True Love, page 25
“I have volunteered for night duty until we leave for Gloucester,” Braedon said. “I know I can depend on you to feed Cadwallon well when he comes to the hall, and ask him if his arm is aching. It was uncomfortable earlier today.”
Captain William waited until Braedon left the hall before he, too, rose from the table where they had all been sitting.
“I must check on the sentries,” he said.
“Have you appointed yourself my chaperone?” Catherine asked, standing to face him.
“Before your father left, I promised him I'd keep you safe,” Captain William said. “While I am in charge of defending Wortham, you will not spend time alone with Sir Braedon. That was your father's order, and I will obey it.”
“You men think nothing of making arrangements for me, but none of you ask me what I want.” Never mind that women were supposed to obey their menfolk. Catherine had never been particularly obedient and she wasn't going to begin now.
“He isn't worthy of you, Catherine.” Captain William rubbed a hand across his grizzled beard. His eyes were somber. “I have known you all your life, I've watched you grow up, and I love you as if you were my own child. I'll tell you this; in my opinion, Sir Braedon is not a bad man. If he held a title, or had prospects of coming into a title or some land, or even if he knew his father's name, possibly I would feel differently, and possibly so would Lord Royce.”
“He does know who his father is.”
“Has he told you the man's name?”
“No, but—”
“Braedon has taken unknightly advantage of you,” Captain William interrupted her protest. “He will be punished for what he's done. That much is inevitable. I just pray he doesn't kill your father when they meet in combat. Braedon is a good twenty years younger than Royce, and in a long fight, youth usually wins.”
“No! That cannot happen. I won't allow it.”
“You must face the possibility, Catherine, and accept your responsibility for whatever befalls either man. I know Braedon well enough by now to believe he never forced you.”
Captain William's face was so solemn, his eyes so sad, that Catherine almost burst into tears. She laid both her hands on his arm, the same strong arm that used to lift her up when she was a little girl, holding her so she could see over the battlements when she was watching for her father to come home.
“My father will not die because of what I've done,” she promised. “Nor will Braedon. I'll do anything I can to prevent such an ending.”
“I hope you can,” Captain William said. “For all of your sakes, I hope you find a way.”
They were to leave Wortham early on Monday morning. Achard was the first of the prisoners to be brought up from the dungeon.
“I have been told you are taking me to see the king,” Achard said to Braedon. He waved a hand over his disheveled clothing and gave his scrubby blond beard a tug. “I cannot go like this.”
“You are a prisoner; why not look like one?” Braedon responded.
“I do not expect you to understand, bastard, but it matters to a nobleman whether he is clean or dirty. I want a hot bath. Is my squire still here? If so, let him bring fresh clothing. He can shave me.”
“It's not an unreasonable request,” Cadwallon said to Braedon. “Achard has always been fastidious in his appearance. Perhaps he will promise to behave while he is allowed to clean up and change his clothes.”
“Certainly, I will,” Achard said, and smiled at Cadwallon in a friendly way. “At least you understand, if Braedon does not. I give my word of honor not to attempt to escape, knowing full well that when I am taken before the king, he will command my immediate release, for I have done nothing wrong. It's you the king will punish, Braedon. Wait and see.”
“I will accept your word,” Braedon said after a few moments of consideration, “for the space of one hour only. No more.” As if to give added weight to the declaration, he laid a hand on his sword hilt.
“An hour will be all I require,” Achard responded.
Achard's squire was summoned and a man-at-arms saw the two to Achard's room, where all of his belongings except his weapons still lay, and where the squire had been sleeping during his master's absence.
“What?” Cadwallon said, seeing the way Braedon looked after Achard with a frown. “He has given his word; he'll cause no trouble.”
“The man has pledged himself to two kings and has forsworn both pledges. Despite his claim that he will be released after seeing King Henry, he must know that he will meet a severe judgment, if not a traitor's death, when he reaches Gloucester. I tell you, Cadwallon, I have no faith in Achard's word, not because my low birth prevents me from understanding honor, but because he is untrustworthy.”
“In the past, he was our friend,” Cadwallon said.
“A false friend. Achard lied to all of us, constantly, for too many years.”
“Have I heard aright?” asked Captain William, coming into the great hall. “Is it true you didn't put Achard in chains the instant he was brought out of the dungeon?”
“A man has a right to a bath,” said Cadwallon.
“Your heart is too soft.” Captain William responded to Cadwallon's generous sentiment with a disgusted snort.
“It's his head that's soft,” Braedon said with a wry grin. “Next, Cadwallon will be asking permission for Eustace to cut his toenails before we leave.”
“There won't be any delay because Achard is bathing,” Cadwallon said. “The ladies aren't ready yet, and the horses aren't even saddled.”
“One of the ladies is ready.” Catherine came through the screens passage in time to hear the end of the conversation. Gowned in a vivid green riding dress, with her bright hair braided and pinned up into a knot at the back of her head, she was so lovely that Braedon's heart twisted painfully at the sight of her.
“Gwendolyn will join us in a moment,” Catherine went on, “and Aldis is just seeing to the last of our packing. Captain William, I have warned Cook that you and your men are to be as well fed as if my father were still in residence. There is plenty of food in the larders, and no excuse for skimping on your rations just because the kitchen staff is tired after feeding so many guests. I will want to know if there are any problems with your meals. Everything else is in good order for your comfort, and that of your men, while I am away.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Captain William smiled at her, then looked up at a loud sound from above.
“What is that noise?” Catherine asked.
“Achard!” Braedon raced for the entry hall and the stairs, drawing his sword as he went. “Cadwallon, guard Catherine with your life!”
“So much for generosity and a traitor's word of honor,” said Captain William, whose own weapon was quickly in his hand, ready for use.
Evidently, Achard's squire had managed to smuggle a sword into his master's chamber, for Achard was fighting on the stairs with the man-at-arms who had accompanied him to his room.
Catherine rushed forward, brushing aside Cadwallon's restraining hand and ignoring his pleas that she stay safe inside the great hall. She reached the arch into the entry hall just as Achard aimed a vicious kick at the man-at-arms, knocking him off the stairway and onto the stone floor some feet below.
If not for Braedon's presence Achard would have won his way out of the keep to the inner bailey. Whether he could have gotten farther was debatable, for while Braedon engaged Achard, Captain William planted his sturdy form in the open door of the keep and shouted into the bailey for more men. Next he braced himself to back Braedon's effort to prevent Achard from escaping.
“Well, bastard,” Achard said to Braedon. He was grinning and barely winded after his skirmish with the man-at-arms and he spared no more than a hasty glare for Captain William. Braedon was the chief subject of his interest. “It's time for you to pay for keeping me from what I most want.”
“What do you want?” Braedon asked. “Catherine? Or Royce's position with the king? Which do you covet more?”
Braedon crouched, his broadsword balanced in both hands, waiting for Achard to make the first thrust.
“Not Catherine,” Achard said, “just her dowry. As for Royce, my squire tells me he is still alive. And here I thought you had killed him for me. What a pity. Next time, I'll see to the matter personally. And yes, I do want Royce's position. I will have it, too. Before I'm done, I will own all that is Royce's.”
“You'll have to kill a lot of good men first,” Braedon told him. As they talked he was slowly circling his opponent, edging Achard out of the entry and toward the great hall, where there was more room to maneuver.
Suddenly, Achard swung his sword at Braedon, who parried the blow with practiced skill. Their fierce movements propelled them into the hall. Cadwallon snatched Catherine out of the way just as Desmond appeared at her other side. Maidservants and squires scattered, leaving the center of the great hall empty. Still holding his sword ready, Captain William moved to stand squarely in the arch, thus blocking the nearest exit. His men-at-arms crowded behind him, all of them eager for a view of the duel between such well-matched knights.
It was a brutal fight, with no quarter asked or given, and as it went on and on Catherine began to think it would never end. The partially healed wound on Braedon's right arm opened and started to bleed under the strain of wielding his heavy sword. Neither man was wearing armor, so each slashing stroke that touched an opponent drew blood. Their faces and hands were slick with sweat, and their breathing grew labored.
Father Aymon pushed his way through the men-at-arms to reach Catherine's side.
“Merciful heaven.” The priest crossed himself. “Can no one stop them?”
“Not this time, Father,” Desmond answered him. “This is a battle to the death, one that both men think is overdue.”
“I cannot look on and do nothing while they kill each other.” Father Aymon rushed forward until he was recklessly close to the swordsmen. “In the name of all the saints, stop at once! Put up your swords.”
Braedon apparently heard him, and perhaps saw Father Aymon's figure out of the corner of his eye, for he briefly glanced around. Achard took instant advantage of his momentary lack of concentration, slashing hard at Braedon's weapon, catching it just below the hilt. The sword flew out of Braedon's hands and Achard lifted his blade for the kill. The wild look in his eyes and the smile on his face were terrible to behold.
Almost faster than the eye could see, Braedon pulled a long, slender knife from his boot. As Achard's sword arm began to descend Braedon slipped below the sword and drove his own blade home, thrusting it deep into Achard's side.
Catherine smothered a gasp of horror, but she could not tear her gaze from the scene. Nor did anyone else in the hall move or speak.
Achard stood still for a moment, his expression slowly changing from bloodlust to puzzlement. His sword dropped from his fingers to clatter on the floor. His knees buckled. Braedon caught him and lowered him to the floor, then bent over him, saying something, listening intently to Achard's response.
Then Father Aymon was on his knees beside Achard, talking to him. Braedon rose and turned away to pick up his sword. Father Aymon closed Achard's eyes and made the sign of the cross on his forehead.
Braedon held his sword with both hands, the point resting on the floor. His head and shoulders were bowed, his tall figure rigidly still. Catherine could see that his eyes were closed.
“Don't,” Cadwallon said, stopping her when she would have gone to him. “Give him a few moments. It's not an easy thing to kill a man who was once your friend.”
Captain William and his men were coming into the hall, and Father Aymon was giving them instructions on the disposition of Achard's body. Robert arrived to take Braedon's sword from him and wipe the blade clean. When he gave it back, Braedon sheathed the sword without having spoken a word to his squire.
And then, at last, his eyes met Catherine's, and the bleak sorrow she saw in him tore her out of Cadwallon's restraining grasp and across the room to put her arms around her love and hold him tight. She felt his arms around her, his cheek pressed against her hair, and for the length of several heartbeats she could not speak.
“Sir Braedon, you are wounded.” Aldis was there, her hands full of clean bandages and jars of herbal potions to cleanse and bind the sword cuts. “I do think we ought to postpone our leaving until tomorrow.”
“We leave in one hour, as planned.” Braedon's voice was ragged, but he seemed to have his emotions under control as he set Catherine aside and returned to duty. “Captain William, I want Phelan and Eustace chained before they leave their dungeon cells. Not one word to either of them about what has happened here. They still believe Achard left Wortham days ago. It may be to our advantage to let them go on thinking that he is alive, and free. Keep Achard's squire away from them.
“Robert, see that the baggage is loaded promptly. Catherine, will you have the floor washed and the hall restored to order before Phelan and Eustace are brought here?”
“I will see to it,” Aldis offered, handing the bandages to Catherine. “You will want to bind Sir Braedon's wounds.”
Braedon pulled off his tunic and sat at one of the tables while Catherine worked on his various cuts. He tolerated her ministrations, but she could tell his thoughts were elsewhere.
“I am heartily sorry for what has happened,” Cadwallon said, seating himself across the table from Braedon. “I blame myself for believing Achard's promise that he would behave.”
“The fault was his, not yours,” Braedon said shortly. “Achard could have kept his word. He chose to break it. How is the man-at-arms?”
“His hip is bruised where he fell on it,” Cadwallon reported. “He'll be stiff and sore for a few days, but there's no permanent harm done.”
“That's one reason to be glad,” Braedon responded. “At least no one else died for Achard's lying promise. I only wish it weren't necessary to kill Achard.”
“He would have killed you without regret,” Catherine said.
“I hate killing.” Braedon's gaze still held a bleakness that Catherine suspected would haunt him for a long time.
“It's just too bad Achard didn't tell us everything he knew about this nasty business before he died,” Cadwallon said.
“He did reveal a few facts with his last breaths,” Braedon said. His mouth grim, he pulled away from Catherine's gentle hands and stood up. “Thank you, my lady. That is quite enough. I have work to do.”
With his soiled tunic in hand Braedon strode out of the hall, heading for the dungeon, where Captain William was supervising the removal of the remaining two prisoners. He left Catherine with a heart that ached in sympathy for his misery.
They left Wortham an hour later than Braedon originally intended, but still with half the morning ahead for travel. The prisoners rode surrounded by two dozen of Royce's best men-at-arms, warriors skilled with weapons, cool in a crisis, and completely faithful to their lord. Phelan could have no hope of suborning the guards and, loaded down with chains as he and Eustace were, they had no chance of escape.
All of which made Catherine wonder why Phelan and Eustace did not protest their treatment. Eustace looked unpleasantly sullen, but that was nothing unusual for him. It was Phelan's tight-lipped, narrow-eyed silence that disturbed Catherine. He looked neither to right nor to left, did as he was told, and made no complaint.
“If I were you,” Catherine said to Braedon as the first day of travel drew to a close, “I would put extra guards on those two.”
“There are six men-at-arms responsible for each of them,” Braedon responded, “and extra men as overall guards for our company. If Royce's fighting men added to Desmond and Cadwallon and me cannot deliver those two safely to Gloucester, then an army could not.”
“I mistrust Phelan,” she said.
“I mistrust both of them. You needn't worry, Catherine.”
“Why are you so cold toward me?” She expected him to confess that he was still disturbed over the need to kill Achard. In fact, she hoped that was what he would say, so she would have an excuse to give way to her longing to comfort him, and to remind him again that Achard's death could not have been avoided, that it was a question of kill or be killed, and that Achard was a criminal. What Braedon did say surprised her greatly.
“Unlike Achard, I am bound to keep my word once it is given,” Braedon told her. “Before Royce left Wortham he made me swear that I would not lie with you again.”
“He never told me that!” she cried.
“Why should he? We both noticed he had something serious on his mind, and I am sure it had to do with more than the activities of these men.” With one hand Braedon motioned to indicate the prisoners. “There are pieces of Achard's plot that I haven't learned yet, that only Royce knows. The least I could do was relieve his mind of concern for you, so he would be free to perform his duty to King Henry.” Sparing only a quick nod for Catherine, Braedon pulled at the reins, slowing his horse in order to drop back to speak with Cadwallon, who was riding near to Phelan.
“I wonder,” Catherine said, frowning as she thought over Braedon's last words.
“Wonder what?” asked Aldis.
“Why did my father choose to travel ahead of us?” Catherine asked. “Why leave me with Braedon if he is so set against Braedon and me being together? It makes no sense.” But it did make sense when she realized that Royce was no doubt certain Braedon would not break his word.
“Perhaps Lord Royce simply wanted to be alone with Lady Edith,” Aldis suggested.
“No, not when he is working out a serious problem,” Catherine objected to the notion. “Besides, he is scarcely alone with her; not with all the servants and men-at-arms who are attending them.”
“In that case, perhaps Lady Edith is merely a cloak for some other activity he wants to pursue,” Aldis said.
“I do believe you have hit on the reason, Aldis. But, what is it he's doing?”
“Gathering information,” said Aldis.
