True Love, page 18
Royce descended to the great hall in time to see the hunting party off.
“I would gladly stay behind to keep you company, Royce,” said Lady Edith, “except I have promised Lord Achard I will hunt with him today. You don't mind, do you? I didn't know you would recover so quickly.” Her eyes were a clear, pale blue, her lashes blonde like her hair, and she batted those lashes most beguilingly at her host.
“Please go and enjoy yourself, my lady,” Royce said, taking her hand. “I am not yet so hale that I will not take to my bed to rest before the evening meal.”
“Then, surely, I ought to keep you company,” the lady murmured with a smile meant only for him, “and provide entertainment for you while you lie resting.”
“Give me a day or two more to fully recover my strength.” Royce's eyes twinkled as he carried her hand to his lips.
“I am sure your imagination would not flag,” she said, secret meaning in her crystaline blue gaze.
“I wish you luck in the hunt.” Royce dropped her hand and stepped back.
For an instant Lady Edith appeared to be irritated by Royce's words. Then Achard bowed and extended his arm, and with a last, questioning look at Royce she placed her fingers on his wrist and allowed him to lead her out of the hall.
“I do hope Achard will decide he wants to marry Lady Edith, rather than me,” Catherine said to her father. Since she was standing near him, she had heard his exchange with the lady.
“I doubt if that will happen,” Royce said. “Thanks to her late husband's spendthrift ways, her dowry is considerably smaller than yours.”
“Still, she is very pretty. And you have been alone for many years.” Catherine meant the words as an opening. If Royce was fond of Lady Edith and was considering marriage to her, Catherine wanted him to know she would not be difficult about his plans, or jealous of a new chatelaine at Wortham.
“Unlike Achard, I am not seeking a wife,” Royce said. “Do you yearn for a stepmother?”
“I want you to be contented. It would please me to see you happy, as I remember you and my mother were happy.” Royce's reaction to that statement stunned her.
“Never again will I sacrifice a woman I love to a villain,” Royce said with considerable force. His mouth hard, his eyes bleak, he stared at Catherine as if he saw someone else in her place. Then he shook his head and spoke again. “I will spend the next hour conferring with my steward.” He stalked out of the hall.
“What villain was he talking about?” Catherine murmured. “Does he mean he has withdrawn his permission for Achard to court me? Oh, I do hope so. Or does he mean he thinks Braedon is a villain? That seems far more likely. He left so quickly that I didn't have a chance to tell him what Gwendolyn said about Achard. How tired I am of all these secrets.”
Just then, to her surprise, Braedon came into the hall fully dressed and walking with a very convincing limp. Several of the guests interrupted his progress across the hall to speak to him and ask about his health. He appeared to be in fine spirits.
“Good day to you, Lady Catherine,” he said in a cheerful voice. “Dare I hope you are not joining the hunt? And if not, will you consent to visit the fair with me? As you can see, I am not yet fit enough to ride all day, but I am sure I can sit a horse long enough to reach the village.
“Aldis tells me there is no reason why you cannot go,” he continued. “She and Robert are eager to act as our chaperones, and Lord Cadwallon is willing to keep your father company.”
“I think my father does not want company. Something has disturbed him.”
“Wouldn't you be disturbed if someone was trying to kill you?” Braedon asked in a quieter voice. “But Royce will be in no danger this day. Ward will keep a close watch on his master, and Cadwallon is a completely trustworthy friend. All of which means you have no excuse not to attend the fair with me.”
Catherine frowned, considering the many questions still plaguing her about Braedon. Gwendolyn's story appeared to absolve him of poisoning her father. She could not deny to herself that she loved him. Her deepest instincts told her she could trust him. And yet, mysteries clung to him like wisps of fog, frequently shifting, concealing and then revealing heretofore unguessed-at aspects of his character. Perhaps she could learn something more about him while they were at the fair.
Most of all, she simply wanted to be with him, to touch him occasionally, to hear his low, rich, thoroughly masculine voice that seemed to caress her with every word he spoke.
“Yes,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “I will spend the day with you.”
The fair was even more crowded with customers than on its first day. There were more merchants participating, more booths set up, and a good deal more noise. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, extolling the fine merchandise, calling out to friends. Children shouted and raced between the grownups and, occasionally, upended a counter and were subjected to a scolding from an irate vendor.
“Where did all these people come from?” Aldis cried, looking around.
“Word travels,” Catherine said. “People know there is a gathering of nobles at Wortham, all of them willing to spend freely, and the news is passed along.” She noticed how Aldis kept her hand firmly in the crook of Robert's elbow so as not to be separated from him, and she saw how her cousin looked at the handsome young man.
“Braedon,” Catherine said, slowing her pace to let the other couple walk on ahead, “is there nothing you can do for Robert? Aldis says he is too poor to afford knightly equipment.”
“I would gladly help him if I were able,” Braedon said, “but I own little more than Robert does. I can barely afford to feed my horses, and Robert rides my extra mount.”
“How did you acquire your own armor and horses?”
“They were a gift from my father on my twenty-first birthday,” Braedon said.
“Perhaps he would be willing to help Robert, too,” she suggested.
“I cannot and will not ask him for more,” Braedon said, very firmly. “He has other children to provide for, including girls who will require dowries. My knightly equipage and the accolade he bestowed on me were more than I had any right to hope for. Many men do nothing at all for their illegitimate offspring.”
“Your own father knighted you?” Here was further proof that Braedon's father was, at the very least, a knight. Catherine was watching his sharp-chiseled, serious face closely, and she detected there a certain warmth which she took to be genuine affection for his parent. Her assumption was confirmed by his next words.
“There was a time when I thought I would remain a squire for the rest of my life, like Robert,” Braedon said. “There are worse fates. While I was my father's squire, he always treated me kindly.”
“As you treat Robert now.”
“I try. If the opportunity occurs, I'll see him knighted.” Braedon's gaze rested on his squire, who was showing Aldis something at a nearby booth. “Life for men like us is risky. And frequently brief.”
“Don't say that.”
“Why not? It's true enough, as you and I know. A man can be cut down on the melee field, or in battle, or poisoned in his own home.”
“There’s something I haven't told you,” she said, and there, with the crowd milling around them she revealed Gwendolyn's story of seeing Achard outside Braedon's room at a time when he could have overheard Gwendolyn and Robert speaking about the contents of Braedon's baggage. Catherine decided not to mention the cloaked figure leaving Braedon's room that Gwendolyn had seen late at night.
“So, Achard probably knows about the poisons you carry,” Catherine finished, “and I suppose he could have stolen them from your room while you were sleeping. It would be safe enough for him to try such a theft; if you wakened or Robert returned, Achard could say he was visiting to see how you were. But why he would want to harm my father I don't know, nor could he have administered the poison himself. He had no opportunity.”
“I am sure he has an accomplice,” Braedon said.
“I've been thinking about that, and I keep coming back to Phelan and Eustace, both of whom dislike my father, in spite of their loud protestations to be family members and dear friends.”
“Now, there are two serious possibilities,” Braedon said, “though I would wager more heartily on Phelan than on his son.”
“Thank you for not discounting a woman's opinion.”
“I'd never discount you, Catherine. Nor Gwendolyn, either. What she lacks in beauty she makes up for in wits. While you, my love, possess both in ample supply.”
His love? Was that how he thought of her, or was he speaking casually, as men sometimes did? It was the second time he had used that term while talking to her. His hand rested on her shoulder in a possessive way. Despite the dangers that lurked at Wortham and all of her unanswered questions about him, still Catherine felt remarkably safe with Braedon. She lifted her eyes to meet his, only to discover he wasn't gazing at her. He was staring at someone else. Catherine looked about the fair ground while Braedon's hand tightened on her shoulder. And she saw who had caught his attention.
“There is the same man you were talking to when we were here last week,” she said.
“So it is.” Braedon was still staring at the man.
Glancing between the two of them Catherine saw Braedon jerk his head in a quick, scarcely noticeable motion. The stranger changed direction and came to them as if he was carried forward by the movement of the crowd.
“Sir Desmond,” Braedon said, “well met.”
“A pleasure to see you again,” the stranger responded as if the meeting was completely unintentional.
“Lady Catherine, may I present an old friend, who is a simple knight like myself. Desmond and I were squires in the same household.”
“Welcome to Wortham, Sir Desmond.” Catherine extended her hand to the sandy-haired, gray-eyed man. He was as tall as Braedon, though he did not appear to be quite as tightly muscled, and his figure displayed none of the firmly leashed power that emanated from Braedon.
“Are you planning to join us for the last day of the tournament?” Catherine asked him.
“I am sorry to say I cannot, my lady. I was recently injured. I won't be fighting again for some time.”
“Then will you come for the feasting and to watch the tournament? I am sure my father would like to meet you.”
“The last day of the tournament will be held on Tuesday,” Braedon told him, “beginning at midmorning. Royce has postponed it from Monday in hope that with an extra day of rest he will feel well enough to compete.”
“Again, I must respectfully decline,” Sir Desmond said. “I am staying elsewhere and it would be a rudeness if I were to leave. In fact, I only rode to Wortham because I felt the need of some exercise after being confined to my bed for too long. And I ought to be returning. If you will excuse me, my lady. Braedon, we will meet again soon, I trust.” With a bow Sir Desmond took his leave of them.
“He certainly wasn't confined to his bed last week, for he was here, at the fair,” Catherine remarked, looking after him. “Where could he be staying that's near enough for him to ride to Wortham for the day? Braedon, why did you want us to meet?”
“Because I expect you to remember his face,” Braedon said, “as he will remember yours. Now, come along and help me search for Aldis and Robert. They have vanished. I begin to fear that you and I will have to act as chaperones to our chaperones – if we can find them.”
“I saw them go into the fortune teller's booth,” Catherine told him.
“Then they are in serious danger. Mab will certainly assure them they have a happy future together,” he said with a laugh. He caught Catherine's hand, to pull her toward Mab's booth. “Let us rout those two out of there. It's time to return to the castle.”
“So soon? We've scarcely been at the fair an hour. Did you come only to meet Sir Desmond? Was it because you needed to tell him about the alteration in the tournament schedule? Who is he, really?”
Braedon stopped to tilt her chin up so she could see how he was laughing at her.
“You ask too many questions,” he teased. “If we weren't in so public a place, I'd silence your pretty mouth with a kiss.”
“Would you?” she responded with some acerbity, believing he was trying to divert her thoughts from Sir Desmond's sudden appearance and quick departure. “Perhaps I'd refuse you.”
“No, you wouldn't.” His voice was a soft caress, the low pitch of it sending heat into the very core of her being. “You want me to kiss you as much as I want to do it. Heaven help me, Catherine, there are moments when I think I'll die if I don't have you again.”
“Braedon,” she breathed, almost overcome with desire for him. She swayed toward him just as Aldis and Robert burst through the curtain over the entrance to Mab's booth. They were laughing and joking, and their voices broke the spell that held Catherine and Braedon.
“Your pardon, my lady,” Braedon said to her, his eyes growing distant. He removed his fingers from her chin. “I misspoke.”
“You didn't,” she said, but she wasn't sure he heard her, because Robert was laughing and saying something to him about Mab's wonderful predictions.
Whitsunday passed quietly, with Father Aymon conducting several long services to mark the holy day. By midday the guests had all made their communions, having fasted since the previous evening as the Church required of them, and they were eager to indulge in an afternoon of feasting. Royce appeared in both chapel and great hall and seemed to be completely recovered from what he insisted was no more than a simple stomach upset caused by bad fish.
“But there is another person here who knows he wasn't merely ill,” Catherine said to Braedon. With a sensation of considerable unease she looked around the great hall. “Perhaps more than one person.”
“We will uncover the villains, never fear,” Braedon murmured. He was still pretending to limp, and to anyone who spoke to him, he provided a creditable impression of a man who regretted that he would be unable to compete in the final day of the tournament.
“I can sympathize with you,” said Lord Cadwallon, rubbing his own broken arm. “I am growing ever more impatient with this affliction.”
“Braedon, I've been looking for you.” Royce joined their little group, his face dark with disapproval. “I do not want you at the high table. Find yourself a seat among the men-at-arms.”
“Father,” Catherine exclaimed, “why are you being so rude to a guest?”
“As for you,” Royce said, shaking a finger at her, “I'll deal with you later.”
“What have I done?” Catherine cried. “Why are you acting this way?”
“Lord Cadwallon, would you be good enough to escort my daughter to her chair and sit beside her during the feast?” Royce asked.
“I would be honored.” Cadwallon extended his good arm toward Catherine, who did not take it.
“Father!” she cried in exasperation.
“Do not make a scene before our guests. We will discuss your misbehavior later.”
“My what?” Catherine could not believe what she was hearing. She knew Royce was furious with her after catching her in Braedon's room, but to preserve her honor, and his, he had refrained from a public display of outrage. She could not understand why he was making an issue of the matter now.
“My lady,” Cadwallon said to her, “please allow me to conduct you to the high table. Perhaps you could smile at me and appear to be enjoying yourself. Lord Achard is watching us, and Lady Edith, too.”
With a last, puzzled glance at her father, Catherine accepted Cadwallon's arm. She saw Braedon speaking to Royce in barely concealed anger. Royce spun on his heel and went to the dais to take his place at the high table. Braedon seated himself well down one of the lower tables, and he did not look happy at being displaced. Nor did Catherine miss Achard's smug expression as he watched the scene.
“Once again they are plotting without telling me,” she muttered.
“Do not interfere in matters you do not understand,” Cadwallon warned her in a manner very unlike his usual affable self.
“If I were being watched as carefully as you are being watched at this moment,” Cadwallon went on, “I would pretend there is nothing wrong. I am not your enemy, Catherine. Please listen to me.”
She did listen, and she noted the abrupt change in him, from a relaxed man whose only concern was his inability to participate in the tournament any longer, to a quiet, intense person who seemed to have some private knowledge of what was actually happening. Braedon had said he was trustworthy, so Catherine decided to do as Cadwallon asked. All through the long meal of many courses she smiled and tried to look as if she was troubled by nothing more serious than the success of the huge meat pie that Cook had produced, or whether there was too much almond milk in the custard.
Royce did not speak to her at all. He spent his time conversing with Lady Edith, and with Achard, who sat on Edith's other side. By the time the feast was over Catherine was both angry and confused. As soon as the guests dispersed to their rooms and Royce mounted the steps toward the lord's chamber, Catherine followed him, determined to confront him about his rude treatment.
She caught up with him in his chamber as he was changing his tunic with Ward's assistance. Catherine closed the door very quietly and advanced into the room.
“Ward, you are excused for the night,” Royce said, his eyes on Catherine's face. “Go to your bed, lad. You’ve rendered faithful service and you must be weary. I don't want to see you again until morning.”
“Father,” Catherine began, then stopped when Braedon entered just as Ward left them. “Good, I'm glad both of you are here, so I can question you together. What are the two of you up to now?”
“That is precisely what I would like to know,” said Achard, coming into the room before Braedon could close the door. “Royce, why is it that Braedon is no longer your friend?”
