bathe them. She stood motionless, silent, gazing at the flickering and dancing light and permitting her mind to wander. Chiding herself would prove useless now. She refused to grow morbid. There must be a way to help Bran overcome his understandable suffering because of Rhys death. Just as there must be a way to extricate herself from her predicament and discover the murderer—or murderers—of those she loved.

She hated inaction, but at the moment she embraced it, eventually allowing Meg to drag the master’s chair nearer to the fire. Catrin sat silently while the guests said their goodbyes and the servants crept away to their duties or their families. The great hall was swept of the dinner makings and the trestle tables were taken down and removed.

While she pondered the imponderable, Catrin remained near the fire as if it were her salvation.

Sometime after Vespers, Richard came to her and brushed her sleeve. Catrin looked up at his gentle touch. “You have word?”

His cheeks were chafed from the cold, his nose bright red. He nodded his head, blowing on his fingertips. “Aye, Catrin, I followed him to the stables where he saddled the destrier from Freesland, Taran.”

“His war horse?”

Richard nodded again. “I didn’t follow him, having no leave to take a horse, but he soon returned and gave the stallion up to Will to put away. He had ridden hard.”

Catrin folded her hands in her lap, her fingernails biting into her palms. She was so filled with worry. “He came to no harm?”

“Nay, but his mood remains foul. The stable lads kept their distance. I was glad for your instructions not to be seen.”

Catrin moistened her lips, considering. Bran had dealt with his initial sadness. What now? She glanced at her brother. “Where is he at present?”

“While he was gone, another messenger came from the king, bearing the body of my lord’s sergeant. Father Ellis took the remains to the chapel and began to say prayers.” The boy gulped a breath. “My lord refused to enter the chapel. He is now in the mews with his raven, talking to the bird as if the creature were human.” There was awe in Richard’s voice and a little fear.

Mon Dieu. Was he mad?

Catrin pushed herself to her feet. “You have done well, Richard. Now go tend to your needs. I will see to Lord Northbridge from here on.”

She climbed the steps to the solar thinking she needed her fur-lined cloak if she were to venture forth in the cold. The sight of the master’s bed sent her head into a violent spin. Her breath, already ragged from the climb, left her completely. As surely as the sun would rise on the morrow, she knew what she must do to ease Bran’s suffering. The only thing she could do.

She would make love to him—willingly, for once—and bring him the physical comfort a husband expected from a wife.