Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  ‘Does Wulfstan rule Chepstow?’ I asked, gazing out of the window, glad of the fresh air blowing in.

  ‘No, his lands lie to the south-east, another day’s ride.’ He gave me a wry smile. ‘I do mean day, and not night. Seisyll won’t dare follow as far as Chepstow. You are safe now, my lady.’

  ‘Why can I not remain here? Why take me to Wulfstan?’

  ‘Because he is the only man I trust. I know no one here who could be approached to take you in.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Your silver and jewels won’t support you for long.’ He paused and took another swallow. ‘Forgive me, Lady Caitlyn, but I didn’t think. I was too intent on keeping ahead of that bastard, Seisyll. Would you have preferred to seek sanctuary in a house of God?’

  It never occurred to me to throw myself on the mercy of the church. Though my father worshipped God and I’d been raised a Christian, not once had it entered my head to hide in a convent. The peace and the quiet structure of the days appealed, but the discipline did not.

  He waited for an answer.

  ‘No, thank you. I will take my chances with Wulfstan,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t blame you, what with all that kneeling and praying, I prefer to do my communing with God, on the battlefield and with a sword in my hand.’

  Cai appeared at Idris’s elbow and nudged him across the bench. He slid over and Cai sat down, placing the saddlebags on the table. I smiled my thanks.

  ‘You don’t so much pray to God, as tell him what he should do,’ Cai said to his father. ‘No wonder he doesn’t listen to you. If my mother never listened to your old-man ramblings when she was alive, why the fuck should God? Pardon, my lady.’

  Idris clouted him across the back of his head. ‘What I say to God is my own business, and be more respectful to Lady Caitlyn. What has got into you?’

  ‘Tan. Lord Rhain. The rest of them…’ The boy’s face bore a stricken expression.

  ‘Aye, Tan.’ Idris wiped his beard. ‘And Rhain. My son and my lord. I loved them both, Cai, but the time for grieving will come later, when Lady Caitlyn is safe. Duty comes first, son.’

  Cai hung his head, but when he looked up again his face bore a resolute expression and he reached for his tankard.

  The innkeeper’s wife plonked a wooden bowl on the table and handed me a spoon and a doorstop of bread. In spite of my suspicions about the bowl’s contents, the stew looked unexpectedly good, brown and rich and thick. Slices of carrot and swede swirled in its depths and as I stirred, strings of what might have been beef floated to the surface. I lifted the spoon to my lips and took a tentative sip.

  The two men watched me as I ate, both preferring ale to food. Before I knew it, I had eaten the lot and was wiping the bowl clean with the bread. When I finished, I called for my own tankard, then asked to be shown to my room.

  The woman wiped her dirty hands on an even dirtier apron and trotted towards a door partly hidden behind a stack of barrels.

  Hoisting the saddlebags over my shoulder I followed her, yawning widely, anticipating a soft mattress and a deep sleep.

  What I got was a lumpy horse-hair pallet and a man asleep on it.

  Chapter 5

  ‘This room is already occupied,’ I said to the woman at my side.

  Weariness fled, leaving ire and irritation in its place, and the small room filled me with dismay. Dark and musty, it was no bigger than a monk’s cell and as spartanly furnished, with a raised pallet on one side and a tiny shuttered window on the other. No fireplace, no rushes on the floor, no comfort of any sort. Or did she think the fellow under the covers was comfort enough?

  The man snored with a gentle whistling grunt, a huddled lump under a thin woollen blanket. The only visible part of him was a mop of dark hair. He hadn’t stirred.

  ‘Your man paid for a bed. That is a bed. There is room for two.’ She stood, hands on hips, head cocked to the side.

  ‘First, he is not my man and second, I will not share a bed with this one.’

  ‘Give me another coin and you can have it all to yourself.’

  Crafty wench. I didn’t have the money. I’d had no time to grab Rhain’s coffer chest, though someone undoubtedly would have. My only wealth came in the form of a bangle, a brooch, and a girdle, all in silver, a delicate comb made from a red deer antler which was exquisitely wrought, a copper pin for my hair, and a pewter-backed brush. I also had Rhain’s brow-band, which he always claimed was made of gold.

  Sliding the saddlebags off my shoulder, I turned my back on the woman and dug around for the antler comb, the least valuable of my possessions.

  ‘Here. This is more than enough for a bed of my own and a clean blanket or two.’

  She held out her hand and her face hardened when she saw what I placed in her palm. ‘It is a comb,’ she said.

  Clearly, this one wasn’t the sharpest arrow in the quiver, despite her cunning.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said.

  ‘I have a comb.’

  ‘Not as fine as this. If you don’t want it, give it back, plus the coin you have already been given. I will sleep with the horses.’

  The comb’s workmanship was exquisite. She had probably never seen anything so intricately carved. Rhain had given it to me as a Yule gift last winter.

  I reached for it. For a few moments Rot-Tooth and I played a subtle game of tug-o-war with the delicate comb, and I feared she would break it. The hot and rancid stink from her open mouth sickened me, but I refused to release my hold. She did not deserve such a beautiful item in exchange for a few hours’ sleep on a foul mattress.

  ‘It is enough,’ she said, the reluctance of her tone offset by her avaricious expression.

  I let go and took a thankful step away. She had the better deal, but I intended to make the most of my end of the bargain.

  ‘I want hot water for bathing, and plenty of it,’ I said, almost groaning in delight at the thought of being clean. ‘A deep tub, filled with steaming water, and soap.’ Soapwort leaves or roots would do – surely she had some. My own herb-garden had an abundance of the plants.

  ‘Bathing?’ Her brow furrowed as if she had never heard the word before.

  ‘Yes, bathing. I wish to wash,’ I stated, firmly.

  ‘Why?’

  Why, indeed! She looked as though the last contact she’d had with water was at her own Christening. I was uncertain which of us was the cleanest. My stomach roiled, the stew making its presence felt as I imagined those dirt-lined fingers with their black nails preparing the food I’d not long eaten.

  ‘Will you be naked?’ a deep male voice asked hopefully.

  I jumped. The now wide-awake sleeper stared at me with considerable interest and a come-hither grin. I shot him a disgusted look.

  ‘Get out,’ I spat. It was my turn to play the fish-wife, with my hands on my hips and a scowl on my face. I debated whether to call for Idris to oust this man from my rented bed, but decided to tackle him myself.

  ‘This is my room,’ he said, making no move to leave. His gaze raked me up and down with slow insolence, the smirk on his face fanning my temper.

  ‘Mine now. Tell him,’ I added, giving the woman a meaningful look. If she did not back me in this, I swear I would slap what remained of her teeth out of her head. Her mouth might look all the better for the loss of those blackened stumps. My patience was thinner than the first ice of winter: brittle, delicate, and ready to crack and splinter under the slightest pressure.

  ‘It is morning,’ she said to the fellow reclining on the pallet, her grubby fist curled resolutely around the comb. She jerked her head toward the door. ‘You paid for a night, not the day as well.’

  He threw back the tattered grey blanket with a sigh and got to his feet, and I watched him whilst he gathered his sword and other possessions. He had slept in his clothes, with the sword by his side. I hoped it had pricked him whilst he slept. A prick for a prick.

  His deep bow and ironic smile failed to impress me. ‘There is nothing like getting into an alrea
dy warmed bed,’ he said.

  I shuddered. Warmed by a hot stone was one thing…

  ‘I could stay?’ he offered, the smirk widening into a grin.

  He didn’t fool me with those hopeful puppy eyes. He might be handsome with his clean-shaven face and chiselled chin, but the wolf beneath the dog was clear to see. He held himself with languid ease, balanced on the balls of his feet, one hand free – his sword hand. I knew him for what he was; a blade for hire, a rogue fighter, his allegiance given for coin. Judging by the confidence he exuded, he probably enjoyed success with the women, too, but not this one.

  My stomach churned. Rest was the only thing I wanted to do on that flea-ridden pallet of a bed, and I had no idea why he should view me as such easy game. Rhain would have had his balls for a purse for such effrontery.

  My heart lurched, with a sickening thud. Rhain was gone; my home was gone. I had nothing and no one, except for those two stalwart men who had risked their lives for mine. I truly was a beggar and perhaps this was how beggars were treated. Maybe I should get used to it and forget what I had once been, but not right now. I would begin my humility tomorrow. Today, weariness robbed me of my wits. I needed to sleep.

  I lifted my chin.

  ‘You. Out. Now.’ I pointed at him, then at the door. He blew me a kiss, sauntering and swaggering as he went, and I drew back against the wall, careful not to let him touch me.

  ‘Blankets and water,’ I reminded the innkeeper’s wife as she sidled past, her sly gaze sliding over the bags in my hand.

  The mercenary gave me a wink as he closed the door behind him.

  My shoulders sagged and I dropped the bags to the floor. The bed called, a siren-song of sleep, and I sank down onto it, burying my head in my hands. Idris and Cai were only downstairs, drinking in the bar-room, but my vulnerability was clear. No father, no husband, and no brother to claim me. My companions sought only to deliver their self-proclaimed charge, and though I was grateful for their care of me, I wasn’t their responsibility. I had no one. A woman alone was like a rabbit caught too far from its burrow – prey for all and sundry. I had already been propositioned by a wolf today, and swindled by a nasty weasel of a woman. How many more predators were out there, waiting to pounce?

  Giving in to horror and sorrow, tears tinged with despair and fear ran hot and bitter down my cheeks. I cried until my breath became hiccupping sobs. Drained and filled with a stupefying fatigue, sleep claimed me. I dimly remembered intending to cleanse the grime from my hands and face, but tiredness and the wait for the hot water to be brought overwhelmed any good intentions.

  My sleep was restless and dream-laden. Several times I rose to the surface, disturbed by nameless dread, only to sink back down again. When rain splattered loudly against the shutters, waking me once more, I sent a brief prayer heavenwards, thankful it had held off long enough for us to reach the shelter of Chepstow.

  When the smell of thyme crept up my nose during one of those waking moments, dread filled my heart. Please, not another vision, I implored, as I opened my eyes.

  This room wasn’t the one I fell asleep in.

  This one was much larger, and lit with many candles. Its stone walls were lined with laden shelves, a hearty fire crackled in the hearth, and a large pot hung over the flames. Steam curled upwards, heavy with the scent of herbs. The wind howled and moaned outside, rattling the door and prising at the sturdy wooden shutters with unsuccessful fingers, keeping time with the chanting.

  It was the same woman.

  Neither tall nor short, fat nor slender, her hair was a mousey brown and her features regular. The woman was quite ordinary – if one ignored her blood-stained apron and forgot about those eyes.

  A corpse lay on a butcher’s block of a table. Channels down both sides led to twin drainage holes, and underneath each sat a bucket half-filled with dark red liquid. No matter how many herbs boiled and bubbled in that pot, they couldn’t mask the stench of death, and blood, and opened bowels.

  The woman concentrated on her task, her hands and arms bloodied up to the elbows. The corpse had been sliced from sternum to groin, the flesh pulled back. The dead woman had been eviscerated, the stomach cavity as empty as a chicken’s carcass with the giblets removed. Intestines puddled into a pink and grey coil of slimy rope in a bucket at her feet.

  The stew I’d eaten earlier churned in my belly, my own guts crying out in sympathy and disgust, and a sweat broke out on my brow. I had my own chant – don’t be sick, don’t be sick…

  Curiosity finally overcame nausea, and I moved closer, studying the body on the table. Avoiding the hole where her innards should have been, I concentrated on her face. She was young, no more than twenty summers. Her long dark hair cascaded over the edge of the table, almost reaching the floor. She might have been pretty with her clear skin and full lips, but beauty was difficult to gauge in death. I leaned in. Her open, staring eyes looked strange, the pupils unnaturally big, with only a circlet of blue showing around the edges.

  My mother used to look the same when she worshipped her heathen gods. She used to drink a concoction of Belladonna in honour of Brigit, the goddess of healing and fertility. When I had tried to drink some, to join in with the illicit ceremony, my mother had slapped the goblet out of my hand with such force my knuckles were bruised for a week. After she had dried my tears, she told me it was a powerful poison and I should never go near it. For months my sleep had been disturbed by visions of my mother dead, her eyes large with dark pupils usurping the white. Then my mother’s face would transform, and it would be me who was dead.

  Shuddering at the long-forgotten memory, I stared harder at the dead woman. A facsimile of my own face was reflected in her still features. I’d seen a similar face when I stared in my precious polished bronze mirror. Not exactly the same, but close enough for us to be mistaken for sisters.

  I swallowed at the knowledge that she had most likely been poisoned.

  The chanting grew louder, monotonous, drowning out the dying gasp of the storm. The older woman’s lips moved and I tried to fathom the words. She sang in a language I’d never heard before, and it raised goose-bumps on my arms. A chill travelled up my neck. I wanted to run, to fight my way free of the nightmare, but self-preservation kept me still. The old woman had no idea I was there and I had no intention of alerting her to my presence, no urge to feel her crushing, soul-stripping stare. I sent a silent prayer to any god who might be listening, to wake me from this hellish sleep.

  She reached deeper into the stomach cavity using swift sure strokes of a knife, with the ease of a butcher, slicing and pulling, until her prize came free with a reluctant sucking squelch. She held the young woman’s heart close to her face, turning it this way and that. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. She gave a nod and placed it on a nearby table, where knives and assorted instruments lay, for purposes I didn’t care to guess.

  Folded cerecloth, stiff and yellowed from its coating of beeswax, sat next to the instruments. A bundle of grey fur lay to one side. Bowls of dried and aromatic herbs were lined neatly in a row on a shelf above. I recognised some, like the white yarrow flowers which were good for staunching blood, but not all. Too late for any of them to halt the blood loss here, surely, though my mother did once tell me that in the wrong hands, yarrow was used for divination. I also noticed monkswood, with its purple, curled petals, beautiful and deadly; often called wolfsbane and used to poison arrow tips, it was shot at wolves to prevent men from transforming into werewolves.

  The woman moved to the fire, wrapped a cloth around her hand and lifted the bubbling pot off its stand. As she poured the liquid into a jug, the smell of thyme filled the air with its distinctive scent, strong and pungent. I caught a whiff of other aromas: rosemary, lavender, cloves.

  She rinsed out the corpse’s body cavity with the scalding liquid, wincing at the heat on her hands, and I finally understood what she was doing. She was embalming it. The infusion was one my mother often made, to use as a disinfecta
nt. This woman must be an embalmer, though why I should dream of such a thing mystified me, especially since it was an unusual job for a woman.

  I moved closer, an involuntary movement, a glide rather than a step.

  And wished I’d stayed put, as I saw what she now had in her hands.

  What I’d assumed was a piece of fur on the table, was the body of a grey cat, sticky with blood. She turned it over. Its insides were gone, its face a rictus of fear and snarling teeth. This cat had not had an easy death.

  She took a little knife, wicked and sharp, and inserted it into the creature’s belly cavity. More sucking noises, then the cat’s heart was in her hands, pathetically small. She placed it next to the woman’s heart. Using her knife, she made a hole in the larger organ and stuffed the smaller one inside. The needle was already threaded with catgut, and she stitched it up with quick stabs.

  When she put the bloodied mess back in the cat’s body, I almost cried out. The woman’s heart and the rest of her innards should be buried alongside her as was the custom, not stuck inside a cat. But when she picked up the animal and inserted it into the yawning belly cavity of the poor young woman on the table, I couldn’t help but let out a cry of disgust.

  She froze, her murmured chanting ceased, and she hunted the room, peering into every corner and crevice, a frown on her face. Her gaze halted when she found me, and the frown transformed into a smile.

  Ah, it’s you, my pretty.

  I screamed.

  Drenched in sweat and trembling from top to toe, her eyes chased me out of my nightmare, until all that remained was the image of a grey cat staring at me out of the stomach of a woman. Its eyes were totally black.

  I lay awake for a long time afterwards, eventually dropping into a heavy sleep, until noise from the tavern disturbed me sometime later. I sat up, yawning, disorientated, and irritable, and looked around me.

  My saddlebags were gone.

  Chapter 6

  I searched the small room. With nothing in it except the pallet, a scratched, lop-sided table and a shelf above it, there wasn’t much to search. I remembered dropping the saddlebags next to the pallet before I retired to bed. Why weren’t they still there?