True Love, page 2
Catherine signaled to one of the pages and gave the boy instructions about where to conduct the disturbing guest and his squire.
“Braedon the Wicked, indeed,” she said as soon as the knight was out of hearing. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Aldis, I want you to find Gwendolyn. Tell her she is to supervise Sir Braedon's bath, and she has my permission to treat him in whatever way seems best to her.”
“Gwendolyn?” Aldis repeated in astonishment. “Why her? She is so homely that no man will look at her, and she is ill-natured as well. Her temper is vile.”
“Just so,” Catherine said, smiling serenely. “Still, Gwendolyn is an honest and faithful servant. I think she deserves the intimate pleasure of bathing a handsome man at least once in her life.”
“But, do you believe Sir Braedon deserves the torture of having Gwendolyn in his chamber while he is unclothed?” Aldis asked on a gurgle of laughter. “She will certainly criticize everything she sees.”
“If Braedon the Wicked is determined to live up to the reputation suggested by his name, then we ought to provide a worthy opponent for him,” Catherine said. “Let us discover whether Gwendolyn has the spiritual strength to withstand his seductive wiles.
“Now, as for Phelan and Eustace,” she continued more soberly, “I want no women to attend either of them. Let us use the excuse that all of our maidservants are occupied with our female guests. Nor will I send any pages to serve them, especially Eustace. There's no telling what depths he will sink to.”
“Perhaps a man-at-arms would make a suitable attendant?” Aldis suggested.
“What a good idea. I will speak to Captain William and explain the situation. I'll ask him to order two of his toughest men to attend Phelan and Eustace, and I'll have him tell the men they are to report to him or to my father anything suspicious they see or hear. If men-at-arms believe they are involved in uncovering a deception of some sort, they won't mind so much having to fetch and carry for those two.”
Catherine was sure there was a deception going on, and her curiosity would not allow her to rest until she knew what it was.
“Father, wait.” Catherine caught up with Royce just as he was entering the lord's chamber at the top of the tower keep. She tried to give him a fierce and determined glare, though she was afraid she failed miserably. She loved him too much to be really angry with him. “I want a few answers from you.”
“Come in, then.” Royce gestured for her to go ahead of him into the room. It was large and well furnished, with a huge bed curtained in green wool and two pairs of windows to let in light. It was also spotlessly clean, for Royce refused to tolerate dust or untidiness.
Catherine stalked to the center of the room, then spun around to face her father.
“Why did you invite Eustace and Phelan?” she demanded.
“I have my reasons,” Royce said. His quiet voice warned Catherine she wasn't likely to get any information out of him.
“Usually, when you speak in that tone I immediately give up asking questions,” she said. “I do understand there are some matters you cannot discuss with me. But if you are going to accept those two dreadful men into our household as if they are dear friends of yours, then I require an explanation. Why are they here?”
“Because I invited them,” Royce said.
“You are maddening. What if they cause trouble? When Eustace is drunk, which is most of the time, he is capable of violence against any man who says a firm word to him, or of attempting to ravish any woman who crosses his path.”
“I understand from Captain William that you ordered them attended by men-at-arms,” Royce said. “A wise decision, my dear.”
“Is there any special problem for which I ought to prepare?” Catherine asked. She stood with fists on her hips, one toe tapping the floor in irritation while she tried to think of a way to wring from him the information she wanted. She suspected that she could literally wring his neck, which at the moment she was sorely tempted to do, and he still wouldn't tell her anything he did not wish to reveal. She made one last attempt. “We are responsible for the wellbeing of all of our guests so long as they are under your roof. If there is a chance of our plans for the Whitsuntide festival being disrupted, I ought to know about it so I can be prepared.”
“Sometimes, you remind me of your mother,” he said with a wistful smile. “Especially when you stamp your foot like that.”
“I am not stamping my foot!” She planted both feet firmly on the floor and unfisted her hands, holding them down at her sides. Then she took a long breath and asked another series of questions. “How do you know Sir Braedon? Is he a friend of yours, or merely an acquaintance? I have never heard you mention his name. Who is he? Why is he here?”
“I know many people whom you have never met,” he said with infuriating calm. “Braedon is one of King Henry's household knights.”
“That isn't what I asked you,” Catherine cried, thoroughly exasperated.
“Braedon is an excellent fighting man,” Royce said. “He is here for the tournament.”
“That's another subject that disturbs me,” Catherine said. “Why in heaven's name have you decided to hold a mock war?”
“For entertainment,” Royce said.
“It's so unlike you.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is.” Catherine was beginning to feel desperate, and to doubt she would ever extract an honest answer from her parent on any subject having to do with his current plans. “Never mind, Father. If you won't tell me the real reasons behind this ludicrous festival you are holding, then I will discover what I want to know on my own.”
She left the room with great dignity, closing the door softly as she went. It was quite beneath her to slam any door. But she closed the door slowly enough to overhear her father’s parting remarks.
“Yes,” Royce said with a sigh. “You are too much like your dear mother, especially in your dangerous curiosity. I fear I will have to take extra precautions to keep you safe.”
“My lady, the hospitality you offer is truly remarkable,” Braedon said to Catherine. “I am obliged to thank you most especially for the kind and deliciously mature woman whom you delegated to assist me in my bath. It was an invigorating hour.”
His mouth quirked in a half smile and Catherine found herself wondering what he really thought of Gwendolyn and why he was making such a point of telling her about his bath.
Seen at close range Braedon's eyes were not black at all. They were a dark midnight blue and they glittered with sardonic humor. Catherine wished the midday banquet was over. She wished even more fervently that her father had not insisted Braedon must sit beside her at the high table. He was only a knight; by the accepted rules of precedence there were other, nobler guests in the great hall who held a better right to be where Braedon was. With her father seated on her other side, she was constrained to be polite to Braedon and not respond to his provocative remarks. She was trying to be a good hostess, but he wasn't making her task an easy one.
“Where were you born, Sir Braedon?” she asked. It was the most ordinary of questions, requiring only a simple response, from which she could then make some commonplace remark about having once been there and liked her surroundings, or never having been there but she hoped one day to visit the place, and would he please tell her a little bit about it? Most men would have answered her honestly and then continued to uphold their part of the conversation. She was rapidly learning how unlike most men Braedon was. He ignored her query in favor of his own question.
“Were you born here at Wortham?” he asked.
“Yes, I was. Tell me, Sir Braedon, have you ever been to Normandy? I have not, but my father has promised I may go with him when next he attends the royal court there. I should like to know something about the duchy from someone who is familiar with it.”
“Have you lived at Wortham all of your life, or were you fostered elsewhere for a time?” he asked. “I believe it is the custom for noble ladies in this country, although I have known of girls who were schooled in convents until they were married.”
“I was fostered at Cliffmore Castle until my mother died,” Catherine said. “I was fortunate that I quickly made friends with Margaret of Sutton and that my brother, Arden, was also fostered there. It would have been a lonely time for me without the two of them. Did you find your years of fostering lonely?”
“Lady Margaret of Sutton is now married to your brother,” Braedon remarked with a slight frown.
Catherine was growing more frustrated by the moment. Braedon was apparently determined to reveal nothing about himself, or his past. That fact was in itself suggestive. If Braedon refused to provide the simplest information about his life it must be because there was something to hide – and whatever it was, it might pose a danger to her father, or to the folk who were gathered at Wortham.
Catherine sat back in her chair, toying with her silver wine goblet while she tried to think how to elicit from Braedon the true reason for his presence at Wortham. Later, she was going to have to raise the subject of their remarkably self-contained guest with her father without insulting Royce's judgment in inviting the man. Perhaps at that point she could discern some hint of her parent's actual purpose in holding the Whitsuntide festival.
Royce leaned forward, one elbow on the table, to speak to Braedon. At the same time Braedon also bent forward, facing Royce.
Catherine glanced up at their movements. She was perfectly positioned to intercept the intense look that passed between the two of them. She sat absolutely still, not breathing, not wanting to draw their attention to her. Their words were trivial, something about the upcoming melee and Braedon's intention to take part in it. Their eyes bespoke a different tale. There was a peculiar air of caution about each man. They gave Catherine the impression that every word they uttered conveyed a double meaning, which she was unable to translate, but which they understood perfectly. When Royce's gaze shifted to Phelan and Eustace, who were sitting at the far end of the high table, it seemed to Catherine as if Braedon was very carefully not looking in the same direction as Royce.
“My lord, did you hear what I said just now?” The lady who was sitting at Royce's right hand sounded distinctly peevish.
“Lady Edith, my apologies for seeming to ignore you. I do most humbly beg your pardon.” Royce turned to her and the tense mood of the moment vanished as if it had never existed.
Catherine was left staring at Braedon while questions raced through her mind. Who was he, really? Why was he at Wortham? Why did he counter any question she asked of him with a query of his own instead of an answer? If he ever did choose to answer her, could she believe what he said?
A nasty suspicion began to rear itself in her thoughts. The only explanation she could imagine for Braedon's reticence lay in her father's secret work for King Henry. It was possible that Braedon was a spy. If she had guessed aright, then another problem immediately presented itself to her worried mind. Was Braedon King Henry's man and, therefore, a friend to Royce of Wortham, or was he a dangerous foe?
Once the eating was finished a group of musicians began to play and some of the younger guests organized a dance. Catherine was invited to join the caracol but excused herself, saying she must see to certain household duties. In truth, she had no heart for dancing, not when she was becoming more certain by the moment that there were hidden undercurrents swirling amongst her father's guests. Always before Royce had kept his secret work for the king separate from his life at Wortham. She found it difficult to believe he would invite criminals and spies into his home, but she was compelled to face the possibility that he had done exactly that.
“The stakes must be incredibly high,” she murmured to herself. “He would not risk his people, or me, without just cause. Even so, I intend to discover exactly what schemes are afoot so I can be prepared to help him if his plans go awry.”
She dismissed the stirring of conscience that warned her against allowing curiosity to lead her into mischief. Instead, she excused the devious actions she was about to undertake by promising herself she would immediately tell her father anything of importance she might learn.
Catherine glanced around the great hall. So far as she could tell, all of the guests were still present, either sitting at the tables talking, or dancing. She left the great hall, pausing in the entry hall for a moment to speak with William, the captain of the guard. As soon as William excused himself to join the revelry, Catherine hurried up the curving stone stairs that led from the entry directly to the upper levels, where the guest rooms were.
She knew she would not have time to search all of the rooms during her first excursion, so she selected the two chambers which she thought were most likely to contain evidence to shed light on the mystery that was perplexing her beyond all tolerance.
She came first to the chamber assigned to Phelan and Eustace. The door was unlatched and it opened at the light touch of her fingertips. Inside, the room was in shambles, its original neatness totally destroyed by those two careless guests. The bedcovers were dragged onto the floor and two wooden clothes chests sat open with garments strewn about. A muddy boot and a single stocking were tossed onto the bed, a stool was upended, and on the small table near the bed a candlestick lay on its side, the candle extinguished in a pool of melted wax. The place stank of wine and of other, less pleasant odors.
Catherine did not want to set foot inside the room. She was terrified of being caught there, yet her inquisitive nature drove her to search the place. She pulled the door wide, deciding if anyone came by and saw her, she would use the condition of the room as an excuse to claim she had found the door open and had come in to straighten the chamber for the comfort of the guests using it.
In fact, it was all she could do to touch any of the men's belongings. She moved what she could with the toe of one shoe, and used a single finger to lift a shirt and a cloak so she could see if there was anything under the clothing. Her hasty search disclosed nothing to answer any of her many questions. Still, she did not think she had missed anything important. All the belongings Phelan and Eustace had brought to Wortham were spread out for her to see.
“What I am looking for is probably safely stored in Phelan's mind,” she told herself, “or else it's on parchment and he keeps it on his person. I doubt he'd entrust anything of value to Eustace. How I wish I knew exactly what it is I am seeking!”
Convinced there was nothing for her to find in that chamber, she left it and moved on to Braedon's room, which was on the next level up from Phelan’s.
She lifted the latch and entered, leaving the door open a crack so she could hear anyone coming up the steps. Once inside she took a deep breath, inhaling the clean fragrance of the soap she provided for all of the guests, mixed with another scent that reminded her of a forest filled with fir trees and freshly cut wood.
Earlier in the day when she had bumped into Braedon in the great hall she was close enough to him to catch a whiff of his scent. Smelling it again recalled the strength of his hands on her shoulders and the way he had stared at her mouth. She could almost hear the sound of his low-pitched voice.
Shaking herself free of seductive memory she made herself concentrate on the reason why she was in Braedon's room. She looked around, taking careful note of all she saw.
The shutter at the single window was open and a shaft of golden, late-day sunlight illuminated a large covered basket with a folded pile of clothing on the lid. A pair of boots sat on the floor next to the basket, and a rolled-up bundle that was probably the squire's bedroll rested beside the boots.
In the entire room not a single item was out of order, though a faint indentation on a bed pillow hinted that someone had recently rested there. But the coverlet was unwrinkled.
“Interesting,” Catherine murmured. “Braedon the Wicked is clearly an orderly man, with a single squire who is apparently as neat as his master.”
The sole object she could see that could possibly hold any sort of secret was the basket. Going to her knees, she lifted the pile of clothing off the basket and set it on the floor. Only then did she notice how the basket lid was secured with a tightly knotted leather thong. Catherine stared at the thong while the realization dawned on her that it was going to require valuable time to unfasten the complicated knot. Having done so, she was then unlikely to be able to retie the knot in the same way. Braedon would know someone had been prying among his belongings.
While she knelt there, trying to decide what to do next, she heard a footstep on the stairs. A glance at the door told her she would surely be seen by whoever was coming. She leapt to her feet and whisked behind the door, where she stood very still, waiting until the person had passed by the doorway.
The oncoming footsteps paused. An instant later the door swung inward and Catherine heard a muffled curse. There was absolute silence for a moment while Catherine stared at the telltale clothing on the floor, certain the person on the other side of the door was staring at it, too.
Without warning the door crashed shut. In what seemed to her the very same heartbeat Catherine was slammed against the wall, held there by a pair of large male hands that gripped her shoulders with painful strength. Muscular thighs pressed against her hips, keeping her immobilized.
