My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Catrin awakened slowly, feeling safe and snug as if wrapped inside a mother’s womb. She knew morning had come and stirred within the welcome warmth, turning toward it, reluctant to face the raw cold of the new day.

A soft, sighing breath tickled her nose and touched her lips. Her eyes fluttered open. Bran! Love and bitter sadness welled within her. His bare arm lay like a heavy weight across her waist. He was big and hard with wide, powerful shoulders and the muscular forearms of a trained knight. Thinking him asleep, she gently caressed his temple and traced a fingertip down to his beard-roughened jaw.

“ Bore da ,” he said, surprising her.

“Good morning.” Her voice was thin and wispy, full of emotion.

He opened his eyes, and a hint of a smile crossed his lips. “I am glad to be home.”

He wants me. She was awed by the reverent way his eyes skimmed over her as if she were a precious jewel.

Her hand lingered against his cheek. Catrin dared not speak, for an icy sense of doom froze her heart. What would he do if he discovered the truth? All she could do was cup his jaw with her palm, feeling the solid bone beneath his unshaven skin.

“I have missed you,” he growled, seeming impatient.

Catching her hand in his grip, he rolled on top of her, his body taut over hers, his eyes glinting in the faint light of dawn.

Moments later, when he filled her, his breath ragged against her ear, she accepted him inside with a willingness she found hard to comprehend. And when she joined him in the lovemaking, ’twas like he had never parted from her.

Catrin could not shake the cold. Wailing winds blowing from the mountains of Wales promised snow or at least a chilling rain. A strong draft swept the great hall, and smoke coughed from the fire. She shivered. All around, castle folk were astir while family hounds scurried out of the way or snuffled for scraps on the floor.

A kitchen boy offered her a crust of bread, a chunk of yellow cheese, and a tankard of ale, and she broke her fast seated on a stool in front of the hearth.

On this chilly day, Catrin wore a cotte of blue English wool. With heavy folds and tight sleeves buttoned from her elbow to her wrist, the garment was serviceable for such a blustery day. A pelican, an over-tunic also made of good wool in a brighter shade of blue, and her fur-lined cape draped over her knees brought her even more protection from the cold.

She ate in silence, watching the morning routine in the hall. How many memories had she made here at Northbridge? Memories she would carry with her the rest of her days.

The boy came back, now carrying a laver. She nodded absently. “Thank you, lad.”

He waited patiently while she dipped her fingers into the warm water to rid them of grease. Then she wiped her hands on a linen cloth. If only she could as easily wash away her feeling of despair.

Once more she nodded her thanks to the lad who scurried away. Bran crossed the hall, coming toward her as she’d seen him do so many times. He stopped to speak to one person after another, his magnificent presence filling the room with energy. He carried himself like a prince.

Shaking herself, Catrin rubbed her hands together and tucked them into the folds of her pelican. Isadora was right. They were not truly wed. Their marriage was a sham. She had the love she had always wanted within her grasp, yet ’twas not meant to be.

She drew her lips together into a thin line and stared into the fire. Her dreams of love had smoldered into ashes with the fires of hatred that engulfed her after the king’s tournament and the death of Gilbert. That she could have once hated Bran so much and now love him so deeply must be a cruel quirk of fate.

Bran pulled up the lord’s chair up and sat across from her. “What is this about Lady Rothmore taking Richard?”

His tone was conversational. Still, Catrin’s head lightened with alarm. She turned her head to gaze upon his eyes that were alert, but bore no ill trust.

She gathered her courage. “Isadora heard rumors about you and fears for her son’s welfare. Against my protests, she took Richard to court.”

Her gaze skittered downward, away from the eyes that looked at her with trust. She had left out one crucial part—Isadora knew the truth about her identity. She was not Olwen, his true wife.

“The sooner I speak to Edward, the better my position will be.” Bran stood and warmed his hands by the fire. “The king heard those rumors, but I’ve not been able to defend myself.”

“Now Lady Rothmore will carry more tales,” Catrin pointed out. “She means to marry Guy de Hastings and obtain Richard’s guardianship from the king for her new husband.”

The import of the events was not lost on her husband. Bran faced her, his eyes shuttered, his countenance dark. “Are you ready for a rough and dangerous journey through the mountains of Wales?”

Catrin cocked her head. “Why so, my lord?”

“ My lady ,” he said, teasing, picking up on her use of the formal form of address. “’Tis the only way we can reach Edward before the determined Isadora.”

Love swelled within her heart. As troubled as he was, he remained playful with her. That spoke much to their changed relationship.

Catrin held Bran’s gaze, her mind a-clutter with all that could be, but wouldn’t. She owed it to him to explain her actions to King Edward. ’Twas her only chance to save Bran and salvage something of her life with him.

But by saving Bran from Edward’s wrath, she took the chance of alienating her husband when he discovered the truth .

That was a risk she must now take.

“Aye, I’m ready to do what I must,” she answered softly, overcoming a tight ache in her chest

Bran smiled, seemingly satisfied. “Then we make ready to leave.”

He took her hand, helping her to rise. His look bathed her with so much love and longing that Catrin caught her breath. She lowered her eyes a moment, her senses alive with guilt.

And then a shout rang out. Bran’s grip tightened around her fingers.

“They’ve come for us!” Father Ellis cried, charging into the hall, his long robes a kilter, and his arms flapping wildly. “Officers of the king! They’ve come for us!”

Bran cursed under his breath. “The man has gone mad.”

Had the stress of the lie she’d forced him to tell addled the poor priest’s thinking? Catrin lifted her free hand to her lips. Father Ellis stumbled to a halt before them.

“Prepare yourself,” he said to Catrin in a harsh whisper.

She crossed herself. “Father, all will be made right. But you must pray for me.” She touched his sleeve. “And light a candle…in the chapel.”

“In the chapel?” he glanced around, rubbing his hands together.

“’Tis best to light one there.” She nodded, urging him to go.

“Aye. That I will do.” He whirled and fled the hall just as several armed yeomen entered the hall followed by a knight.

Fear gripped her. The heraldic leopards of England. King Edward’s men. The coat of arms spoke to the veracity of Father Ellis.

“Sir Otto, welcome to my new home!” Bran departed her side and strode forward. He extended his hand seemingly pleased by the arrival of the king’s men. “Olwen, come meet my friend.” He glanced back at her. “When I entered the king’s service, Sir Otto guided me well.”

Catrin now recognized Sir Otto Grandison, the king’s closest friend. He had accompanied the then Prince Edward on his crusade, serving at the siege of Acre like Bran. Surely, his presence did not bode well.

“’Tis not a pleasure visit, Sir Bran,” the older knight said, refusing to take the proffered hand.

Bran dropped it by his side and surveyed his friend. “Why is that?”

“In the name of Edward, King of England, Lord of Ireland, and Duke of Aquitaine, I arrest you for the murders of Sir John and Sir Gilbert Fitzalan, the Earls of Rothmore, and of Lady Catrin Fitzalan, the earl’s daughter.”

Bran’s hand went to his hip, but he wore no sword. “That is outrageous!”

The yeomen startled at his action, their own hands finding their sword hilts. Sir Otto signaled his men to remain calm. “I don’t want to restrain you, but I will,” he warned Bran.

Defiant, his stance erect and his shoulders squared, Bran glared at the men as if daring them to take him. “I have not done what you charge me of doing.”

“You’ll have your day of judgment before the king.”

“I welcome that.” Bran relaxed a bit. “I planned to ride to court today, in fact.”

Sir Otto frowned. “Edward is at Rhuddlan Castle. He has ordered me to take you to the Tower. There to wait for him until he returns to London after the birth of his child. ”

Catrin gasped. Queen Eleanor was not due yet for several more months.

Bran glanced her way and then turned back to the king’s man. “I demand to see Edward now.”

“You are in no position to make demands,” Sir Otto reminded him calmly.

Her heart thundered with denial. If Bran were locked away in the horrible dudgeon, he would be forgotten. Many a man had perished in that wicked prison.

“Why do you not take my husband to Rhuddlan, my lord?” Catrin spoke for the first time.

She stepped forward, seeing Sir Otto’s questioning assessment of her. Catrin prayed he didn’t know her or Olwen well enough to be suspicious.

“The king’s orders, my lady,” he said with a slight bow.

Catrin captured Bran’s arm, clinging to him as a shy, loving wife might. “Then you must grant me a boon, my lord. Consider it the wish of a newly wedded woman,” she said dipping her head and letting a small smile touch her lips. “Let me have one more night alone with my husband before you take him away. Stay with us and let your men rest.”

Bran cocked an eyebrow. She felt him stiffen, but he gave nothing away.

Sir Otto eyed them, stroking his chin with his gloved hand and finally, after what seemed like an eternity nodded his head. “I suppose it would be best to start fresh on the morrow.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Catrin dipped a curtsy, coyly smiling up at him.

The seasoned warrior snorted, not impressed by her woman’s wiles. “Men, see to your horses. We stay the night.” Always one to manage his affairs, Sir Otto stationed a yeoman at the hall door before he followed his troop outside.

With the men gone, Bran jerked her toward the privacy of the hearth. “What is this, my lady?” This time there was no teasing in his voice, only anger.

“You saved my life,” she whispered, moistening her lips. “I have a plan to save yours.”

He scowled at her in disbelief. “How so?”

Catrin lifted her chin. “’Tis time for you to merely watch and wait,” she murmured, “and to put your trust in me.”

As Catrin suspected, waiting was hard for Bran. They dined at noon, and Catrin made sure the food and the entertainment kept their guests occupied and well fed. She sent for Will, instructing him to come to her in the guise of a kitchen boy. Bran had flashed a questioning look when he spotted them talking, but he had held his tongue. He would not openly challenge her in front of the king’s men.

Throughout the meal, Catrin made great play at being the fervent wife. She wanted no one to mistake her reason for wanting her husband to remain with her another night or be surprised when they climbed the steps to their chamber early.

They left the company with the setting of the winter sun.

Bran bolted the door and whirled to confront her. “What is this game, Olwen?”

“’Tis no game,” Catrin was able to say before he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into his arms.

He kissed her, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth, forcing her head back. She closed her eyes. He acted like a madman now, wanting to possess her. Catrin caught his frenzy, his haste. In her woman’s place deep within, she began to yearn. Brand me, she screamed silently, opening to him, allowing him to scorch the tender skin of her throat with his tongue and lips. Mark me as your own!

She knew this might be their last time together.

“ Myn Duw ,” he released the words against her neck. He grasped her pelican, ready to strip it from her shoulders.

“No,” she groaned. “Now.”

She clutched at him, letting waves of sensation wash through her aching core. The cadence of her yearning increased. Catrin circled his neck with her arms, and lifted one leg around his waist. Bran gripped her hips. Moaning, she brought up the other leg, holding on. Her skirts draped around them.

Breathing hard, he plunged his tongue again and again into her mouth as he held her and staggered forward. Reaching the great bed, he rested her on its edge. She was hot and ready.

“Please,” she begged as he pushed up her skirts around her exposed body.

With one thrust, he slipped inside her and like a magnificent and powerful stallion mounting a mare, drove his seed deeply into her.