Could she be the crone’s daughter?
Crone might be a harsh word for the woman with the wicked eyes, but it suited her. She lacked the stoop, the warts, the bent nose and the high reedy voice, but she was a crone, nevertheless.
‘Difficult to tell,’ the older woman said.
‘Are you sure she will come?’
‘Oh yes. She will come.’
‘But-’
The older woman stepped away from the table she had been bending over, and pointed at a skull. Dark liquid lay inside, still and flawless. ‘I saw it. I saw her,’ she insisted.
‘Scrying isn’t the same as summoning her,’ the younger one pointed out.
‘Who says she hasn’t been summoned? Did you burn Alfred’s hair and mix the ashes with the potion I gave you?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Herleva.’ The girl’s long dark hair gleamed in the candlelight, and she pushed a strand away from a cheek flushed from the heat of the fire.
‘Did you say the words and did he drink the potion?’
‘Yes, Herleva.’
‘Did you plant the seed in his mind to bring this woman to you?’
‘Yes, Herleva.’ The young woman’s full lips curved into a smile.
‘Then she has been summoned, or do you doubt me?’
‘No, Herleva.’ Her smile grew wider.
Herleva. I rolled my tormentor’s name around in my mouth; it tasted bitter and sour, with a tang of death.
‘She is tied to me in ways she cannot conceive. She will come to us.’ Herleva picked up a bowl and sniffed it. ‘Better. Much better. This will work.’ Red liquid gleamed from its depths.
‘Don’t drink it!’ The younger woman jumped to her feet.
‘I am not old and doddering yet, Arlette. I well know what this drink contains.’ Herleva replaced the bowl with great care. ‘Is it done?’ she asked.
Arlette gave the bowl another stir. ‘I believe so.’
Herleva pointed at the pot over the fire. ‘Let it cool to the temperature of fresh-spilt blood, then add the hairs from the cat. You will need seven.’
‘Won’t they float on the top?’
‘You will see. With the right words and the right rituals, the cat hair will dissolve. Though it is best to wait for a waning moon.’
‘Will the potion not wane along with the moon?’
‘No, my sweet, not if the spell is properly wrought. If anything, its potency will grow. Once the hair is no more, add this.’ Herleva pointed to the bowl.
Why had I not seen it before? How could I have been so blind! This woman was a witch. Spells, rituals, scrying…
My soul cringed.
I uttered no sound, made no movement, but she knew I was there. Some sixth sense told her she was being observed and by whom.
‘I see you,’ she said, and she did, for she looked straight into my eyes. ‘Are you so eager to join us?’
‘Who do you see?’ Arlette peered in the same direction as Herleva, but I felt no connection with this younger woman. She could neither see me nor sense me.
‘It is our Cat, come to pay us a visit.’
‘Lady Caitlyn?’
‘The very same.’ Herleva held out a hand and beckoned. ‘Come, my lovely. Come to Herleva.’
‘But if she is here already…?’ Arlette peered into the gloom, searching the corners.
‘She is here in spirit, but her body still has some way to go. This connection is stronger than I imagined. The scrying has opened up a channel between us and she must be following it back to its source.’
‘Is she a witch, then?’
Herleva laughed. ‘Hardly, but there is something of the Otherworld about her, though I don’t think she is aware of it. Are you, my dear?’ She smiled directly at me.
I’d heard enough, seen enough. I wanted to wake up and forget this strange dream and–
Ow! I blinked away the vision, the remnants of the witch’s voice chasing me across the void–
He’s not what you think, my pretty…not what you think…
Chapter 10
The maid stepped back, the thumb and finger of her right hand holding a strand of grey hair aloft. She waved it in the air.
‘A grey hair, my lady. I plucked it out for you.’
I touched the crown of my head and thanked her, absently. As I got to my feet and stood on slightly trembling legs, the vision lingered. Was I going mad? Seeing things which weren’t there? I must have dozed for a moment; it was the only explanation I was prepared to accept.
‘It is supper time, my lady. Shall I show you to the hall?’ The girl dropped the hair on the floor. It lay there, mocking me. Grey indeed!
I nodded and glided after her on calfskin slippers, the dress fluttering about my ankles.
My husband’s hall, like my father’s, had wattle and daub walls, though unlike my father, Rhain had never been keen on mixing in manure with the mud covering the wickerwork. Most of the supporting wooden beams of my home were hidden behind the wattle and daub, which was then limed and covered with tapestries and embroidered blankets to keep drafts at bay.
Wulfstan’s hall sported no such plastering. Instead, the wood was exposed, though the beams were lashed so tightly together I would have been surprised if an ant could squeeze through the gaps. He did have a central fireplace as I was used to, but the usual scattered tables and benches had been transformed into regimented lines, with additional tables on a raised dais at the far end. This man was all about display and ceremony, I mused.
A serving wench, carrying a plate of goslings, their featherless little bodies nothing but crisped skin and tender flesh, pushed through the doors and into the raucous hall. My stomach gave an unladylike rumble.
Wulfstan and the rest of his retinue occupied the tables on the dais. Idris and Cai reclined in their chairs on one side of Wulfstan, Sigrid seated on the other side of her husband. She did not look happy. A soft glow of anticipation radiated out from my belly and I imagined their faces when they saw me now. No longer travel-stained and mud-caked, with smutty cheeks and hay-stack hair, I looked every inch the queen I was expected to be.
I worked my way to the raised platform and waited to be seated, wondering how long it would take to become used to having so many strange eyes upon me. The weight of them crawled over my body and face like ants, their little insect feet chittering over my skin.
‘Has my wife taken good care of you?’ Wulfstan’s booming voice startled me.
‘Yes, my lord.’ I curtsied, although I did not have to, the silk shimmering and whispering.
‘Good. Come join us.’ He turned to shout at a boy standing behind him holding a jug. ‘Fill my cup, then find Lady Caitlyn a seat.’
Wulfstan shuffled his chair closer to Cai, forcing the younger man to move over. Idris shifted his chair closer to Sigrid, until there was just enough space for another seat. Idris smiled; Sigrid fixed her attention on something over my head and pretended I didn’t exist.
Baffled by her attitude, I concentrated on the floor and took slow measured breaths. The trembling of my hands was from a combination of temper and exhaustion. It would be best for me if exhaustion won. My ire had no single focus. Sigrid had a share for not extending me her friendship. I allocated Wulfstan a piece, for no other reason than I was beholden to him and did not much like the feeling. Idris had the greater portion, for abandoning me to strangers and preparing to leave me to my fate. But mostly I blamed myself. I should not have fled. This was God’s revenge for my own abandonment of my people.
My attention remained firmly on the floor, until I was satisfied I could lift my face without showing my emotions to the whole world. When I finally met Idris’ eyes, the look in them gave me pause; an excitement I could not fathom lurked in their depths.
Wulfstan patted the seat beside him. ‘Come sit, my lady, we have much to discuss. Have you eaten?’
I sank down next to him, my arm brushing against Idris as I reached for the nearest platter.
‘He
re, Caitlyn, let me.’ Idris piled my pewter plate with an assortment of meats, and tore off a chunk of bread, placing it next to my plate. The inside of the bread’s golden crust was as white and as soft as a dandelion head. My astonishment showed.
‘Another thing Wulfstan has adopted,’ Idris whispered in my ear, his beard tickling my cheek. ‘French bread. So much more delicate than our usual coarse dark fare, is it not?’
He placed his hand over mine and stroked it. I had a feeling if I turned my head our lips would meet. The skin of my cheek burned with the intensity of his gaze, and I fixed my own stare determinedly on my plate.
Common sense prevailed. Silly girl, he was simply being courteous, trying in his own way to reassure me. There was nothing more to it, I told myself, and felt shame that I had read too much into his actions. He was probably drunk and had failed to realise how familiar he was being. Why did men drink so much that their wits went out along with the slops? I was his liege lord’s wife, and for him to look at me in such a manner was inappropriate, even though that liege lord was now dead.
I ignored the hand and its stroking, using the act of picking up a slice of venison, to slide my own out from underneath it. The meat fell apart in my mouth and I groaned in delight at the rich and flavoursome taste. I finished the portion with unseemly haste and reached for another.
After I had eaten my fill, a boy poured ruby liquid into my goblet and I drank deeply, relishing the smoothness of the wine.
‘Something else from France,’ Idris said, eyeing the wine. He placed a hand over his own tankard and shook his head. The boy retreated. Mayhap Idris was not as far in his cups as I had first thought.
Wulfstan tapped me on the arm, forcing me to turn my attention to him.
‘Your man, Idris, has a proposition,’ the Lord of Castle Cary said.
‘Oh?’
‘He thinks Seisyll deserves to be put in his place. He thinks I might be the man to do it, if what remains of your father’s people and Rhain’s will support me.’
I sat straighter, folding my hands in my lap. It was time to barter.
‘His foes, however much they hate him, will not follow an Englishman, my lord,’ I said, lifting my chin, the mantle of regency settling around my shoulders like the arm of an old friend. It might not be a woman’s place to bargain and meddle in the affairs of men, but Wulfstan needed me if he intended to invade Deheubarth. And I needed him. On my terms, if I could manage it, and if the price was not too great.
‘We both know that,’ he said.
Idris moved closer, his breath on the back of my neck. What part did Wulfstan intend him to play, I wondered?
‘The men of Deheubarth may well rally to my name,’ I said, ‘and those of Gwynedd, if it is pitched right, though my father’s people have been under Seisyll’s subjugation for far longer, and they may have grown accustomed to it.’
‘We both know that, too.’
‘Then what do you know that I do not?’
‘You need a husband.’
‘That is not news’ I said. I may not want a husband but I needed one all the same. I was too vulnerable without.
‘I have the men,’ Wulfstan said. ‘I have enough soldiers to wipe Seisyll from the face of the earth and I have the silver to pay them.’
I inclined my head, acknowledging the truth of it. From what I had seen, Wulfstan was well-versed in the art of warfare. His defences were unheard of in Wales, brought over to England from France, and he was certainly not lacking in wealth.
My mind skittered for a heartbeat as the image of a woman with ancient, malevolent eyes whispered French in my ear… He’s not what you think, my pretty…not what you think…
A scream of female laughter brought me back to the present. I caught Sigrid’s frown out of the corner of my eye. Her annoyance was directed at the woman, or perhaps she glowered because of me. Husband, Wulfstan said. Did he have himself in mind for the position?
I needed to concentrate, to consider the possibilities. Once Wulfstan had used my name to legitimise his incursion onto Welsh soil, and once he had used my lineage to gain Deheubarth and the other lands Seisyll held, what then? How much need would he have of me afterwards? As soon as his title was secure, I would become obsolete.
Did I have another choice? If I refused to play this game, he could end my life tonight. I had no illusions as to my powerlessness, a queen in name only. I assumed he was proposing marriage, and I might have to accept him as a husband. Would it be such a bad thing? I knew as much about this man as I had known about Rhain before I wed him and I had grown to care for my husband. I might grow to care for this one, in time. He seemed to treat Sigrid well enough.
Sigrid – the one fly in the porridge Wulfstan was so busily stirring. He already had a wife. Once again, I speculated if he was contemplating putting her aside to marry me. It was not unheard of. I was sure he could find some excuse or another, infidelity or witchcraft maybe, however unjustified the accusation. No wonder the lady sat in stony silence. Her fate was in the hands of this slippery lord, too.
The idea of taking another woman’s place did not sit well. Also, if I did, what would prevent him from doing the same thing to me when I’d served my purpose? The small consolation was that Deheubarth would not rest easy without someone of Welsh blood ruling her. He might keep me as his wife purely for that very reason. I was still its rightful queen, therefore any man I married would be king by default. But would the Welsh accept a queen with an Englishman for a husband? My heart told me no, and my head said Wulfstan knew this as well as I. So what game was he playing?
I needed time to think. I was not versed in the intricacies of warfare and kingship, and there was one thing I wanted him to confirm before I begged leave to retire with my swirling thoughts. I had to know where I stood.
‘We both agree then, I need a husband. The question is, who?’ I asked.
His answer nearly stopped my heart.
‘Idris.’
Chapter 11
I did not know where to look, nor what to say. Idris placed his fingers on mine once more, stroking my skin. The urge to snatch my hand back was strong, but I curtailed it, having no idea how I felt, how I was supposed to feel, or how to react. I had known this man for three years and never once had I considered him anything other than Rhain’s lieutenant, and lately a good friend.
Maybe not, but the arrangement would not be a bad one. The Welsh would follow him, with my name providing the catalyst. He had been an able lieutenant under Rhain, and there was no reason why he should not prove to be a good king. But – did I want to marry him, and if so, did I want war? Deheubarth was mine by rights, and so was Gwynedd by default, but I was not sure I wanted either of them badly enough to risk the death of another husband in battle.
Idris’ gaze lingered on my face, the heat of it sending a blush to my cheeks. I looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes, and met Sigrid’s instead. The relief in hers was clear. She gave me a slow, thoughtful nod. Guilt at what I had contemplated deepened the colour in my cheeks. No wonder she had been distant and hostile if she thought her husband’s ambition would cast her aside.
A bustle of noise and movement at the door and the moment was gone in a whirl of whooping and backslapping. Two men strode down the length of the hall, a score of soldiers crowding behind. The interruption gave me a chance to claim my hand back for the second time. Idris’ warmth lingered on my skin as I examined the newcomers. Both were richly dressed, one more flamboyantly than the other with a crimson tunic embroidered with gold birds, and soft, well-oiled kidskin boots. The second man wore a subdued navy, his only embellishment being a silver belt buckle.
One of them, the slighter of the two, called over his crimson-clad shoulder to the soldiers. ‘Get some ale and meat, we ride on the morrow.’
With much laughing and ribald calls, the men dispersed among the tables, sliding onto benches and reaching for tankards, until only the pair were left standing.
‘Another couple
of chairs,’ Wulfstan called. He got heavily to his feet, swaying slightly. ‘A day for visitors,’ he announced, with a sweep of his arm.
‘My lord, my lady.’ The smaller man inclined his head towards our host and his wife, a smile on his lips. The larger man bowed slightly, his eyes wary, restlessly scanning the hall, and I understood their relationship; the protected and his protector.
Whilst chairs were brought and wine was poured, I studied the newcomers. They had the same look about them, possibly brothers. Both were dark-haired and hazel-eyed, with the same patrician nose and high cheekbones. The one who had spoken was slim even under his studded leather breastplate, almost delicate, with narrow wrists and sinewy arms. However did he manage to wield a sword? He looked as though he lacked the strength to even lift it.
The other had a warrior’s build, all muscle and fighter’s stance, his legs planted firmly apart, a hand resting on his empty scabbard. Wulfstan, for all his bear-like gruffness and good cheer, insisted on all weapons being left at the door, apart from those carried by his personal guard. The only blades allowed were the small daggers used at the table for cutting meat, though even those little knives could be a menace in the hands of a drunk with a point to make.
The smaller man was seated first, with much fussing and ceremony, at the place of honour on Wulfstan’s right, forcing Idris to shuffle further down the table. The other man waited until his brother was settled before taking his own chair.
‘Lady Caitlyn, may I present Prince Edward, son of old King Aethelred and Lady Emma of Normandy,’ Wulfstan said.
I smiled a greeting, the rest of the introductions passing me by as I considered the newcomers. This slight and rather effeminate man was Edward, who claimed to be England’s rightful king? Which meant the other man must be his brother. Out of the two of them, I knew which I would prefer to have as my regent, and it was not Edward.
The sensation of being observed had me glancing about the room, searching. It felt different from the many stares and muted sniggers sent my way when I first entered the great hall, more intense, more personal. My mouth dried. Please, not her again. Not now, not here. My attention turned back to the high table and I realised the scrutiny came from Alfred.
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