A jarring blow to my back sent me over the edge, and the muddy waters rushed up to meet me.
Shockingly cold water closed over my head. I took an involuntary gasp and my mouth filled with brine, and fluid shot down into my lungs. I pin-wheeled my arms, my frantically kicking legs entangling in my skirts. For one blessed moment, my head broke free. I coughed, forcing brackish water back up my throat to spew out down my chin, and drew in a much-needed breath before the river tightened its grip and pulled me under once more, the weight of my clothes and saddlebags dragging me down.
I tugged at the leather strap around my neck and pulled it free, the bags falling away into the depths, and yanked at my cloak with frozen, stiffened fingers. The ties didn’t yield and I thrashed and kicked furiously, arms and legs moving in desperate disjointed motion, unable to tell which way was up.
There was only the swirl of muddy water and the pounding of my heart, roaring in my ears, like the sound of waves breaking on the shore. But something was down here with me. Two pale orbs, like eyes, hovered in the water. Something – someone – clasped my hand in a bone-breaking grip.
My lungs burned. I held my breath, a molten fire raging in my chest. The need to open my mouth, to take a great gulp and quench the flames, was all-consuming.
An irritated sigh wafted through my mind, and I was pushed from below.
I fought to reach the surface, but my leaden limbs slowed and my eyesight dimmed. Just when I could almost taste the sweet air, my body stopped working. Too hard, too much effort. If I could just rest a while… I opened my mouth.
Another shove upwards, sending me closer to the surface.
Don’t die yet, missy.
A terrible pain tore at my scalp, and my face broke free of the waves, allowing me to take a deep breath – half air, half water. My lungs spasmed, and I coughed out almost as much as went in, water stinging my throat and scalding my chest. I sucked in another mouthful of precious air. It smelled of thyme.
Please make this pain stop. Something was caught in my braid, threatening to tear my hair from my head, keeping my face above water, hauling hard on my matted locks to keep me afloat.
The river wanted me back. It pulled and dragged, trying to suck me back down. My legs were strung out behind me by the current’s tow, like skeins of weed. Grasping human hands in my hair from above, grasping river hands yanking at my skirts from below. A tug-o-war to the life. Or death.
I reached up, blinking away silt-gritted water, the hulk of the boat looming over my head, and tried to free my hair and rid myself of the incredible fire. No human hands were entangled in my sodden braid; my fingers encountered a cold shaft of metal. I tried to scream. It came out as a croak.
People yelled, a horse neighed in alarm, and all the while the river gushed and gurgled its displeasure at losing its victim.
Someone grabbed my bodice, many someones with hard fingers digging deep into my armpits and shoulders as they hauled me from the water and heaved my limp carcass aboard.
Not so much a flopping fish, I was more a drowned cat, as I lay soaked and spent, the wooden planks of the deck rough on my cheek. The world was at a sideways angle and I saw only feet.
‘Gimme some room, lads,’ a gruff voice said.
The feet moved away. Another pair of boots appeared, followed by knees and a peering face. I blinked.
‘She’ll live,’ the same voice announced.
I was not so certain, especially when the man rolled me onto my front and thumped me hard on the back, more than once. I tried to beg him to stop, but was coughing too much. Water spurted from my nose, warm and stinging, and I vomited.
Spent and weak, I struggled to turn over. A ring of concerned faces stared down at me. The sailor stood and wiped his hands on his trousers. Idris and Cai crowded in.
‘It is lucky this fellow saw what happened, otherwise you would be long gone.’ Lines of worry creased Idris’ face.
What did happen, I tried to ask, but only a wet cough came out.
‘Cai’s horse panicked when a barrel came loose, and he backed into you.’ Idris undid the brooch holding my cloak.
That must have been the blow I felt. I thought someone had hit me, deliberately. Paranoia was fast becoming a close companion.
Cai bit his lip and sent me an apologetic look.
‘Aye, my lady,’ my back-pounder said. ‘You were lucky, right enough. I saw you go over the side and grabbed the grappling hook. Sometimes we hook ’em, sometimes not.’
‘Them?’ I wheezed.
‘We lose one or two folk every year. Course, not all of them are leaning over the side and asking to fall in,’ he said.
I grimaced.
Idris helped me sit up and slid the water-heavy cloak from my shoulders. ‘When we land you must strip off those wet garments, else you catch a chill. I have a spare tunic and breeches.’
I was so very cold and shivered violently as the stiff mid-channel breeze blew across my wet clothes. Some kindly fellow threw a hemp sack over my back before resuming his seat at his oar.
Tears joined the river water dripping down my face as shock set in. Not only had I nearly drowned, and risked the lives of my friends, but this time my saddlebags and the small wealth within them were well and truly gone. The only thing I had left was the antler comb in my pocket
It was then I remembered hands pushing me towards the surface and the voice in my mind; don’t die, missy.
Chapter 9
‘Is that a keep?’ I asked.
‘Aye. Those bloody French are useful for some things, and building fortresses is one of them.’ Admiration was equally mixed with dislike in Idris’ tone. He leaned to the side and spat. ‘They know how to defend themselves. They call the construction a motte and bailey. The motte is the ditch and the bailey is the land inside the palisade. They pile the earth from the motte into the middle of the bailey and stick a bloody great keep on the top of it. Works well, too.’
Wulfstan’s lands were not unlike the rolling hills and distant mountains of Deheubarth. Outlying farmsteads led to a small town, in the centre of which sat a wooden palisade surrounded by a water-filled ditch. But any similarity ended there. A three-storey square tower perched atop a massive conical hill, like a spider in the centre of its web, forming the heart of Wulfstan’s authority and defences. It was a sensible construction. The highest battlements would give an uninterrupted view for many miles, and the ditch, palisade, and steep hill would give attackers pause. I had never seen the like and said as much.
‘Mark my words, Caitlyn, soon every petty lord will want one,’ he said. ‘A keep like this would be a bastard to storm. Rhain and I talked about building one.’ His face clouded. My regret matched his. With a motte and bailey fortress, we might have held Seisyll at bay.
‘Have you been here before?’ I asked.
‘Aye, once or twice.’
‘Had Rhain?’
‘No.’
As we walked through the town, people stopped to watch our progress. I was weary but sat straight-backed in the saddle and kept my gaze firmly in front, unwilling to wilt under the heat of so many curious eyes as the horses plodded through the town. I held my head high, careful to keep any expression off my face. Idris nodded and shouted an occasional greeting in English to the fast-gathering crowd. People fell in behind us, dogging our heels as we headed for the web’s centre. Children skipped alongside, adults were grim-faced and wary. I would bet the comb in my pocket that Wulfstan had known the instant we set foot on his soil, our hoof-beats sending tremors along the silken threads of his power.
‘Idris, you old Welsh bastard! Still alive, then?’
I resisted the urge to crane my neck to see who called out.
‘Aye, I’m still alive and you’ve grown fat and old!
Laughter erupted. It did little to ease the tension. The drawbridge lay across the deep ditch, the gates to the stockade were open, yet Wulfstan’s men had their hands on the hilts of their swords and his archers stood ready on the rampar
ts.
In the bailey, a heavily-built man flanked by soldiers studied us with a frown, his attention on Idris. He came forward with hands outstretched, and Idris slid from the saddle. Cai and I waited, respectful and silent astride our horses, whilst Wulfstan and Idris slapped backs and gripped arms. Wulfstan was a gilt-coloured bear of a man, gruff and shaggy with huge paws and shoulders. A ready smile hid the cautious depth in his eyes.
‘Idris, my friend! I did not expect to see you here. What happened?’ His voice was as deep as the caution in his eyes.
‘War, and a woman to protect.’
‘Woman?’ Wulfstan’s stare raked me.
‘Rhain’s widow,’ Idris said. ‘Wales isn’t safe for her now.’
Widow. The description stung.
Wulfstan stroked his golden beard. ‘Llewellyn ap Seisyll. I take it he is responsible?’
‘Aye.’ Idris nodded, his face hard. ‘He killed her father too, Aeddan of Gwynedd, and all his heirs, except for her.’
Wulfstan’s attention was on me once more, his expression unsettling.
‘Aeddan,’ the bear-man muttered. ‘I knew of him. She is doubly royal, then.’
The mention of my father sliced a little piece off my heart. I was his first-born, and with my brothers and sisters dead I was now his only living issue. Seisyll had slaughtered my family when he invaded Gwynedd, and although one of my brothers escaped, Seisyll’s men caught and hanged him. The bone I had to pick with Seisyll gathered more flesh with each passing day.
Wulfstan inclined his head and smiled. It didn’t stretch as far as his eyes; they were brimful of calculation.
‘Much good has it done her,’ Idris said. ‘My lady throws herself on your mercy, lord. She seeks your protection.’
I tried for a smile, but my lips twisted into a grimace.
‘Get down off your horse, mistress, I shall not bite,’ the big man said.
Cai helped me dismount. I smoothed the skirt of my newly-dried, but still grubby, gown and patted the comb, my talisman, for luck. With my gaze cast down, I stepped forward until I stood before him. He dwarfed me. I was a child next to his bulk and the words I had prepared dried in my mouth. I dropped into a deep curtsy, hoping it would suffice. I might be a queen, but this man was more powerful than Idris had let on. I intended to be respectful and cautious until I determined the situation.
‘Rise, my lady. Welcome to Castle Cary. Do you have a name?’
‘Caitlyn of Deheubarth, sire,’ I said. Caitlyn of nowhere, more like.
‘Sire?’ He chuckled. ‘I am no king. “My lord” will do. Or Wulfstan. I don’t much stand on ceremony.’
I rose, keeping my eyes downcast with proper womanly respect, and jumped when a paw of a hand cupped my chin and lifted my head. He searched my face for a long moment, then nodded. Whatever he saw there, he appeared to like.
‘You say her husband is dead?’ he asked, turning to Idris.
‘Aye, my lord, cut down on the battlefield. Once his men saw him fall, all the fight went out of them.’
Wulfstan gave Idris a sharp look. ‘Things did not go as planned, then?’
‘No, lord, but perhaps it is best if we discuss this in private. Lady Caitlyn has had a long and arduous journey, and I would like to spare her any further details of her husband’s death.’
The lord of Castle Cary tugged at his impressive golden beard, the frown still shadowing his eyes in spite of the smile on his lips. He turned his attention back to me.
‘Of course, my lady. My wife, Lady Sigrid, will help you settle.’
Too intent on this man who held my future in his hands, I failed to notice the woman behind him until now. She had her arms folded and a straight line for a mouth.
‘What will you do with her?’ she asked her husband.
Her bluntness startled me. I darted a quick look at Wulfstan.
‘I am sure to think of something. In the meantime, there is ale to be drunk.’ He clapped a tree of an arm around Idris’ shoulders and led him towards the hall. Cai hurried to join them but stopped when Idris held up a hand.
‘Go with the lads to the stable and make sure the horses are settled, then determine where we are to sleep,’ he said.
Cai opened his mouth to protest, but Wulfstan added, ‘Let your father and I talk. I will have a man fetch you some ale and show you to your quarters.’
I wanted to be part of that talk, especially if it involved me. Instead, I held my tongue and watched Idris and Wulfstan walk away. Cai huffed his displeasure and trudged after the horses. None of the men looked back. I was on my own.
‘I am sorry for your troubles,’ Wulfstan’s wife said.
‘Lady Sigrid,’ I said. ‘It is an honour.’ I bobbed a curtsy.
‘Torhild,’ she said, gesturing to a woman standing nearby, the rings on her fingers catching the light. ‘Show her to the guest chamber and order a bath to be drawn.’
She turned on her heel and stalked towards the keep. I watched her go, a small, slight, plain woman, with lacklustre brown hair and sallow complexion. Her beauty was borrowed from the embroidered, fine-spun gown of scarlet-dyed wool, the silver combs in her hair and the torque of gold around her neck.
The gaggle of ladies’ maids exchanged glances. Torhild peeled away from the others. She reminded me of a nursemaid I had when I was young: plump, grey hair secured in a bun at the nape of her neck, a determined set about her jaw, and large, capable hands just the right size for holding a squirming infant. I imagined her to be firm but fair, with a loving heart hidden inside her large bosom. I smiled at her.
She threw me a brief glance in return. ‘I am Torhild. Come with me.’
I fell in behind her, trotting to keep up as she strode across the bailey, leading me past the keep with its steep steps, and towards the rear of Wulfstan’s hall.
‘In here.’ Torhild held a door open, and stepped into a gloomy corridor with several doors along its length. She halted outside the second.
‘This is one of the guest chambers,’ she said.
‘Could I trouble your mistress for a clean dress and fresh linens?’ I asked as I walked inside, smiling with delight at the room.
Lavishly furnished, with furs on the bed and tapestries on the wall, the chamber was larger than my own in Llandarog. Shafts of late afternoon light filtered in from the high narrow windows, bathing it in a golden glow. It even had a brazier for warmth.
‘Of course.’ She nodded at me and left, shutting the door after her. I sat on the bed and waited to be undressed by the three maids who brought hot water and fresh garments. Relinquishing myself to their ministrations, I sighed with pleasure. It would be good to be clean again.
As hot water cascaded over my head and gentle fingers massaged the soapwort into my hair, I sighed with bliss, sinking further down into the tub. The weariness dissolved from my mind and body, as the dirt and sweat sluiced off my skin. I was invigorated and languid all at the same time, like a cat, all lazy grace and coiled energy.
Two of Sigrid’s women patted me dry and the third laid out one of the borrowed dresses. It was blue, my favourite colour, and embroidered with the most exquisite flowers in a lighter hue. If this was one of Sigrid’s cast-offs then Wulfstan was considerably wealthier than I’d first thought. My fingers crept to the cloth of their own accord. It was woven from such thin strands that the material was as smooth as cream and as glossy as a starling’s wing.
‘Silk, my lady,’ one of the maids said. ‘From France. Rare it is, and mighty expensive. Prince Edward made Lady Sigrid a gift of the cloth.’ The yearning in her voice was clear, but whether it was for the material or the man who had gifted it to her mistress, was not so obvious.
I settled back into a chair to have my hair combed and braided. I had always loved having my hair tended to. My mother used to brush it every night by the flickering light of the fire, and as she did she would tell me tales of long ago, before kissing me on the nose and putting me to bed. It had been my time with her and
I had guarded it jealously from my younger siblings.
The rhythmic brushing soothed any lingering tension, the maid’s deft fingers working my hair into a braid. When she finished she came to stand in front of me, and curtsied.
‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling at her.
She did not smile back. Instead, she leaned forward, her face inches from mine. Her gaze locked onto mine and I couldn’t look away. She smelled of thyme and rosewater.
Her pupils grew larger, filling my vision, filling my mind, and I understood they were her eyes, the woman from my vision. She was inside the maid and glaring out, full of malicious mischief and avarice, greedy for me.
Screaming silently, unable to resist her pull, I followed her down into hell.
The room was the same, except for one thing – the corpse had gone.
Instead, a young woman sat on a three-legged stool in front of the fire, using a wooden spoon to stir the bubbling contents of a blackened pot, steam curling about her brown-haired head. Now and then she dipped her hand into a basket at her feet and added more flower-heads to the pot. Though I wasn’t skilled in the use of plants like my mother (I knew enough to treat an ache with willow bark, and a cough with peppermint and marshmallow mixed with honey) I knew the flowers were henbane, with its sickly yellow petals veined with dark lines leading to an even darker heart. My mother used to grow it in an out-of-the-way corner, alongside the other dangerous plants.
Every time the girl dropped another handful into the pot, the steam thickened and swirled, making me giddy and somewhat lightheaded. How could she sit so close to those lethal fumes without succumbing?
‘She’s getting nearer.’ The voice came from a dark corner. Though shrouded in shadow, I recognised the older woman instantly.
‘How soon?’ the figure by the fire asked, twisting around on the stool.
Another surprise. The young woman was even younger than I first thought, not long out of girlhood, possibly fifteen or sixteen; old enough to be wed but not so old that time and childbearing had taken their toll on her looks. Her beauty was evident, even in the dim light.
Caitlyn Box Set Page 7