True Love, page 5
“Welcome to Wortham Castle, my lord.” Catherine made her curtsy.
“It is a great honor to meet you at last, my lady,” Achard said, bowing over the hand she extended. “I have heard much of you, and not all of it from your affectionate father. Tales of your beauty have traveled across the Narrow Sea to Normandy and beyond, to more distant realms.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Catherine was forced to drag on her hand to make Achard release it. He beamed at her as if he was enthralled by her supposed loveliness.
Catherine knew she was not homely, but neither was she beautiful. Perhaps it was her father's wealth and power that made her attractive to Achard. Or perhaps it was just his friendship with Royce that generated such extravagant compliments.
“Well met, Achard,” Braedon said, coming forward.
“Old friend, it's good to see you again after so long.” Achard clasped Braedon's hand as if they had not met, or spoken in anger, earlier that same day.
Catherine looked from Achard to Braedon, and back again. Achard was remarkably handsome, and from the way he carried himself Catherine suspected he knew it. Under the fringe of blond hair his brow was wide and smooth. His eyes were a light, sparkling blue, his nose straight and exactly the right length for the rest of his face. His cleanshaven jaw was square and firm, and his generous lips possessed a humorous upward tilt.
Compared to Achard, Braedon was a dark and dangerous figure, a man rough-hewn, reserved, secretive. Where Achard appeared to be open and sunny by nature, Braedon was tight-lipped and intense.
On the whole, Catherine preferred Braedon. She did not know why it was so. She only knew that Achard's repeated compliments to her during the next few hours while he sat next to her at the high table, his easy conversation about his late parents, his land holdings in Normandy, his need to find a suitable bride so he could produce an heir, and his openly expressed admiration of Royce, all combined to set Catherine's nerves on edge.
In contrast, Braedon sat quietly several places away from Catherine. He joined the conversation only when someone addressed him directly. Occasionally, his eyes met Catherine's, but she had no inkling what his thoughts were. On first meeting Braedon, she had found it difficult to keep up the appearance of polite talk, but confronted by Achard's constant chatter, to which she must reply or seem rude, Catherine wished Braedon could exchange places with the newest guest. A few silent moments would allow her freedom to chew her food, as well as giving her a chance to think about the meaning of Achard's sudden appearance at the castle after he had already met two of her father's guests at the fair.
When Phelan and Eustace arrived in the hall half way through the meal, and Phelan in his overbearing, blustering way insisted that Royce must introduce him and his son to the new guest at once, Catherine's suspicions were thoroughly aroused. Phelan acted as if he had never seen Achard before that hour, yet Catherine knew that wasn't the case. At least Braedon had acknowledged a previous acquaintance with Achard.
As a course of sweet custards, cakes, and dried fruits was served, Catherine decided she was through with subterfuge. She wanted honest answers to all of her questions, explanations for the secrets she could sense but not unravel. She recalled Mab the fortune teller's declaration: “So great a tangle of conflicting purposes.” Catherine rose from the high table vowing that before the day was over she was going to untangle as many of those purposes as she could.
With the meal finished most of the guests left to return to the fair. Some of the men decided to ride out to look at the melee field as Braedon had already done that morning. Royce excused himself to speak with his seneschal for a short time.
It was in the small office where Royce's clerks kept the account books that Catherine finally confronted her father. She waited outside the office until the seneschal's business was completed. As soon as he left, Catherine stepped into the office and closed the door for privacy. Royce was sitting at the big table, frowning over a parchment. He looked up as Catherine approached him.
“I see a question in your eyes,” Royce said, smiling at her.
“You see many questions,” she responded. “The first one is, who is Count Achard?”
“As I have told you, he is an old friend from Normandy.”
“No, Father, that won't do. I will not be put off with statements that tell me nothing I need to know.” Catherine spread her hands on the table and leaned forward until she was nose to nose with her father. “Did Achard ever join you in your secret work for King Henry? Is that how you met him?”
“You know better than to ask me about my work.” Royce sat back in his chair, moving away from her, putting distance between them. His smile suggested he was about to utter some loving, fatherly excuse for whatever problem Catherine intended to present to him.
“I have never questioned you about it before today, though perhaps I should have done so,” Catherine said. “I raise the subject now because I think you should know that this morning I accidentally overheard Achard talking with Phelan behind one of the booths at the fair.”
The fond smile vanished from Royce's face. He sat very still for a time, then said, “You cannot be sure it was Achard you heard. You did not know him until he appeared in the great hall today.”
“While I was at the fair I noticed Achard talking to Braedon. It looked to me as if the two of them were exchanging heated words,” Catherine said. “A short while later I caught a glimpse of the same man and I heard Phelan speaking to him, telling him to follow orders.”
“Hmm.” When Royce did not appear to be either surprised or disturbed by the information, Catherine drew what she thought was the obvious conclusion.
“Father, is Achard working with you now? Is that why he came to Wortham? You must tell me! I don't know what to think when I observe our guests holding secret conferences, and I see you treating Phelan and Eustace like friends, though I am sure they are your enemies. What of Braedon? Is he involved in your secret work?”
“Like all the others, Braedon is here as my guest. As for Achard, I suppose I ought to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Catherine straightened, planted her fists on her hips, and began to tap one toe on the floor. Royce's smile returned for a fleeting instant, before he sobered.
“I want you to consider Achard as a possible husband,” Royce said.
“What?” Catherine gaped at him. “You have always said you will not force me into marriage.” She had guessed some years ago that her father allowed her to remain single out of fear that someone would marry her for her dowry and in order to get closer to him, and then would kill her when her death became convenient.
“Nor will I insist you make a marriage you do not want,” Royce responded. “But, my dear girl, you are growing older and I will not live forever. I want to see you well settled before I die.”
“Are you ill?” Catherine cried in alarm.
“I am in the best of health. And Achard is the best of friends. Will you consider the offer?”
“When did Achard ask for my hand?” Catherine demanded.
“When we last saw each other in Normandy,” Royce said.
“Before ever he met me,” Catherine muttered. “There is more to this than you are telling me.” It was on her tongue to refuse Achard's offer then and there, but Catherine paused to think before she spoke, and she decided to be cautious. “Thank you for telling me about this, Father, though I do think you should have said something before Achard appeared at Wortham. However, since you recommend him, I will seriously consider his proposal. I make no promises, so please give Achard no encouragement. The man is rather overwhelming; he talks constantly. I cannot imagine the endless compliments he will spew forth if he believes I am on the verge of agreeing to wed him.”
“I expect he is trying to make a favorable impression on you,” Royce said.
“No doubt about it. When a man begins wooing a lady he does not know, it's safe to assume he is aware of the size of her dowry,” Catherine observed tartly. “Before I make any decision, I want to see how Achard comports himself in the company of men, and how he treats other women, servants as well as ladies. I want to hear what the servants' gossip says about him.”
“Very wise of you,” Royce said, nodding. “Take your time, my dear. Simply allow Achard's courtship while he is here. After he leaves Wortham, if you wish to refuse him I will send word of your decision to him in Normandy. Thus we will avoid any unpleasantness over the matter during the festival. Now, if you will excuse me, I must finish reading this document before I can return to our guests.” He indicated the parchment laying on the table.
“You still haven't told me whether this entertainment we are holding has a secret purpose,” Catherine protested.
“Ask no more questions of me,” Royce said. “Control your curiosity. Think about Achard and give me your answer when you are ready.”
When he picked up the parchment and began to read it, Catherine realized with a surge of renewed frustration that, as far as Royce was concerned, their talk was over. She was not satisfied by what he had said, and she suspected him of using the revelation about Achard's proposal as a diversion for her. He probably reasoned that if she was thinking about the possibility of marrying Achard, then she wasn't likely to spend much time wondering what was actually transpiring at Wortham.
She marveled at the way men, even her dear, loving father, imagined they could keep their secret activities hidden from their womenfolk. Sooner or later she was sure to discover what Royce was really doing. As she quietly closed the door on the little office, she began to consider ways to make that discovery happen sooner.
So much noise was coming from the great hall that Catherine paused on her way from her father's office to the stillroom and looked into the hall to discover what was causing the loud voices and the sound of crashing furniture. “I might have known,” she muttered, planting fists on hips and sending a fierce glare at the men who were quarreling. Everyone in the hall was so intent on what was happening there that at first no one noticed her. She quickly took stock of the damage.
One of the tables and several benches were overturned, which explained the crashing sounds she had heard. Plates and cups and the remains of the last course of the banquet were scattered across the floor. The few guests and men-at-arms who still lingered after the meal had formed a circle, and the servants were peering over their shoulders, agog with excitement. Catherine noticed Aldis standing to one side of the open space with her hand tucked into Robert's elbow.
At the edge of the circle Achard held Phelan's arm in a tight grip though Phelan repeatedly tried to pull himself loose. And in the center of the open space Eustace, obviously in a drunken state, was brandishing a large knife in one hand while he circled Braedon. Or, rather, Eustace was weaving around Braedon, for he was too inebriated to move in a true circle.
“The reckoning is overdue!” Eustace shouted, and swore a blistering oath. He jabbed his knife at Braedon, who easily sidestepped the thrust. “It's past time to kill you, Braedon. Always you interfere. I know what you have done, and why you did it, and now you'll pay for thwarting me.” The effect of his threats was considerably diminished when Eustace emitted a loud belch.
“Get yourself to bed and stay there until you are sober,” Braedon told him coldly. “I will gladly kill you, but not when you are in this condition. When the time comes, I want you to know exactly why you are dying at my hands.”
“Bastard!” Eustace shouted at him. “You are nothing but a bastard.”
“So I have often been told,” Braedon said, displaying no outward reaction to Eustace's drunken taunt. Braedon's mouth curved upward in a cool smile and when he spoke again it was with a lazy insolence that was plainly calculated to further infuriate Eustace. “When the time is right, I think I will begin by castrating you. It's what you deserve.”
“Bash-tard!” Eustace shouted again, lunging forward. This time Braedon did not bother to step aside. Eustace's blade went far wide of its mark and he nearly toppled over before he recovered his balance. “Bash -” Eustace interrupted his insults to belch a second time. Then he stood unsteadily, his face red from wine, his breathing labored.
Braedon moved in the blink of an eye, knocking the knife out of Eustace's hand. He caught Eustace by the upper arm, spinning him around and flinging him into Phelan's arms.
“I suggest you take your son to your chamber,” Braedon said to Phelan. “When you are there, explain to him what is appropriate behavior for a noble guest. Tell him if he does not begin to comport himself decently, Lord Royce is likely to order both of you to leave. That ought to impress him with the need for restraint. I am sure Eustace doesn't want to miss the melee.”
“I'll kill you before the melee, you bash-bash-tard!” Eustace surged forward so violently that only the combined strength of Phelan and Achard prevented him from throwing himself on Braedon.
Catherine had seen and heard enough. As hostess, she could not allow an open dispute to continue. As a woman who had endured repeated frustration during the past few days, she found in the occasion an opportunity to vent some of her simmering anger.
“Stop this at once!” With her hands still on her hips she advanced into the hall and planted herself squarely between Eustace and Braedon. “I will not permit personal quarrels to disturb my father's plans for the entertainment of our guests. Lord Phelan, your son is disgracefully drunk. I am sure you recall it is not the first time I have seen him in this condition. You will kindly follow Sir Braedon's suggestion and take Eustace to your room at once and keep him there until he is sober again. Perhaps Lord Achard will agree to assist you.”
“It will be my great honor to obey your commands, my lady,” Achard said so promptly that Catherine sent a sharp look in his direction. He smiled and nodded at her, presenting the very picture of a guest who wanted to be helpful in ending an unpleasant situation.
“You interfering bitch!” Eustace shouted at Catherine.
She ignored Eustace and looked straight into Phelan's eyes.
“That was a deadly insult,” she said quietly. “Shall I tell my father of it?”
“No.” Phelan responded at once. “I apologize for my son's unseemly behavior, and for his slighting words to you. As you, yourself, have said, he is out of his wits from too much wine.”
“I never said he was out of his wits,” Catherine stated very firmly. “I said he is disgracefully drunk. There is a difference, Lord Phelan, which I am sure you perceive as clearly as I do.”
Phelan looked as if he wanted to hit her, or perhaps he was merely trying to think of an insult to add to the one Eustace had uttered. Catherine faced him without fear, knowing from past experience that Phelan was a bully who would change his tactics as soon as he saw a chance to advance his own ambitions.
“Well, sir, shall I report this incident to my father?” Catherine asked, tapping one foot with impatience. “I warn you, he will be greatly angered by what Eustace has said to me.” She was not surprised when Achard intervened.
“Sir Eustace, allow me to assist you,” Achard said in a cajoling way. “How often it happens that bright sunlight and an overly warm day combined with a heavy meal will make a man ill. I am certain a bit of rest will restore you. Just put your arm across my shoulders and lean on me. You see, here is the entry hall. I'll help you up the stairs. Be careful, they are steep.”
Catherine spared only a quick look at the departing Achard and Eustace, with Phelan climbing the stairs behind them. She motioned to Aldis, who came to her at once.
“My dear, are you all right?” Aldis asked, keeping her voice soft while she looked hard at Catherine. “I think I have some idea how difficult it must be for you to face down Eustace after what he did to you last winter.”
In fact, Catherine was trembling inside, though she refused to let anyone, even Aldis, see how upset she really was. She sought refuge in her familiar duties as chatelaine.
“Will you please direct the servants in clearing away this mess?” she asked her cousin, indicating the overturned furniture and the dishes scattered about. Raising her voice, she added, “The rest of you, kindly go about your business. Just remember that neither my father nor I will permit another quarrel such as you have witnessed here.” Seeing the guests and men-at-arms beginning to disperse, she spun around to give her full attention to Braedon.
“You,” she said, stabbing a finger at him, “come with me.”
She led him to the stillroom, which was the nearest place she could think of where they could have a private conversation. Braedon looked around the room, sniffing appreciatively at the bunches of dried herbs that Catherine kept there. Sunlight beaming through the open window glimmered on his dark hair and touched the humorous lines that marked the corners of his eyes.
“This is a pleasant room,” he said. He touched a pile of neatly folded linen bandages. “I see you have kept your promise, Lady Catherine, and have seen to the preparation of supplies you will need after the melee.”
“I did not bring you here to discuss tournament injuries,” Catherine retorted rather sharply. “I want to know why you quarreled with Eustace.”
“As you noticed, he drank too much wine,” Braedon said, shrugging his shoulders as if the incident did not matter. “It is an unfortunate habit of his.”
“What was the cause of your quarrel?” Catherine demanded. She was trying hard to hold on to her temper, but if Braedon continued to sidestep her queries as her father had done, she was likely to forget her manners and treat him to a serious tongue-lashing. She gave him another chance, asking more pointedly, “Why did Eustace choose to quarrel with you and not with someone else?”
Braedon was silent for long minutes, until Catherine's control snapped.
“I want the truth,” she warned him, “and I want it now.”
“I have just told you the truth,” he said. “Eustace was drunk.”
Fighting the urge to hit him, Catherine flung out a hand. Her fingers closed around the rim of a small metal bowl that sat on the worktable. She lifted the bowl and slammed it down hard on the tabletop. The noise it made was so satisfying that she maintained her grip on the bowl, holding it as if she would use it for a weapon to batter Braedon about his chest and shoulders.
