My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Thirty-One

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Catrin awoke slowly to the feeble light of a cloudy dawn and the luscious smell of stewing meat that wafted up the ladder to the cold loft where she had spent a restless night. Bran had promised her a good night’s rest at the humble cottage of a farrier who’d once been in service to the king, and he had kept that promise. Drowsy still, she hung onto the dregs of sleep, reluctant to face the day and what it held. Her heart drummed to a dull thud of fear that never seemed to leave her now. ’Twas a wonder she’d slept at all.

Her stomach growled, and Catrin placed her palm against the thin blanket covering her fully clothed body. She had not undressed, except for removing her crespine. For one, ’twas too cold in the small, single-room cottage, and for another, she had been so tired she could barely stand let alone climb into the loft. But climb she did at Bran’s behest, her thoughts a-jumble from weariness so great she selfishly failed to think about where he would sleep.

Now she missed him, her body aching not only from the cold but also from the loss of his warmth she’d grown accustomed to sharing. Catrin shut her eyes, overwhelmed once more by regret and by a rising sense of guilt that threatened the very air she breathed.

How could she save him? Once so quick to devise a plan to find Gilbert’s murderer and plan their escape from Northbridge, she was now at a loss.

In the room beneath her, Bran and their host Alun of Rhuddlan, a maker of fine sword blades as well as sturdy horseshoes, murmured together. They were speaking in Welsh and Catrin could not make out a single word.

Opening her eyes, she pulled back the skimpy blanket and sat up. No matter how hard, she must face the day. Shaking her hair to loosen the tangles, she clawed her fingers through the long blond strands. Then gulping a breath, she faced the ladder and descended to the room below.

Behind her back, the rushes rustled. Bran’s hands circled her waist, guiding her down the remaining two rungs. He turned her around to face him.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said in a voice much too subdued and unfamiliar even to herself.

“How fared you last night?” Bran grinned at her, brushing back a pesky strand of hair from her eyes.

“Very well, thank you.” She glanced away like a blushing maiden. Her knees felt week.

“I like your hair down,” he whispered so that their host could not hear. “Without a net covering.”

“I need to braid it to keep it out of my way.” Her body pulsed with excitement. He did this to her by a mere look. By a simple touch. Desire shook her, and she fought the tight ache in her throat .

“I will be glad to help you braid it,” he said and kissed her full on the lips.

She leaned into his kiss, willing him to continue, begging for more, and fearing this would truly be their last.

“Harrumph!” Alun cleared his throat, chuckling. “I’d best be at the forge, else I’ll draw suspicion to this house. ’Sides, you need privacy, my lord.”

Catrin heard the man shuffle toward the door, but her senses concentrated only on her husband, his hands upon her breast and his demanding tongue inside her mouth. Her head swirled with delight as she opened to him, devouring him, and at the same time pressing against his black surcoat. She throbbed with wanting, with love, with the knowledge that this man was hers. Her husband. Now and forever.

But Bran ap Madog, the King’s Raven, the supposed Lord of Northbridge, was none of these things.

Shame stopped her. Catrin struggled to control her lust. She placed her hands against Bran’s chest, feeling the ripple of the mail beneath the surcoat and gently pushed against him.

Finally, she knew what she must do.

“Bran,” she said, fighting dizziness. “As much as I want you to make love to me now as a husband makes love to a wife, we must talk.”

He shook himself, as if remembering where they were and what they were about on this momentous day that would decide their futures. He pulled back from her. He framed her face with his strong hands. “You’re right, Olwen. I’ll feed you, and while you eat, I’ll tell you what I have learned.”

She laid her cheek against the warmth of his hand and thought she’d die from sadness .

Bran made her sit in the only stool in the room. As she braided her hair, he dished up a bowl of good, thick soup laced with chunks of vegetables, and placed it before her on the bare, wooden table. Catrin forced herself to eat, knowing she needed the nourishment.

Watching her, Bran rested against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest. “Alun tells me Sir Otto was not far behind us. He arrived last night.”

She held her spoon in mid-air, glancing up at him, and then shoved it into her mouth, swallowing with difficulty.

“Isadora arrived yesterday. Richard is with her.” Bran gave her the grim news. “The Rothmore pavilion is pitched outside the curtain walls where others of the king’s vassals have camped. Edward is rebuilding the castle. There is not enough room inside to accommodate all the members of his royal party, let alone camp followers and honest petitioners.”

“’Tis always so for those traveling with the king and queen,” Catrin said, as if she were merely making small talk at a midday meal.

He pushed away from the door to stand beside her, a tall, foreboding presence clad in black. Catrin did not fear him now. She only feared the secret she harbored.

“I’m in danger if I step out of this door,” he said, squatting down beside her and taking her hand. “Yet, I’ll face my accusers. I’ll go to the Rothmore tent and take Richard with me to see the king.”

Catrin shoved the bowl away. “’Tis dangerous.”

“I don’t shirk from danger.” He smiled, squeezing her hand. “The reward will be worth the risk.”

She was his reward. Or Olwen was. Catrin knew what had motivated him from the start. Power and land. What was his motive now? Looking into his dark eyes, she saw the light of unspoken love. A light she must dim if she wanted him to go into battle forewarned. Panic shot through her veins.

“I must tell you something,” she said quickly else her courage falter. “In some ways, ’tis good news.”

Bran lifted a questioning eyebrow. Catrin looked straight at him, trying not to think, only act. She drew on all the courage she could muster, straightening her shoulders as if that would help. “I am not Olwen de Belleme. I am Catrin Fitzalan. I was not murdered when outlaws set upon my party. They killed my maid Gwendolyn.” She drew a breath and turned her gaze away from his now bemused expression.

He dropped her hand. “Where is Olwen de Belleme?”

“In a convent.”

“Yet you said vows with me.”

Catrin forced herself to look at him. “Yes,” she said letting out her breath slowly.

“Why?”

“Because Olwen couldn’t marry you. She was too grief-stricken. We thought you had killed Gilbert. She always wanted to go to a convent.” He stared at her, all emotion draining from his face while her words of explanation tumbled out. “Olwen was too fragile, don’t you understand? She couldn’t physically have withstood marriage to you, not with your demands upon her body.” Catrin looked away. “All that I loved had died. I wanted Olwen to be safe. To live the life she wanted. I thought if we changed places, I could make her safe, and then I could get you to admit you killed my father and brother.”

Her reasoning seemed so inane now. As if she’d had the power to control destiny. Instead, she’d set into motion events she had little power to comprehend and no power to direct.

“Why tell me now?”

Catrin faced him once more. “Isadora knows.” Her voice was raw with anguish. “I don’t want you to meet the king without knowing the truth.”

“How noble of you.”

The sarcasm of his voice was like a slap. He was angry. She’d expected it.

Bran rose to his feet and lifted his cloak from a peg, draping it over his shoulders. Catrin stood too, feeling faint and winded. He came back to her, tilted up her chin, and unlike the first time that day, held her face hard in his grip. In an odd way, she welcomed his wrath and the pain of his fingers biting into her flesh.

’Twas somehow fitting.

His gaze bore into her. Was he trying to read her mind?

“You must know what harm you have caused,” he said with evident restraint. “I can forgive you for the charade. What I cannot forgive is that you lied to me.”

His hand fell. Turning away, he sheathed his sword and picked up his helm, cradling it under his arm. Then without a backward glance, he opened the cottage door. Icy wind from the nearby seacoast whooshed inside. With a sweep of his cloak, he was gone. Catrin ran to the door and stood there. The wind caught her skirt and tangled it about her legs.

Holding the door, she shut her eyes to the biting force of the wind and sucked its coldness into her lungs. She swayed, the door her only support, Catrin felt the overpowering misery she had anticipated. It swept over her like a crushing sea wave .

All she loved she lost.

Loving Bran ap Madog, the King’s Raven, was no exception.

Bran’s fingers fumbled with the girth as he saddled Taran. The horse had rested well and was eager for a run. Bran thought to oblige the animal. Collecting his reins, he inserted one foot into the left stirrup and swung atop the saddle, allowing the stallion his head as soon as he was settled in the leather seat. Somehow these very mundane tasks were comforting.

Ha! Why hoodwink himself? Nothing calmed him now. The act of tacking the horse simply bought time, permitting his mind to go numb from the anger that threatened to spill forth in violence. Best to channel that aggression for now while he let himself come to terms with the news his wife had revealed to him.

Why did he call her his wife?

Olwen was not his wife. The woman he had wed, had bedded, and cared for was not Olwen, but an imposter. She had duped him. Lied to him. She had admitted it in a tranquil, uncaring voice, as if she did not realize its impact on him or those in his care.

The harsh truth twisted in his gut. He, Bran ap Madog, knight of the royal household, king’s champion, was no longer responsible for anyone.

Only himself.

As it had always been. Himself and Rhys, but Rhys was dead and gone. He had loved Rhys. That was the sorrow of it .

He had also given his love to this woman. What was her real name? Catrin? Lady Fitzalan. He remembered now. The woman in the apple green gown from the king’s tourney.

The irony was not lost on him.

Alun’s cottage stood apart from the old town of Rhuddlan, hugging the road to the coast. Bran traveled that road now, galloping hard, welcoming the wind that whipped his cloak back from his shoulders and stung his eyes through the sights of his great helm. He cared not for the travelers that passed him nor for their strange looks. His mind was deadened. Frozen by disbelief, betrayal, and by an anger that welled deep within.

She had played him for a fool. Wiled him with her womanly ways. Depended on him so he had felt tenderness toward her. So he had grown to love her. He had used her body freely to pleasure himself. And her. Never forget that. She liked it too, their lovemaking. She had cried out for him, just as he had shouted her name. Olwen. Cariad. Sweet charlatan.

How could he not know? Why had the servants not alerted him? Father Ellis? The maid?

Bran sat back on the horse, slowing to a canter. Father Ellis knew. That is why he took to his cups. The maid knew too. Olwen had not done this deed alone.

His fingers closed tightly on the reins, causing Taran to jerk up his head. Bran sat deeper in the saddle, relaxing, and bringing the horse down to a walk. She was not Olwen, but Catrin. He must think of her that way now. Catrin Fitzalan . Wedded to him under false pretenses. He had been deceived. He’d been made to look the fool. The Church would annul their marriage .

What bothered him the most was the way she had lied to him.

And yet he had let himself love her.

Bran ap Madog, bastard, was no longer a great lord with land and people to command. So be it. He had longed for a son to carry on his name and give him a sense of belonging. What had that impossible dream gotten him?

He held nothing but his good name, now tarnished by rumor and false accusation. He had done nothing wrong. That angered him too. Just as Catrin had played him false so had someone else, the real culprit in this whole filthy matter—the true murderer of noble father and son.

The smells of the sea drifted on the chilled breeze long before Bran came to the end of the road. He topped a small rising, the sand beneath the horse’s hooves giving way. Stretched out before him, vast and gray, was the Irish Sea. White capped waves crashed against the sandy beach of the Welsh coastline, reminding Bran of his supposed wife. Full of power and passion, like a wave breaking and tumbling to the beach. One minute she could be fiery. The next minute, like the wave unrolling peacefully along the sand, she was calm and loving.

Nay! He would not think of her like that. He would not think of her at all. She didn’t love him. Else, how could she have deceived him so?

He must think only on how to remedy his troubles. For all he had now was his life. And his name. As it had always been and always would be.

Bran reined the horse around and set out at a canter for Rhuddlan and the king. If nothing else, when he cleared his name, he would find out who had actually killed John and Gilbert Fitzalan, the Lords Rothmore.