Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  ‘I am the writing between the lines,’ I declared loftily and Walter, who had been just about to gripe some more, closed his mouth. Walter knew exactly what was in the letter, because it was unsealed, and the first thing he had done was to read it. What he did not know, was what Arlette had instructed me to do.

  I thought he had given up, but a few miles outside Bourneville and about a quarter of the way into the journey, he started up again.

  ‘What role does my sister wish you to play?’ He always called Arlette “my sister” when he wanted to emphasise his relationship to her, and diminish mine. Little did he know that I was of far greater value to her than he was, and if push came to shove it would be me she would choose. I let the slight go, but if he hoped to intimidate me, he was way off the mark.

  ‘Arlette,’ I did not bother to give her the courtesy of a title, ‘has tasked me with speaking to Lord William in private.’

  Walter bristled like a mongrel meeting an unfamiliar dog. He hated not knowing the full story. Poor man, he had not known the full story since Herleva had married his father. He suspected, but what his heart and soul knew to be true, his mind and conscience baulked at. He had done well to champion Arlette, suspecting what he did; most men would have been too frightened of eternal damnation. Most men would have accused her, then stood back and watched her burn. But then, most men did not have such close ties to her, and she ruled her household with a subtle, but no less effective, fear. Besides, Walter enjoyed the prestige, the wealth, and the power she bestowed on him so much that it would be nigh on impossible for him to give it up.

  ‘What are you to say to him?’ Walter persisted.

  ‘Did my sister tell you any of it?’

  ‘No.’ This was admitted with reluctance, and a shifty look in his eye. I could tell that he wanted to know, but at the same time, he was wary. It was strange, but he treated me with far more respect when I was a cat than he did when I was a woman. I was still unsure whether he had joined the dots and was seeing the whole picture and knew that Arlette’s pet cat and Caitlyn were one and the same. Yet, if he had not worked this out by now, he was not as intelligent as I thought he was.

  ‘Then I shall not tell you either,’ I said. ‘If your sister had wanted you to know, she would have taken you into her confidence.’ I played my trump card, hoping to silence him for a while by saying, ‘It is better for you if you don’t.’

  He blanched at that, and I guessed he understood that the dark arts might soon be at play. ‘How old are you?’ he asked, surprising me with the question.

  ‘Too old,’ I replied wearily. I had walked the earth for close to fifty years, on both two feet and four. I had witnessed things I would not have thought possible, and had done things which had cast a stain on my soul for eternity, yet I looked no older than the twenty-three years I had been when Herleva had cast the terrible spell on me.

  Walter had known me then. He could see for himself that I had not changed. Not so much as a wrinkle creased my face, my hair had not greyed, my waist had not thickened, and my body remained straight and strong. I knew he could not help but compare me to Arlette, who was my younger by some seven years. Despite her collection of creams and potions, and her use of things I did not want to think about, her eyes had creases at the corners and her jowls had begun to sag.

  ‘You must be nearing fifty,’ he persisted, ‘yet you do not appear to have aged since I first set eyes on you. Why not, when my sister clearly has?’ He saw my face and misread my expression. ‘She is still a handsome woman,’ he insisted hastily, probably worried I would go running back to Arlette with tales that Walter had said she was an old hag. ‘She looks ten years younger than her true age, yet she does look older than she used to.’

  ‘Childbearing,’ I replied, shortly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It leaves its mark on a woman.’ It had most certainly left its mark on Arlette and so had time itself, but the marks were softer than they might otherwise have been if Arlette had not used witchcraft to gloss her hair, keep her lips full, and her eyes bright. In her fifth decade, she was middle-aged but, as Walter rightly pointed out, her looks were those of a much younger woman.

  Arlette had always been vain.

  ‘I do not believe you,’ Walter said. I could see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye, and my first thought was, “how had it taken him so long to see the truth?”. My second thought was that he was reassessing the relationship between Arlette and I. I could tell by the frown creasing his brow and by the tilt of his head. Was he deciding which one of us held the power?

  From the outside looking in, it must seem that I was the sorceress and Arlette my puppet, despite the subtle menace which emanated from her even on her most serene days. I couldn’t blame Walter for his conjecture, nor the conclusions I guessed he was arriving at. The only surprise was that it had taken him this long to ask the questions.

  Admittedly, it was a long time coming. Walter’s dissatisfaction with me had been brewing ever since Duke Robert died all those years ago, and the three of us, Arlette, Walter, and myself, had been forced to protect the seven-year-old William, the new Duke of Normandy, from those who would take his lands, his title, and his life.

  Herleva had been proven right when she had predicted that Robert would not take another for a wife. When Duke Robert had died, little William was his sole heir and, bastard or not, our diabolical triumvirate had fought to keep the boy in his rightful place. The little boy was now a gruff twenty-two-year-old man, and I had to admit that the three of us had done a good job. William was a force to be reckoned with.

  A pointed clearing of Walter’s throat brought me back to the present, and I struggled to remember our conversation, too caught up in my memories.

  ‘I do not care,’ I stated, eventually. It was true – it mattered not what Walter believed. It would change nothing.

  ‘I could have you burnt at the stake for what you are.’ Walter, it seemed, had thoughts of accusing me of witchcraft.

  I smiled at his stupidity. ‘You could, but you will not,’ I pointed out, wondering where this conversation was leading. Was he planning to be rid of me? If he were, it would prove to be interesting. For me that is, not so much for Walter. Walter, methinks, would very much regret it…

  ‘Why are you so certain?’ he asked, doubt beginning to creep into his voice.

  ‘Because I am not the one who should burn,’ I pointed out. Did Walter really think I was the witch or was he simply fishing? I wanted to say more, but the spell kept the words from leaving my throat. He would have to think what he liked, because I was unable to speak the truth about my mistress.

  ‘I have not forgotten Herleva,’ he said stoutly, ‘but she is dead.’

  ‘Her skills did not pass to me,’ I assured him.

  Walter gave me a shrewd look and I checked the guards, ensuring none of them was near enough to eavesdrop. This conversation was not for general consumption.

  ‘Yet you were the one who looks no different than you did twenty-odd years ago,’ he pointed out, again.

  I was unable to fault his logic, but mine was the final arrow to shoot. ‘Look into your heart, Walter. Remember how you felt about Herleva. Remember how terrified you were of her?’

  ‘I was not!’ he replied, hotly, but we both knew that was a lie and when I continued to stare at him, he looked away, his face hardening.

  ‘Do you feel that way about me?’ I persisted.

  He scoffed out a derisive laugh, and I chuckled at his scorn. Of course, I did not have the same effect on him – how could I? – although, he might not be so complacent about me if he actually saw what I could turn in to…

  ‘Do you feel that way about Arlette?’ I continued sweetly, and the sneer on his face was quickly replaced by caution.

  I stopped there, giving him time to work out that particular puzzle for himself, not caring whether he arrived at the correct conclusion or not. If he accepted that Arlette was the witch and not I, then
everything would go on as before. If he did not, and he tried to eliminate me, then his world was about to get messy. Arlette did not appreciate anyone being cruel to her pet. She kept that privilege for herself.

  And as for me? I did not care whether I was accused or not, and although I didn’t much fancy death by fire, at least it would put me out of my misery.

  My one consolation was that Arlette had not begun to groom a successor, so once again I was left with the hope that the enchantment would die along with her. If she had no one to pass me on to, then surely the spell would have no alternative but to release me?

  Chapter 3

  William’s mood was foul. He had a temper to match his mother’s and although he lacked her subliminal menace, he made up for it with dukely power and physical presence. William was no wilting King Edward, and I recalled my first impression of Prince Edward as he stood in Wulfstan’s hall all those years ago. Or should I say my lack of impression, and I remembered how I preferred Alfred for England’s king – God rest his soul. William, in contrast to the man who currently sat on England’s throne, was ruggedly built, with muscle, bone, and sinew honed from years of fighting and sword-wielding. Not only that, but he was tall too, and he had a demeanour which suggested he was not to be trifled with. Although he was loud and forceful and was quick to anger, he was also equally as quick to listen to reason, and his men were fiercely loyal to him. It made for a charismatic leader. He already had the presence and manner of a king – all he needed was a crown to go with it. And, if the prophecy was to be believed, he was destined to get one.

  Walter did not exactly quiver before his duke – there was too great a history between them for that – but he was respectful and wary. William was not renowned for his restraint, and I would not put it beyond him to shoot the messenger. Literally, because William was more than efficient with a bow. The Duke might regret it later, but once the deed was done…

  Me, he ignored, and I was happy for it to stay that way until he had calmed down. At present, he was still striding about his hall, waving Arlette’s letter in an unconscious repetition of his mother’s actions barely a day earlier, and with a face looking like the back end of a bull.

  The hall was strangely bereft of people and I understood that most folk, those who did not have to be there, were keeping out of their lord’s way in case his wrath inadvertently descended on them.

  ‘My mother tells me she has a plan and that I am to take heart?’ William yelled, and Walter flinched. ‘What fucking plan! Eh?’ He thrust the letter back into Walter’s hands.

  ‘Lord, I… er…’ Walter stuttered.

  ‘The Flanders bitch has made a laughing stock of me, and my mother is giving me nothing but platitudes?’ William slammed a fist down on the table, making us all jump.

  ‘I believe she means to intercede with Count Baldwin on your behalf,’ Walter said, and I watched William’s face. I managed to count to three before the Duke exploded.

  ‘I do not need my mother to intercede on my behalf!’ he bellowed. ‘Does she think me still a child?’

  His rage was impressive, but I let it wash over me. I was more interested in the rumbling of my empty belly, and I debated whether to avail myself of the meats, cheeses, and bread set out on a board next to the dais, before deciding against it, despite my protesting stomach. I was not scared of this man who I had loved from birth as if he were my own child, but neither did I relish pain, and with the mood William was in, I would not put it past him to lash out at the nearest person who caught his ire.

  ‘Besides, I have changed my mind,’ he announced, pacing up and down, back and forth. ‘I do not want her, not after what she has done.’

  It was time I intervened.

  ‘Leave us,’ I commanded to Walter and those men brave enough to have remained in the room, and prayed that I could clear the hall before the Duke said anything he could not retract without losing face. He had said enough already.

  Deathly silence descended on the hall after I spoke. Even William halted his pacing, noticing me properly for the first time since our arrival. His men held their breath.

  I remained resolute, knowing that the Duke would read the message in my face. I caught William’s eye. He nodded once, his anger abruptly turning to speculation, as he realised I had not accompanied Walter for the fun of it.

  ‘You heard Lady Caitlyn,’ he said. ‘Out. You too, Walter,’ he added, when Arlette’s brother made no move to leave.

  Walter let out a hiss of disapproval but did as he was told, turning on his heel and marching towards the door with an annoyed stalk. The few of William’s men who had remained in the hall when William had received us, trailed after Walter, shooting me curious glances.

  ‘Well?’ William demanded, once we were alone.

  I moved close enough so my lowered voice could not be overheard, just in case. Castles and fortresses had too many ears for comfort. ‘Do you want this woman?’ I asked.

  William hesitated.

  ‘Because if you do, there is a way,’ I said.

  His eyes narrowed and he waited for me to continue.

  ‘Lady Arlette, like you, recognises what a good match this marriage would be for you,’ I said, ‘and—’

  ‘The wench refused me,’ William interrupted.

  ‘She can change her mind.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I am to travel to Bruges to persuade her.’

  William’s mood changed as quickly as the Welsh weather of my youth, and he treated me to yet another side of him as he said pleasantly, ‘My dear Caitlyn, let me call for mead. I have been remiss in my hospitality and you must be in dire need of refreshment after your journey.’

  He strode to one of the hall’s lesser doors and yanked it open, yelling for the honeyed drink, knowing my preference for that over wine, and adding, ‘Ensure Lord Walter and his men are fed and watered, and arrange for Walter to sleep in one of the guest chambers.’

  I watched him give the orders, marvelling that the child whose soiled clouts I had once changed was now a man of so much power and wealth. In some ways, I yearned for those long-ago days when William looked to me for reassurance and love because his mother was too busy plotting and scheming to notice her son. The child had been as much mine as hers when he was tiny, and the affection still lingered both in my heart and William’s.

  While the servants bustled in with warmed wine, sweet mead, and fresh bread, I gazed around me. I had visited most of the Duke’s fortresses in my time, but not this one. Fecamp had been one of his father’s strongholds, an impressive castle built above a sea which was defended by massive white cliffs. That both the castle and the abbey alongside it had only arisen due to a vial of Christ’s blood having supposedly been washed up on the nearby beach, struck me as somewhat ironic. Here was I, in a town renowned for its holiness, plotting the downfall of a young woman by nefarious dark means and black magic.

  William was an enigma to me. Outwardly he was very devout; he had to be if he wanted to avoid criticism and suspicion. Arlette’s son was a strange mix of good Christian and heathen, but only his mother and I knew of the heathen part, and I am not sure even William knew the true extent of his mother’s worship of the dark arts. The Duke appeared pious, yet he accepted any and all advantages which Arlette could provide and, moreover, he had never once questioned her assistance.

  Taking my hand, he led me to a bench by the fire and knelt next to my seat, his hand still encasing mine. ‘It is good to see you again, Cat. You look as lovely as ever,’ he said.

  I shot him a speculative look. Was he mocking me? I had never been entirely certain he knew exactly what I was, though he had always treated his mother’s grey cat with more care and respect than a castle feline warranted. But before I managed to formulate an answer, William was back to practicalities, namely what role I was to play in changing Matilda’s mind.

  ‘You do not need to know the details,’ I replied sharply, adding, ‘It is women’s work,’ to soften the st
ing of my words. I kept forgetting William was a boy no longer, and I was not his mother. Although I should have been: Duke Robert should have been mine.

  I let out a snort – the only person I was kidding was myself. I had not quickened with child when I was wed to Rhain, so Robert would hardly have been likely to have filled my belly for me, especially since he had not proved to be too fruitful with Arlette either. The only other child she bore him had been a girl, and I sometimes wondered whether the lack of any further male issue from Duke Robert’s loins had something to do with what Herleva had seen of the future.

  Maybe it was fortuitous that Duke Robert had died on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, without fathering any more sons, leaving William (or rather, Arlette, on her son’s behalf) to claim Normandy. It had occurred to me more than once, that Robert might have felt the evil at the heart of his and Arlette’s unholy union, and that this was the reason he had felt the pull of pilgrimage, to try to ease the stain on his soul, seeking to wash it away with copious amounts of kneeling and holy water. I hope he had succeeded. Like me, the poor man had really not had any choice, and I often regretted my part in his downfall.

  Looking at William, who was like my own son to me, I knew I would do anything in my power for him, despite how much I hated his mother. If he wanted Matilda, I would do my utmost to give him the girl.

  ‘How will you accomplish it?’ William persisted, after he had served me himself, pouring my mead into a goblet and bringing me a selection of cold cuts, fluffy white hunks of bread, and a slice of the hard cheese he knew I liked.

  ‘William,’ I warned. I could not tell him that I would have to transform into a cat to sneak into the lady’s chamber to steal a lock of her hair for use in a spell – the enchantment would not allow it. Besides, it would be better if he did not know the intricacies, then if something were to go wrong, he could deny all knowledge.