A crash froze me to the spot. Had the storm breached the castle walls? I lay still, listening.
Footsteps and raised voices came from outside my door. Male voices, and one in command. It never occurred to me that Ifan would find my little room again. I almost fell out of bed in my haste to change.
‘Come on, come on.’ The growl started off human and descended into animal, as I began to shift shape.
As always, I had locked and barred the door, but a stout pine beam proved to be no match for a man with solid thighs and wearing hobnail boots. A second crash had me writhing on the floor, urging myself to hurry. The wood around the lock splintered.
A third kick, and the beam bulged inwards before shattering in two. The door slammed open, and Ifan fell into the room, landing on one knee. He leapt to his feet as fast as I darted under the bed.
Stupid. Under the bed was the only place to hide and the first place he would look.
‘Empty,’ he called over his shoulder. The bed sagged a fraction. ‘She was here, and recently, too. The bed is still warm.’
I slipped out from underneath the bed just as Ifan knelt down and lifted the trailing covers. The tiny space between the wall and the chest was almost too narrow, and I pulled my tail in behind me.
‘Magic,’ someone said in a fearful voice.
A booted foot thudded down, nudging the heavy box closer to the wall, and I breathed out, wondering if I would be able to breathe in again, ribs and shoulders crushed against the wall.
Ifan opened the shuttered window above the chest, and the gusting wind drove splatters of rain into the room and across the floor. Drops fell on my head and back, and I prayed he would not look down.
Instead, he looked out.
‘If she went this way she’s a fool. Anyway, it is impossible to latch the shutter from the outside. There must be a secret door. Take the place apart, stone by stone if you have to. Start with the fireplace.’ He picked up the discarded clothing that he had given me and looked thoughtful.
Think. What if they did find me? A cat, not a woman? I suspected it wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome. Ever superstitious and for a good reason, most people disliked cats, and bats, and toads. All were traditional witches’ familiars. Add to that the empty room with the door locked and barred from the inside, and Ifan’s men would reach the correct conclusion.
I had to escape.
Ifan had left the shutter open, not fully, but wide enough for a small cat. I waited until his back was turned and the three men that he brought with him were gingerly poking at the bricks behind the fire. No one looked at the window. No one noticed me creep out from behind the chest and jump on top of it with silent paws.
I looked behind me. All four men were studying the flames and what they hoped the fire concealed, so I took the opportunity to leap up the wall with practised ease, claws gripping the indents in the mortar. When I reached the top, I pushed at the shutter with my nose, widening the opening, my paws hooked over the sill, and with one final scrabbling of my hind legs, I climbed up and over, balancing half in, half out.
The storm shrieked and moaned, taking my breath. Raindrops, as hard as dried peas, drove into my eyes.
Should I go back?
‘The window,’ a voice said, and I thought I must have been seen. In panic, I whipped my tail through the window and leapt into the ivy, anticipating grabbing hands yanking me back.
The shutter slammed closed, locking both me and the storm outside. I had no choice now, I had to go on. I almost wished I didn’t, as wind whipped through the leaves, and I clung on desperately, my claws digging deep in the woody strands and praying they would hold my weight. I had made this climb a hundred times before, but never like this. Wind strong enough to uproot trees screamed in my ears, trying to drag me loose and send me to my death. I cleaved tight to the stone face, limbs extended, terrified to relinquish even one claw-hold. Errant strands of ivy thrashed and snaked, joining forces with the storm, aiming to pry me loose. The wind, iron fingers of air, tore and shredded, demanding sacrifice, a payment of blood, and bone, and flesh.
I screwed my eyes shut, the yawning drop beneath filled with the spray and crash of the furious sea calling to me. It would be so easy to let go. To give up the fight. A heartbeat or two and it would be over. No more mistresses, no more hideous commands, no more Cat. No more Caitlyn.
One paw released its grip. I am not sure I told it to.
Three paws from death. Another paw should do it. Two paw-holds were not enough of an anchor. The wind would pluck me free and hurl me into the night, and for one sweet moment, I would fly. Then nothing.
I craved nothing. Nothingness sang to me, offering oblivion, and once again in this long, long life of mine, I found myself contemplating my end, willing it almost. I had been here before, many times.
A light, far to my right, caught my eye. It danced and flickered, a beacon in the wall of black. Was it a signal to a ship? Why else would anyone unshutter a window in the face of such a storm? Curious…
The fourth paw returned to its place and gripped tighter.
Not a ship, I decided, not in this tempestuous sea. Both tide and wind would hurl it onto the rocks. No captain would risk being this close to shore, and no captain would be at sea in this if he could help it. Even ships anchored in the relative safety of the harbour took a chance on being damaged.
Not a signal, then. But what? And why?
My own window was gone, lost to the curve of the wall, so I inched across the stone, using claws and teeth to grip. Five points of contact were better than four.
The light grew brighter.
Another few feet. I stopped to rest, and shiver. The tang and sting of sea-laden air did not hide the scent of blood. Mine. I hurt from my tail to my whiskers, and my paws were a shredded mess.
Three more feet to go and my curiosity might be satisfied. The siren song of the chasm had once again lost its allure. Death’s sweet taste became bitter juniper berries in my mind.
Closer. Close enough to risk one final dash.
Gathering what courage and strength I had left, I crabbed sideways across the woody stems, angling upwards to the window, until I was just below it. For a moment I hung, exhausted and relieved, searching for one last burst to propel me over the sill.
I had nothing left.
The storm sensed it. I heard its gleeful laugh. The waves surged higher, the wind gusted harder. A stem wrenched free from its stone anchor, lashing across my back, whipping me into submission, the curling tentacles of ivy grabbing and clasping.
That was it, my fight was over. My time on this earth was over. It seemed silly, but I found I was not quite ready to go. As always, the idea appealed, but the reality had kept me clinging to this life of mine. Until now.
I called to the storm, a pitiful meow, acknowledging defeat. It would have to take me. I could not let go. I couldn’t move, my claws caught deep in wooden stems, and I was too rigid with terror and weariness to release them.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ someone cried.
Two windows, two incredulous expletives, and me, bookended between them.
I fully expected this window to be slammed shut, too, and I stared up at it in resignation. I had come so far, but not far enough.
A silhouette, a mere outline, a shadow, leaning out and peering down. I caught a glitter of eyes. Ifan? Had he found me? Had he witnessed my escape and tracked my progress across the castle wall?
A hand reached out, grasped me by the scruff of my neck and pulled. I was torn from my ivy, and I snarled at the pain, too startled to retract my stiffening claws. Two of them snapped, and I yowled at the sudden hurt. Fingers dug into the loose skin around my neck and dragged me upwards and into the light.
The shutter banged shut.
Not Ifan.
Hugh.
‘You need more rescuing than a damsel in distress,’ he said.
I wished he would put me down. I hung kitten-like from his hand, swinging, limp, bedr
aggled, dripping water and blood on the woollen rug. My mouth was open, my lips pulled back exposing miniature, white daggers, claws, what was left of them, unsheathed. Sleek cat turned hideous gargoyle.
At least he recognised me.
With great care, he lowered me to the bedroom floor. ‘Stay.’
Woof. It came out a weak whimpering meow.
‘I’ll find something to dry you with.’ He rummaged through a drawer and produced a linen shift. ‘This will do.’
He had such a contrast in his care of an animal, this attacker of women. He picked me up, and I let him, wrapped me in the cloth and patted my sopping fur with the lightest of touches, cradling me in the crook of his arm.
A fire burned high and bright in the hearth, the heat of it so very welcome.
‘You’re lucky the wood was wet, and I had to open the window to release the smoke,’ he said, ‘otherwise I would never have noticed you. What on earth were you doing out there, little one?’ He sat on the floor, careful not to jostle me, and leant against a chair. ‘Let me have a look at you.’
Hugh unwound the white cloth, now stained a watery red, and looked me over.
‘I can’t see any obvious injuries, apart from your paws. You will not be able to walk far for a while.’ His voice soothed me. I liked this version of Hugh better than the other. He could not be all bad if he treated animals with such concern, could he?
I hissed in sudden pain and pulled my paw away.
‘Sorry. I did not mean to hurt you, but I need to check the damage.’ He took hold of my paw again. ‘I wish you could understand that I only want to help.’
I relaxed and stared up at him with as much expression as I could muster. I trusted him, to my surprise.
‘I swear by all that is holy, that you know what I said.’ He stroked my head, smoothing the damp fur flat. I had a feline urge to lick my fur dry but was too tired to bother. I didn’t possess all the instincts and mannerisms of a feline, but some of them were ingrained. If I stayed in cat form for long enough, would I eventually become one? Would I lose my humanity?
My mind wandered as he ministered to me. At some point, I heard material tearing, but my eyes refused to stay open.
I dozed, or was it unconsciousness? When I woke, sometime later, I was lying in a drawer in front of the fire, and all four paws were bandaged. He had padded the drawer with a selection of garments, and a bowl of milk sat next to it.
I hated milk.
I wanted wine. The strong stuff, not watered or sweetened, a good one, not the vinegar the servants drank.
Seeing my eyes open, Hugh knelt and lifted the bowl to my chin. I turned my head away. The bowl followed.
‘Drink. It will do you good.’
No, it would not. I disliked even the smell of it when I was Caitlyn. As Cat, the aroma was tenfold. Yuck.
‘Water, then?’ He looked at me hopefully. I gave a little shake of my head.
‘Huh?’ He sat back on his haunches and frowned. ‘Did you just do what I think you did?’
Now I really had his attention.
‘Water?’ he repeated.
I shook my head.
‘Milk?’
I shuddered.
‘Meat? Are you hungry?’
Wine, damn you. Give me some wine. I shook my head again.
‘Will you shake your head at everything I say, I wonder? Do you have some kind of palsy?’
It was not easy for a cat to roll its eyes, but I think I managed. He almost toppled backwards. ‘You understand me.’ A statement, not a question.
I nodded.
‘Oh, good God. What will Grandma say?’
Does it matter? Just give me some damned wine. A jug sat on the table, a goblet next to it. I stared at it. He followed my gaze.
‘That is full of wine, not water,’ he observed.
I already told you I did not want water. I want wine, you imbecile. Should I fetch it myself? He had placed me on my side, paws sticking over the edge of the drawer. I tried to pull them underneath me in an attempt to get to my feet. If the wine wouldn’t come to Mohammed, then Mohammed would have to go to the wine. The attempt was short-lived as the ache in my muscles screamed a warning.
‘Don’t move,’ Hugh instructed.
I couldn’t anyway, but I looked back at the jug. The wine did not have to be of good quality, as long as it was strong.
‘I told you, it contains wine,’ he repeated.
‘Meow.’
‘You want wine?’ His disbelief made me laugh. It came out as a gurgling purr.
‘Wine?’ He repeated it, to make certain.
I nodded and purred again.
Hugh shook his head, his eyes wide, and got to his feet. He was taller than I remembered, and less chunky. My mind’s eye had painted him wider. Straight shoulders, broad chest tapering down to a slim waist, he had plenty of muscle, yet had a rangy strength. I remembered how quick he had been on the practice field. Until I had distracted him.
He opened the window and threw the milk out of it, letting the rain rinse the bowl clean, and the sudden draught made me shiver. For all my bravado, I felt distinctly unwell. I watched him pour the wine and nodded when he raised his brows at me.
Was it my imagination, or did he sidle up to me, shove the bowl nearer, then retreat?
‘I do not believe it,’ he muttered. ‘Granny said I had an affinity with animals, and people, too, when I put my mind to it. She said I would find it easy to persuade them to like me, to do my bidding. She was right, but she never told me I could speak with them.’
He ran both hands through his hair, and paced this way and that. I followed him with my eyes as I lapped the wine. I longed to pick up the bowl, put it to my lips and take a long swallow, but this would have to do. It was better than I imagined, full-bodied and rich, a ruby red the colour of blood.
‘I think I’m losing my mind,’ he said, his voice a strangled cry.
I stopped lapping long enough to mewl at him.
He stopped pacing and stared at me. ‘This is not real. You do not understand me.’
Yes, I do. I mewed again, staring him straight in the face, and gave him a slow blink.
‘Dear Lord.’ He plopped down on the bed, his face ashen. Let him face a man with a sword – two men, or three – and he would not show such fear, I thought. Give him a talking cat, and he turned into a small boy scared of the monster under his bed.
‘This cannot be true. I don’t want it to be true.’ He rubbed a hand across his face. ‘What comes next? Full-blown conversations where you tell me stories about how hard it is to catch mice?’
Hardly. I have never caught a mouse in my life. Rats, yes, mice, no. I raised my head, ready to give him an imperious cat stare, and burped. The wine was stronger than I thought. Be careful what you wish for…
‘I do not want you here,’ he said. ‘You will have to go.’ A thought crossed his mind. I saw it flit over his face. He looked comical when he frowned. Not an angry frown, a puzzled frown. A worried frown. I didn’t mean to worry him. Even if he did intend to kill me. Or rather, Caitlyn. He wanted Caitlyn dead – but Caitlyn was me, and I was Caitlyn, and he liked cats.
My head spun, my thoughts unclear, and the room refused to stay still.
‘What if it is not just you?’ he was saying. ‘What if all cats talk to me? All animals? What if my horse speaks to me? Or the chickens? Everyone will think I am mad. Granny, what have you done?’
Who was Granny and why was she to blame? And why would a knight be able to speak to animals?
I forgot. I am not an animal. I just look like one. Hugh cannot speak to animals at all. Only to me.
I smiled at him and passed out.
Chapter 15
Headache. Light too bright. Hands hurt. Feet hurt. Throbbing fingers and toes. Legs aching. Sore back. Sorer arms. Felt sick. Felt cold. Mouth like the bottom of the chicken coop. Bed too hard. This morning was not a good one. Not one of my better days.
My eyes were c
rusted shut, but when I lifted a hand to rub them, I swiped myself across the nose instead. My hand felt strange…
Ah. I was still Cat. Not Caitlyn – a hung-over Cat. With a nasty chill and bandaged paws. Thank you, Hugh. I was truly grateful for his care, though I had no idea how I would walk with white strips of linen turning each paw into a bulbous appendage.
My ears pricked. The storm had blown out overnight. The noise came from inside the castle walls, not outside. Shouts, thumps, bangs, swearing. Footsteps hurrying to and fro. Clattering, clanging, the stamp of hooves, the jingle of harness, and I remembered this was the day Llewelyn exchanged living flesh for gold.
‘Come, little cat. I should take you to your mistress. She will be looking for you.’ Hugh, dressed for horseback, resplendent in his own fresh-polished armour, a chainmail hood about his neck, picked up my bed. ‘I am sure they can spare the drawer.’
Looking for me? Hardly! My mistress would be too occupied by saying goodbye to her paramour.
I thought Hugh must be desperate to be rid of me, as he marched swiftly from the room. He did not look at me once. Was he pretending last night had not happened? Was he hoping it had all been his imagination?
I gritted my teeth at the jarring ride and longed for some water. Cool, soothing water for my chicken-coop mouth, and willow bark for the pain. I got neither, only a brisk march outside into a dull November day.
Joan was in the bailey overseeing servants and gentlewomen alike, issuing instructions faster and sharper than any king on a battlefield. She planned to send gifts south for her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, and she was overseeing the loading of a cart of valuables.
‘Have you lost something, my lady?’ Hugh held the drawer and its contents out for my mistress to see. ‘I found her caught in the storm. Probably been out hunting mice. She was halfway up the castle wall. Stupid cat.’
I narrowed my eyes in temper.
‘Her paws are cut to ribbons,’ he added. ‘I bound them as best I could, but you may wish to check they are not festering. I think she has caught a chill, too.’
Joan glared at me, before remembering herself and giving Hugh a sweet smile. ‘Thank you, Sir Hugh, for your care of my pet. I shall see to her.’ She gestured for one of her ladies to take the drawer from him. ‘Take the cat to the solar, I shall be up shortly.’
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