The second gatepost, the one guarding the donjon, proved as easy to conquer as the first. One of the guards clicked his tongue as I scampered through but otherwise made no move.
Another bailey, much smaller than the main one, opened out in front of me, with the keep at the far end. In between lay more buildings: a small chapel, kitchens, and what I took to be a great hall, though not as large as the one in the outer bailey. Music and the sound of many voices issued from it, and the smell of roasted meat, wood-smoke, and sweat carried on the wind. It was not yet fully dark, the heavens still holding an orange glow, and I assumed supper would carry on for a while longer. Enough time to find the duke’s quarters before he retired to bed.
The donjon caught my attention, as it was designed to do. It was a massive, square tower, three times the girth and twice the height of the tower guarding the inner bailey. Two great doors dominated the front of it, both of them open, inviting me inside.
Dimmer and pokier than I expected, there was no open room with a merry fire and no tables and benches, and for the first time I understood the true purpose of the building: defence. Nothing more. It was the last stand if the castle was breached. Lord Robert did his entertaining and his commanding in the great hall, not here. This was his final retreat, and the place where he slept. The ground floor was given over to weapon stashes and armouries, but one of the upper floors would hold his bedchamber. I guessed it would be the topmost.
Slipping and slinking along passage-ways and corridors, I reached a narrow winding staircase, stone-built and dark. The odd sconce held a lit brand, filling the air with the rancid stink of burning cow-fat. Up I climbed, and up again, until I reached the highest storey and stepped off the staircase onto a landing. The only door leading off it was firmly closed. I would have to wait for someone to open it.
An archer’s recess gave me cover. In the gloom, it was unlikely I would be seen, a grey cat against dark stone. I sat, curled my tail around my paws, and waited for the night to finish falling.
The bells for Terce had rung before a servant came to open the duke’s chamber door. Close on her heels I darted inside quicker than a deer fleeing a wolf, and dived under the hanging folds of cloth covering a settle, my heart beating faster than was good for it. Cautiously I peeked out from underneath the seat and watched the maid go about her business.
She knelt by the hearth and, taking a handful of kindling from a basket, coaxed the reluctant fire back to roaring life, then banked it down with wood from the stack on the other side of the fireplace, humming to herself all the while. It was not a tune I recognised.
I waited for her to leave and let out a shaky breath, only to draw another in sharp alarm when the door opened again and she returned with candles and a flask. She placed the candles on a sideboard and upended the flask into a jug. The wine gurgled as it flowed, the fruity scent reaching my hidden nose. I wished I could steal a mouthful or two to steady my nerves.
One by one she took the stubs out of their holders, replacing them with new candles, lighting them as she did so, and I slunk further under the settle as the light in the room increased. I had no doubt this was Lord Robert’s sitting room. His coat of arms hung above the fireplace, and in the growing light the tapestries covering the stone walls became clearer. Rich with vibrant colour, they depicted scenes from the bible, and seemed to move in the shadows cast by the flickering flames.
Another door opened and I scooted round to see behind me, peering out through the legs of the settle. The maid was in the duke’s bedchamber, lighting yet more candles. After she left I waited until I dared wait no more before crawling out from my hiding place.
Time to become Caitlyn.
Chapter 26
I took the parchment out of my pocket, undid the cord and tiptoed over to the sideboard with the intention of sprinkling the powder into the wine. The jug was full almost to the brim with sweet, heady liquid, the smell rich and fruity. Would the sleeping draft work if it was too diluted? I could hardly leave it in the bottom of a goblet and hope Robert failed to notice when he went to fill it. I needed to mix it with the wine first.
Picking the jug up with both hands, I carried it to the window. This one was larger than the mere arrow slit in the recess, and was wide enough to lean through. I unlatched it, and tipped most of the contents out. A muffled yell came from below. Sorry. I hoped the unfortunate person it had spattered realised it was wine, not the contents of a chamber-pot. The jug now held enough to fill a goblet and no more. I counted on Duke Robert not calling for a fresh full jug.
Clever girl.
I almost dropped it. Herleva was watching. I imagined her crouching over the skull, the liquid within bubbling and roiling as it gave up its secrets. I glanced around, almost expecting to see her eyes peering from the shadows. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I touched the knife hanging from my girdle, pushing away thoughts of plunging the little blade into her black heart, then felt for the bottle. Both were where they should be.
I would have to turn back into a cat. The only place a full-grown woman could hide was under the bed, and the risk of discovery was too great. What if he needed to use the chamber pot, or he stashed his sword under there every night? Cat could easily be explained, but not Caitlyn.
Once again, I took the terrible risk of being caught mid-change, and became a sleek feline once more. Taking my sore and bruised body under the bed, I lay on my side, drained and exhausted, panting hard, cursing Herleva with every fibre of my being.
Cats may have infinite patience, but I found I did not. The night grew older, and noises from outside the window became less frequent as folk sought their beds. I shifted restlessly, startling at every sound.
Finally, the duke came to bed.
The door opened, bringing a blast of cooler air from the landing and Lord Robert clomped across the floor on heavy booted feet. Most of the anteroom was clearly visible from my hiding place, including the sideboard with its jug of tainted wine.
He gave a great sigh, put his arms in the air and stretched, twisting this way and that, before slumping onto the settle and prising off his boots. All I could see were his shoulders, the back of his head, and his feet. He grunted, flinging each boot in turn into a corner, then flopped back, resting his head on the back of the seat.
Please be thirsty, I thought at him. I did not want to have to go through this palaver again.
He was silent for so long I thought he had fallen asleep where he sat, when a loud yawn made me jump. If I had mewled in surprise (and I suspected I had) it was covered by the noise of him hoisting himself off the seat and padding across to the sideboard.
He stood for a moment, rubbing a hand through his brown hair, then gave another sigh and picked up the jug.
Pour it out, I urged. Pour it…
He inspected its contents, and I was unsurprised he found it lacking. I hoped the poor maid would not be too harshly berated for failing to replenish her master’s wine. He took a couple of strides to the door, hesitated, examined the meagre contents swilling around in the bottom of the jug, grunted and retraced his steps. I let out a sigh of my own, only to hold my breath again as he picked up a goblet, and poured the wine.
He sniffed, took a sip, smacked his lips, and returned to sit by the fire. His head moved now and again, and I hoped he was finishing his drink. From this angle, it was hard to tell what he was doing. Everything about the situation was strange. I felt most uncomfortable spying on a man in his private rooms when he believed himself to be alone.
The sleeping-draught did not appear to be working, or else he had not drunk enough of it, for he got to his feet, walked to a table, picked up a quill, then dipped it in ink and scratched across a parchment. He blew to dry the ink, and his pursed lips widened into a yawn. I checked the floor by the settle, wondering what he had done with the goblet.
I stiffened. He was walking towards the door of his bedchamber, shedding clothes as he came. Watching him undress was not an unpleasant exp
erience, and I peered even more intently from underneath the furs covering the sides of the bed, hoping he did not look down and see two eyes staring back at him. He would think his bedcovers had come to life.
One by one he removed his garments until he stood in his linen shirt. It covered his modesty, but from my low angle I could see straight up underneath it. I looked away, embarrassed. A small stagger brought him closer to the bed. He must have been hot from sitting so close to the fire and with the window closed, the room was unduly warm. A fine film of sweat glistened on his forehead.
When he shrugged off his shirt and was naked, I simply had to stare. He was a fine example of manhood, albeit a sleepy one, with his heavily muscled torso and arms, and his sturdy straight legs. His chest had a fine smattering of dark hairs, and a scar or two marred his skin. I deliberately tried not to look at what lay below his belly.
The duke clambered into bed, tossed and turned for a few moments before lying still. I waited until his breathing slowed and deepened, then I waited some more. I was just about to venture from my hiding place when footfalls on the landing made me pause. If I had been Caitlyn, not Cat, I probably would not have heard them.
A soft knock at the door.
‘My lord?’ a woman called.
The knocker waited for an answer. None was forthcoming. Lord Robert did not stir.
The knock came again.
‘Get away from there.’ A gruff male voice spoke in an exaggerated whisper. The woman’s voice was softer and lighter.
‘He said I was to join him in his chamber,’ she insisted. ‘I knocked but there is no answer. Is he still in the hall? Should I go inside and wait?’
‘He retired some time ago.’
‘Should I go in?’
No, please do not come in, I begged.
‘Not if you want to keep your head on your shoulders. If he wanted you, he would have answered. Now go.’
Tension bled out of my trembling body as the footsteps hurried away. I was not suited for this. This sneaking and skulking, and risking being caught, did not come naturally to me. Wanting to get it over with, I crept out from under the bed, lay on the floor and allowed the spell to tear my body apart and rebuild me.
How many times had I transformed in the course of one night? Too many. Stiffly and painfully I moved to the bed, listening for Duke Robert’s even breathing. The sleeping-draught must have taken effect; no fighting man, whether he be lord or soldier, would have slept through what I had just done.
Screwing up enough courage to do the deed, I fingered the tiny dagger at my waist. Where should I cut him? I looked closely. He was indeed a handsome man. This was no pale, pious, streak of nothing like Edward. This was a man built for war. He had pushed the covers down to his waist, and even at rest the muscles across his chest were still hard and defined. I did not want to slice him there and add to the scars. A partly healed wound on his shoulder, possibly gained from his recent skirmish with the Archbishop’s forces might do. I could re-open it. However, it might be deep and I did not want to interrupt the healing. Thumbs bleed well. I would pierce him there.
Grasping his arm, I lifted it up. It felt strange, handling a sleeping man, especially a man of whom I had no intimate knowledge. Of course I had dealt with comatose strangers before, but they had been unconscious and wounded after battle, and I had helped tend their wounds – not inflict another one.
The cut, when I made it, was swift and sure. He flinched and attempted to retract his hand, but as soon as the initial sting subsided, he sank back down into the depths of his false slumber.
I inspected the wound. Less than a quarter of an inch long, blood already welled in it, and I hastily reached into my pocket and brought out the pouch. Awkwardly, using one hand and my teeth, I untied the thread and shook its contents out on to the bed. Removing the stopper, I positioned the vial under the wound, and squeezed his thumb until ruby liquid dropped into the narrow neck. One slow drop at a time, it took forever to fill it, and once done I reckoned it was hardly more than a thimble full. I hoped it would be enough for Herleva to perform her black art.
I stopped milking his thumb and lifted his arm in the air. After several moments the flow of blood slowed then ceased, and I gently put his hand back on the bed. He pulled it to him, as if he knew what had been done to it.
I stoppered the neck of the vial with the cork, pushing it home firmly, for I did not want to risk a spill and be forced to repeat this night.
You have done well.
Get out of my head! Was this to be the way of it? Would she watch my every move, judging and interfering?
Now bring his blood to me.
What else did she think I was going to do with it – make black pudding?
I was glad she could not read my mind. she might be able to speak to me without the benefit of mouth, or tongue, or physical presence, but it did not work in reverse. My thoughts, at least, were my own.
With the evidence of my deed secreted safely in a pocket, I debated whether to change back into a cat, or to leave as a woman.
Woman won out – I loathed being a cat. Though woman-form was more dangerous, I was filled with a heady euphoria at completing the task. I waited for a heartbeat to see if Herleva had guessed my intention and would force me to change, but she was silent, so I crept into the anteroom, leaving the door to the duke’s bedchamber open, just as he had left it when he fell into bed.
With a guard on the door, I would have to have a believable story. I could pretend to be a maid, but I had been in the duke’s rooms far too long to be stoking the fire. Hmm, I could have been doing an altogether different kind of stoking.
I unlaced my bodice to bare my breasts and freed my hair from its braid, letting it tumble about my shoulders. I aimed for a cat-got-the-cream expression and stepped on tip-toe feet toward the door.
The guard’s eyes widened when they saw me, his gaze dropped straight to my soft, white breasts with their pink nipples and I hurriedly pulled my gown closed, as if only now realising I had not laced it back up. I gave him a languid, self-satisfied smile.
‘Lord Robert?’ He cleared his throat loudly, talking to my chest.
The man in question stirred and sighed in his bed. I glanced over my shoulder, frowned, and put a finger to my lips. The guard lifted his attention away from my assets and up to my face. He nodded, knowing better than to risk waking his master.
I pulled the door closed, and holding my head high, walked away from the man I had just condemned to eternal bondage with a witch.
Chapter 27
The cock had yet to crow and the night was at its darkest when I left the castle without question or hindrance and returned to Herleva. She awaited me in her embalming room, and I wondered if she had put a sleeping-draught in the ale she served at supper, for most of her magic seemed to take place at night, and never once had Fulbert or his sons ventured from their beds to see why Herleva was not in hers.
Wordlessly, with an avaricious gleam in her eyes and a gleeful smile on her lips, the witch held out her hand. I placed the glass bottle with its precious contents onto her outstretched palm. Her fingers closed around it and she raised her face to the heavens with a contented sigh. It was not the God up there she should be thanking; it was the Devil below. The one above hadn’t had anything to do with this dark deed.
Arlette, ethereal in the soft flickering light of the many candles, sat on the floor inside a charcoal-drawn circle, with rapt attention. Herleva turned to her and, muttering an incantation, stepped over the hellish line. I was forgotten.
She sat opposite her younger counterpart and Arlette held out her hand. I expected Herleva to place the bottle in it, but she took out a knife instead. It gleamed redly in the candle light; a markedly strange colour for a blade.
The knife hovered above Arlette’s palm.
‘Will he be mine?’ the younger woman asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Forever?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wi
ll he do my bidding?’
‘He will be bound to you, will cleave to you, but he is still a man, with a man’s mind and a duke’s responsibilities. Isn’t it enough to know he will never take another?’ The blade still hovered, clutched in Herleva’s hand, the tip quivering as if eager to taste Arlette’s blood.
‘Never?’ Arlette repeated.
‘Not in his heart.’
‘It is not enough. I want more than his heart – I want his marriage vow. I want to be his wife.’
The knife lowered. I could almost hear its sigh of regret.
‘That I cannot promise you,’ Herleva said.
‘Can you not cast a spell, concoct a potion-?’ Arlette’s arm remained outstretched. Her fingers closed into a fist.
‘I cannot guarantee he will wed you. However,’ she paused. ‘I can make it so he will refuse all others.’
‘So I am destined to forever be his mistress?’ Arlette’s hand finally dropped into her lap, disappointment etched on her face.
My own emotions were jumbled: anger at having performed such a dangerous task, only for it to not be needed (if she had asked these questions earlier I would not have had to risk my life); relief for the duke (he did not deserve to be bound to one such as Arlette, nor her step-mother); fear that I would have to do the deed again, with any other noble Arlette set her greedy sights on.
‘It is the best I can do,’ Herleva said. ‘The Duke of Normandy’s bride will not be chosen by him. She will be the result of the pressures his lords and his earls put upon him, not to mention the machinations and desires of the kings of Brittany, Flanders, Anjou, and every other prince with a vested interest in expanding their influence. None of them will tolerate a common-born wench as Duchess. Now, do you want to do this, or not?’
Arlette thought, her brow furrowed, small white teeth worrying at her bottom lip. ‘If you can guarantee he will take no other for his wife?’
Caitlyn Box Set Page 20