True Love, page 16
“The guard at the entrance says that Royce has not left the keep this morning,” Cadwallon responded.
“How very odd.”
“When you see him, would you tell him I'd like to have a word with him in private?” Cadwallon asked. “I'll do the same for you if I find him first.”
“Of course,” Catherine said. “Is there some problem that I could help you to resolve?”
“Oh, no.” Cadwallon responded just a shade too quickly and the ruddy color in his cheeks increased. “It's a manly thing having to do with the weapons for the tournament, nothing of interest to a lady.”
He was lying; Catherine was certain of it. Was there no one among all the people at Wortham who was not keeping a secret?
“What have you to do with weapons?” Catherine asked. “You will be unable to participate in the final day of the tournament.”
“To my regret,” said Cadwallon. “But Royce laid a task on me, so I wouldn't feel left out of all the activity, and I wanted to speak to him about it.”
“I see.” She thought that was a half truth, for Cadwallon looked a little less uncomfortable as he excused himself and went off to join a group of men who were breaking their fast at one of the trestle tables.
“Aldis, there you are.” Catherine hurried to the screens passage through which Aldis was just coming. “Has Robert mentioned whether Braedon is still in his chamber?”
“Robert just took some food to him,” Aldis said, not bothering to pretend that she hadn't spoken with the squire. “Gwendolyn is to carry hot water up for Sir Braedon to bathe, so I assume he is there. Why wouldn't he be?”
“And my father?”
“I don't know, I haven't seen him,” Aldis said. “Or Lady Edith, either.”
Aldis spoke no more on that subject but Catherine could guess what she was thinking, for the same possibility had occurred to her. An hour passed, during which Catherine applied herself to her morning duties as chatelaine. There was to be a hunting party that day and some of the guests
were becoming restless, wanting to begin. Royce still had not appeared, though Lady Edith did sweep into the hall attired for riding in a bright green gown with her hair caught high into a net.
“When we parted last night Royce promised an early start to the hunt,” she said to Catherine. “I cannot believe your father has forgotten.”
“Neither can I,” said Catherine. “I will see if I can find him, or one of his squires who will know where he is.” At least, Catherine thought rather sourly, she could now be sure her father was not in private with Lady Edith, so she would not be interrupting a passionate interlude if she knocked on the door of the lord's chamber.
She found the door unlatched and Ward, one of Royce's squires, holding a basin for his master, who was sitting on the side of his bed, being violently sick.
“Why didn't you call me?” Catherine cried.
“He refused to let me bother you when you are so busy with the guests,” the squire said.
“What nonsense. The guests can look after themselves for a while.” Catherine thought it was far more likely that Royce wanted to avoid another argument with her when he wasn't feeling well. She reached for a damp cloth that lay on a stool near the bed and used it to wipe her father's face. Royce was white and his uncovered upper body was damp. When Catherine laid her hand on his chest, she discovered that his heart was beating much too rapidly.
“I must have eaten something that disagreed with me,” Royce said. “My stomach is cramping badly.” His glance caught and held hers, as if he was relaying a silent message.
“Let me see that basin,” Catherine said to Ward. She took it from him and bent to look at the contents. “Take this to the garderobe and dump it there. Then wash the basin thoroughly and scrub your hands with hot water and soap,” she ordered. “Do not ask questions, simply do as I say.”
“Do it,” Royce said when the squire looked to him for confirmation. He waited until Ward was gone before he spoke again. “I gather that your suspicions are similar to my own.”
“This is not an illness caused by spoiled food,” Catherine said, her voice quavering with fear. “You have been poisoned.”
“I believe I have. Food was merely a convenient excuse. I feared that Ward would raise a loud outcry if I mentioned poison, and I don't want the guests to know of this. It's best to keep it quiet for now.”
“Do you know what the poison was, or when it was administered?” When Royce shook his head Catherine made a few quick decisions. “Stay here. I won't be gone long. Do not eat or drink anything until I return.”
“Not much chance of that,” Royce said weakly. “I cannot keep anything down.”
The first thing to do was brew a mixture of herbs that would make him vomit again, so he would lose still more of the poison. Catherine ran down the steps and headed for the stillroom.
“Catherine?” Aldis came into the entry hall just as Catherine reached it, and she followed her cousin. “What's wrong now?”
“Father is ill. Can you get a jug of hot water from the kitchen?”
“Gladly. But, why?”
“It will save time if I don't have to boil water in the stillroom,” Catherine responded. “Don't say anything to the guests. And hurry, please.”
When Aldis returned a few minutes later, carrying a jug of steaming water with a towel wrapped around it to protect her hands, Catherine had the herbal mixture ready in a small pitcher. She added the hot water and stirred, then laid a napkin over the pitcher to keep the vapors inside.
“I have just fended off a great many questions,” Aldis said. “We are going to have to tell the guests something, and soon.”
“I know.” Catherine picked up the pitcher, sniffed at the brew, and nodded her approval. “Will you bring the jug along? We may want the hot water.”
Royce was still sitting on his bed, arms tightly hugging his middle, his face pale and damp with pain.
“Drink this.” Catherine poured some of the herbal potion into a cup and thrust it into her father's hand.
“If I do, I'll be sick again,” he gasped, trying to give the cup back to her.
“That's the idea,” she said. “Ward, be certain he drinks every drop that's in the pitcher. Then wash his face and hands. It will make him feel a little better.”
“Catherine,” Aldis cried when they were heading down the steps once more, “would you care to tell me exactly what is going on here?”
“Please, just trust me and do as I ask of you,” Catherine answered. “I will explain everything later. Now, the next thing we have to do is get this crowd of guests out of the castle.”
“My lords and ladies,” Catherine said, raising her voice as she entered the great hall, “I am sorry to tell you that last night's fish has temporarily laid my father low. Is anyone else sick?”
As she expected, the only ailments that morning were a few minor injuries resulting from the tournament, Cadwallon's broken arm, and a dozen or so aching heads from too much wine.
“If our host is ill, what are we to do for entertainment today?” grumbled Phelan, sounding like a sulky child. “I wanted to hunt.”
“So you shall, my lord,” Catherine told him. “Allow me to take advantage of your frequent claim to be a member of our family.”
“What do you mean?” Phelan asked with a wary look that indicated he thought she was up to no good.
“As our nearest healthy male relative present on this day, you shall lead the hunt. There is no reason why everyone else should be inconvenienced because of my father's minor indisposition. I believe the horses and dogs are awaiting you, so there should be no delay in starting. Aldis will go with you as my surrogate. She will see to the midday refreshments that will be provided in the field.”
Aldis looked surprised at Catherine's announcement, but made no objection. Apparently, she saw the wisdom of keeping the guests occupied until Royce was well again.
Catherine's plan met with instant approval, though a fair number of her father's friends, including Lady Edith, did pause on their way out of the keep to ask her to carry their wishes for his quick recovery to the sick room. Catherine thanked them politely while she wondered who among them had done the terrible deed and while she heartily wished them all miles away from Wortham.
“Why are you doing this?” Phelan demanded in his most hostile manner.
“Because I believe you are the man best suited to take my father's place today.” She smiled at him, hoping he would not see in her face what a lie that was. Phelan stared at her as if convinced there was some trickery involved, but finally he did leave, pulling Eustace away from his ever-present wine jug as he went.
Achard was more difficult to move, and Catherine was growing both impatient and very apprehensive about her father. With every moment that passed the danger to Royce became more serious.
“My dear lady, I will stay with you,” Achard said. “I cannot in good conscience leave when you may have need of me.”
“My lord,” Catherine replied, suppressing with great difficulty her desire to see him kicked down the steps of the keep and into the bailey, “you will serve me best by helping Phelan to make this day's hunt a successful one.”
“But you will be left here alone, with only servants.”
“I trust the servants,” Catherine said. “They obey my clearly stated orders. I wish you would do the same.”
“Catherine, dear heart, your coldness wounds me.” Achard reached for her hand.
“Don't you understand?” Catherine cried, tugging her hand out of his with some difficulty. Desperate for him to be gone so she could get back to her father, she used the first excuse that popped into her mind. “I want you to watch Phelan for me in my father's absence. I fear he is hatching some nefarious plot.”
“What, Phelan? Do you really think so?” Achard's eyes were suddenly sharp as they regarded her.
“It's just a feeling on my part. I may be wrong, but I will be so grateful if you will attend the hunt and keep Phelan in your sight. And Eustace, too.”
“Of course, if that is what you want.” With a last, hard look at her, Achard finally departed.
“Do you want me to leave, also?” asked Cadwallon, coming up to her.
“No, of course not,” Catherine said. “You cannot ride with a broken arm.”
“I can if it's necessary. No?” Cadwallon said when Catherine shook her head at him. “By the look of things I am the only guest who won't be hunting. I will be here in the hall if you or Royce should need me, and I'll do my best to prevent anyone from disturbing you while you are tending to your father.”
Catherine's next stop was Braedon's room. In her haste she did not pause to knock. When she burst into the room he had just finished shaving and he stood with a linen towel at his face, staring at her. Robert nearly dropped a basin of soapy water at her abrupt appearance.
“Catherine, if your father finds you here again,” Braedon began.
“He won't,” she said. “He is in bed. He has been poisoned.”
“Are you sure?” Braedon flung down the towel and crossed the room to her. Catherine was by this time so upset that she scarcely noticed he was unclothed.
“He's whiter than the sheet he lies upon,” she said, her voice trembling a bit. “He is sweating, he has stomach cramps, and the stuff he has been vomiting has a peculiar odor.”
“Then you are right. Does he know how it happened?”
“Or who did it?” asked Robert, looking shaken.
“Braedon, I came to you because you told me last night that you keep certain antidotes with you. I gave Father herbs to make him vomit again, but he needs stronger medicine. Will you help him?”
“You know I will, though I cannot promise his recovery.” Braedon snatched the linen undershirt that Robert handed to him.
“I sent the guests out to hunt,” Catherine said. “Only Cadwallon remains behind and he has promised to stay in the great hall, so no one will see you when you leave your room and you will be able to continue the pretense of being badly injured.”
“That's good thinking.” Braedon paused in pulling on his undershirt to smile at her. “Thank you, Catherine.”
“I pray I did not delay too long in coming to you, but I wanted the others gone from the keep,” she said. “Especially Phelan and Achard. How Achard wanted to stay, but I made him go. Oh, Braedon, I am so afraid for my father's sake.”
“Hush, my love.” His embrace was quick, but no less tender for that. Before he released her he kissed her forehead. “From what you've told me, I think ground daffodil bulbs will be the best antidote.”
Braedon knelt by his clothing basket and lifted the lid. He tossed the uppermost layer of garments into Robert's outstretched arms. Both men stiffened, gaping at the contents of the basket.
“What is it?” Catherine asked.
“I believe we have just learned what the poison is,” Braedon said, searching through the clothing and the vials remaining in the basket. He sat back on his heels, a look of disgust on his face. “The hellebore is missing.”
“How can that be?” Catherine cried. “You keep the thong fastened at all times.”
“Not all the time recently,” Robert said. “It has been left open while I've been caring for Braedon, but he or I have always been in the room.”
“There were the hours when I was sleeping and you left to fetch water or food,” Braedon said to him. “I suppose someone could have crept into the room then and taken the packet of hellebore.”
“Whoever did it would have to know in advance what he was looking for and where it was,” Catherine said. “We three know what you keep in that basket. Does Aldis?” she asked of Robert.
“No, my lady, she does not. I would never reveal so secret a detail,” the squire answered with no sign of hesitation or dissimulation.
“I do not believe Aldis would steal anything,” Catherine reassured him, “only that if she is gossiping, she might mention what is here and someone could have overheard her.
“There's another who knows what you keep in that basket,” Catherine said to Braedon. “Gwendolyn knows. She warned me about those vials and jars.”
“We are wasting time on a problem best considered later, after we have done what we can for Royce,” Braedon said. “Robert, never mind my tunic and hose, just give me my robe. Then bring the water pitcher and my cup and come with us. We know my utensils are untainted, but we cannot be sure of Royce's water or drinking vessels.”
The cowled robe that Robert dug out of a saddlebag and handed to Braedon was made of dark wool and resembled a monk's habit. Seeing how completely it covered Braedon and how the cowl could be pulled up to hide his face, Catherine wondered if he often used it as a disguise. She put aside all such speculation when they reached the lord's chamber, for Royce lay on his bed writing in pain while the sweat poured off him.
“He has been sick again, just as you wanted,” Ward said to Catherine, showing her the basin. “But now there is nothing left in his stomach. It's dreadful to see him retching and heaving with naught to show for all his pain.
“Sir Braedon!” The squire stared as the tall man with Catherine pushed back his cowl. “We thought you were near to death.”
“I have just made a miraculous recovery,” Braedon said, and moved the squire aside to get to Royce.
“If you speak one word to a single soul about Sir Braedon being here, it will mean your life,” Catherine told the astonished squire. “Stand by the door with Robert, in case we need you. Do not let anyone enter this room.”
“My fierce girl,” Royce ground out between gasps of pain.
“We believe we know what the poison was, and I have brought an antidote,” Braedon said to Royce.
“You may be too late.” Royce gritted his teeth against another wave of stomach cramps.
“Nevertheless, we will try to save you.” As Braedon spoke he was mixing the powdered daffodil bulb in his own cup, using water from the pitcher Robert had carried from his room. “This is going to taste like more poison, but you must swallow it, and make every effort to keep it down. Catherine, come and raise your father's head while I feed this to him.”
Catherine did as she was bidden. Royce's stomach was in so much turmoil that he had difficulty swallowing the antidote, but Braedon proved to be remarkably patient. Sip by slow sip the healing potion went down and Royce clamped his teeth and lips together to keep it there. When the cup was finally empty Royce lay back against the pillows with a sigh. To Catherine's eyes her strong and vigorous parent suddenly looked much older, and terrifyingly frail.
“Since, according to both you and his squire, Royce lost everything in his stomach,” Braedon said to her, “let us hope he also lost most of the poison he had swallowed. The fact that he is still alive suggests that may be the case. Or, the poisoner may have been unskilled. Or frightened. The dose could have been wrong.”
He looked into her eyes and Catherine saw in his troubled gaze all the firm purpose that lay behind the oath he spoke.
“I promise you we will learn who did this, and the person responsible will be punished.”
Chapter 11
It was an hour later and Royce, though still white-faced and weak, was resting more easily, the antidote having settled his stomach. When he dozed off Catherine judged it was safe to leave him in Braedon's care for a time.
“We are going to need more water,” she said. Picking up Braedon's pitcher she added, “I will fetch it directly from the well so we can be certain it's not contaminated, and while I am below stairs I will ask a few questions.”
“Wait.” Braedon touched her arm, keeping her from leaving the room. “You must take great care. The person who poisoned your father is calculating and determined. He would not scruple to poison you, too, if he thinks you are near to learning his identity.”
“I will be careful,” she promised.
Her father's squire sprang to open the door for her. After swearing himself to secrecy about what was happening in Royce's room, Ward had then declared that he would not leave his master. True to his promise, he continued to guard the door with Robert.
