My skirts rustled past the undergrowth flanking the path, and the occasional scurry of an alarmed small mammal made me smile. The stream ran clear and cold, and I lost no time in performing my chore, my healing hands swiftly becoming numbed by the icy water. Ignoring its frozen bite, I splashed some on my face. It would have to do, I decided, too much of a coward to remove my cloak or any other piece of clothing for a more thorough wash. The grime could wait.
I sat back on my haunches, careful to keep the hem of my skirts away from the rushing water and listened to the sounds of the night. An owl twitted, answered by the ‘hoo’ of her mate some distance off. A few determined dry autumnal leaves rustled above my head, clinging on as a light wind sighed through the almost-bare branches. A thin layer of cloud obscured most of the stars, and the stream glittered darkly, barely visible. Shadows played and danced, catching the corner of first one eye, then the other. My mother used to tell me tales of fairy folk and elven people who lived in the woods near my childhood home, and how they came out at night and frolicked. If they were seen, they would steal the watcher away.
Smiling at the memory, I leaned against a tree and buried my hands in the moss at its rooty feet. The scent of damp earth and fallen leaves rose up, and I inhaled deeply, a rare feeling of peace soothing my soul.
After a while, the cold seeped through my layers of clothing, and I reluctantly got to my feet. Fire proved more of a lure than the serenity of the night, and I bent down, gathering the bowls together with urgency. Cold now, I shivered, feeling around for the knife and straightened with it in my hand.
Reflex, nothing but pure reflex and a sniff of danger, made me whirl, dropping the bowls, the knife stabbing at shadows almost before my brain had a chance to tell my arm to move.
A black figure sprang towards me, and I caught a faint gleam of light on metal and dived to one side, hitting the water with a splash. I breathed in a coughing lungful of icy liquid, feeling the jab and jar of rocks beneath the shallow surface, and struggled to find a grip on the slime-covered rocks.
Caught by my hair, rough hands pulled my face free of the water, and I scrabbled with frantic haste, feeling for the knife and gasping for breath.
Gone. I made a habit of losing knives just when I needed them most.
‘Don’t scream, wench.’ Gruff voice, strong Welsh accent, male, full-grown by the timbre of it.
The thought of screaming had never occurred to me. I was well versed in taking care of my own business, and the fact that this stranger had not yet sunk a knife between my ribs meant he might not, unless I gave him cause.
He held the blade to my neck, and I assumed he would not hesitate to use it if I so much as coughed. I froze.
‘Good girl. Now, who is them lot? They Marshal’s men?’
I nodded again.
‘They got the ransom with them?’
Sour, rancid breath on my cheek. I made a conscious effort not to gag. The rest of him smelled equally as bad. He held me tight against him, one of his arms around my neck, the other holding the blade to my throat, and I felt it wise not to make any sudden moves, even if the bulge pushing against my bottom disclosed his ultimate intention. I suspected he would deal with Marshal’s men first and me later.
He was not alone. I counted at least fifteen figures scattered among the trees, and there would be more on lookout.
Maybe not enough for a trained fighting force of knights and soldiers, but these vagabonds had surprise on their side. Most probably Marshal’s men would have been on high alert while the gold was under their care, but now that they only had William to worry about, they had assuredly relaxed their guard.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
‘Ow!’ I think he drew blood. I tried to wriggle away from the steel, but he held me firm. ‘The exchange has taken place. Llewelyn has the ransom now.’
‘Fuck!’
A mutter of curses and grumbles. No one would dare try to take Llewelyn’s gold. No mountain would be high enough, no sea deep enough to escape his wrath, and no Welshman would dare hide a man so stupid as to steal from Prince Llewelyn.
‘Who are you?’ the man demanded.
I did not bother asking them the same question, for I knew the answer. Bandits, outlaws, escaped bondsmen, disgruntled soldiers – individual stories mattered not. War made ruffians of the most civilised of men, and I guessed these men had possessed little civility to begin with. The war between the Welsh and whoever controlled the land over its border, whether it be Angles, Saxons, Normans or English, had sputtered on for centuries. Men like these existed everywhere.
‘A maid,’ I gasped in response to another dig in my skin. This time I was conscious of the warm wetness of blood. Pain flared, burning and sharp. I ignored it. The wound was neither deep nor serious.
‘A maid? Huh!’ He was scornful, this slicer of women, and a player on words. ‘I bet my horse you know what a man’s cock looks like.’
I resisted the urge to say what popped into my head. Ridiculing a man who was holding a large knife, about the inadequacies of the contents of his breeches would not be a good idea. I would save that for later – when I chopped his manhood off and stuffed it in his mouth.
‘A chest of gold coins was worth the fight. A lord stupid enough to get himself caught is not. I say we leave.’ The voice came from one of the shadows in front of me.
‘I agree.’
‘As do I.’
‘Do what you want with the woman but make it quick.’
‘Aye, she will be missed soon.’
‘Cut her throat.’
‘Stupid idea.’
I listened, watched, and waited. Of course, they must kill me. The clever thing to do would be to hit me over the head and drown me. Make it look like I had fallen. A slit throat, and these men would have to be able to ride fast to escape Marshal’s men. That is, if Marshal’s men bothered to give chase. After all, I was nothing to them.
‘She is coming with us.’ The man holding me gave me a shake. The lust for gold had been replaced by another kind of lust.
Some of the tension leached from my shoulders. I did not have to transform. Not yet.
‘You are talking with your dick, not your head, Lot. Leave her.’
Lot. I intended to remember his name. Although, perhaps I should be grateful to him; his lust was keeping me alive for a few more moments. I had to wait for a better time to become Cat. The likelihood of successfully transforming without one of these men chopping me in half with his sword, was small. It took too long, and although the surprise of it might stay their hands for a moment or two, the shock would soon be over. They would be anxious to rid themselves of a minion of the devil, or a witch, or whatever they thought I was.
Noise reached us from the camp. It looked like I had been missed after all. A shout. My name being called.
‘Move!’ Lot pushed me ahead of him.
I stumbled, but he hauled me upright. A quick, slippery stream crossing and a scramble up the opposite bank had me breathing hard. I had to gingerly grab hold of the lower branches of trees to drag myself up, urged on by prodding from behind, all performed in relative quiet, with not enough noise to raise an alarm. Except for me. I stumbled and fumbled, snapping twigs and sending small rocks tumbling. The shivering didn’t help, either. I should try to get out of these wet clothes soon, before I caught a chill.
Men were in front of me and to the sides. Only Lot was behind me, and I was slowing him down. My feet hurt, were still not fully recovered, and I winced with each bend of my toes. I could not go any quicker. He must kill me now, I reasoned. I was too much of a liability. He wanted a fast, clean retreat. If he had to drag me along, it would soon become messy.
I dropped to the ground, hearing the swish of a sword blade inches above my head. It would have cleaved me in two if I had remained standing.
‘Bollocks,’ he growled, probably thinking I had fallen.
Leaping up, quick as a deer flushed from cover, I sprinted to the left, dodg
ing trees, branches whipping across my face, willing him to cut his losses and let me go; he had nothing to gain from killing me. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the stab from toe to heel with every stride.
Then I tripped.
Lot grunted in satisfaction, and I spun around to face death rather than have it run me through from behind. I had no illusions of escape. Weaker, injured, wearing stupid leg-clutching skirts, there was an inevitability to my fall and imminent end. I should have risked changing in front of him, taken my chances. None of them would have realised what was happening until it was too late.
I rolled over and over again, as the sword swung down. My sole advantage was agility. Weapons, boiled leather, and chain mail slowed him down just a little, and I dodged aside as his blade slammed into the soil inches from my arm. He had aimed for my chest, a blow which would have sliced me open right to my backbone.
He hefted the sword again, working it free from the earth, and I took the opportunity to scuttle under the branches of a holly, more of a bush than a tree. Needle-sharp leaves pricked and poked, catching my clothes, hair, face, and I wriggled free of my cloak, the water-heavy material hindering my escape. Lot hacked at the branches, cursing.
I had to do it now.
I thought cat, imagined fur and tail, paws and whiskers, all senses turned inwards, and the transformation began. The squeezing and shrinking of it stilled my breathing, and the ache of it sent me to the ground in pain.
I got to my feet as Cat; all that remained of Caitlyn was a cloak tangled in a bush. I flattened my body to the ground and peered out. Lot stood motionless, sword raised in readiness, searching the shadows. He had destroyed half the bush, but had left me enough to hide in.
My tail swished in involuntary anger. That was all it took for him to notice me. He leaned forward and stared into my eyes. I showed him my teeth. He blinked and took a step back. I retreated further into my sanctuary, backwards, my eyes never leaving his, and I wondered if he had actually seen me, or simply registered a movement.
Shouting made me look away, followed by the sound of heavy bodies crashing through the undergrowth, and the clang of metal on metal. Lot lowered his weapon as his head came up. He had to run, now, and leave me be. It didn’t matter to him whether he left me alive or not. To linger for the sole reason of killing me would be stupid.
I heard other noises above the sounds of fighting; the rustle of cautious feet through the leaf fall, the rolling step of a boot gently placed, the rub of leather against steel, the rasp of breathing.
A breeze blew from the camp, carrying with it the smell of wood-smoke, cooking and horses. Overlaying it was the scent of a man, close by.
Hugh.
I knew the smell of him almost as well as I knew my own. I sensed no fear in that scent, only determination, the smell of a dominant male, and anger, with its burnt, bitter tang.
Hugh leapt forward and was upon Lot faster than I thought possible. Lot barely had time to turn, flinging his sword up to parry a blow, driven backwards, feet digging for purchase on the soft earth. He rallied with surprising speed, blocking the next strike and swiping at Hugh’s chest.
Hugh swivelled on the ball of one foot and turned to the side. The blade sang harmlessly past, its tip missing his hauberk by inches.
With barely enough room between the trees to wield a sword, the two men circled each other, aiming sharp jabs. Hugh’s weapon had the longer reach; a knight’s sword, the blade nearly four feet long and designed for two-handed use, it glinted wickedly. Hugh also had the benefit of greater height, although the outlaw’s stockiness served to anchor him better.
Hugh feinted to the right, but before Lot brought his sword up, Hugh leapt to the left, and his blade sliced the other man, a diagonal cut from shoulder to arm. Blood welled blackly from the wound, and a hot copper stench filled my nose.
‘Where is she?’ Hugh yelled.
Lot panted and lumbered backwards, coming up hard against a beech trunk. His sword slipped from his grasp, through useless fingers. The wound had sliced tendons and nerves alike, and I smelled his despair.
‘In the bush.’ Lot, his back against the tree with the tip of a very large blade a hair’s breadth from his throat, swallowed convulsively. ‘She went into the bush. She’s gone now. I thought I saw…’ He slid down the trunk, blood pulsing rhythmically from his arm, his life spattering on the fallen leaves like rain.
‘Saw what? If you have harmed her—’ Hugh growled.
‘I have not touched her, I swear.’
Liar! What about the wound in my neck? It was small, though and I doubted it would leave a scar.
‘Lady Caitlyn?’ Hugh called. ‘Cat?’
Hugh didn’t take his eyes from his foe. Lot glanced out of the corner of his. I would have to risk changing back, else Hugh would not stop looking for me, so I slunk deeper into the bush and reached the other side, where I had a little space to change. I had no intention of turning into Caitlyn underneath that vindictive tree. As it was, I would be picking bits of needle-tipped leaves out of my skin for days.
Footsteps and voices. I would have to be quick. I tried to read the noises, and guessed that reinforcements had arrived and were busy dragging Lot to his feet. A gurgled scream. Lot most probably had just had his throat slit. Good. It saved me from doing it.
I concentrated on my change, and when it was finally done, I lay on the damp leaf litter and trembled.
When I looked up, I met Hugh’s startled gaze.
Chapter 18
Hugh hesitated, held out a hand, then withdrew it swiftly after he helped me to my feet. He strode ahead, and I followed, chewing my lip, wondering how much he had witnessed. The walk back to camp took place in silence.
He hardly spoke to me during the rest of that night, nor during the days that followed, and soon we arrived at the edge of the Brecon Beacons, their peaks soaring into the sky. Beyond them lay Abergavenny, and Eva.
The castle nestled in a huge bowl, with mountains on three sides. We came from the north, through one of the valleys, following the River Usk, the vale widening out until a rolling plateau spread before us. The castle itself stood high on a spur, the river running past its southern wall. Not a large fortress, but a strategic one, and one with a disturbing past.
Over fifty years ago, William’s grandfather had massacred three Welsh princes there during a Christmas feast, luring them with talks of peace. Unarmed and unsuspecting, they and their retinue were struck down. None survived, not even the seven-year-old son of one of them. No wonder the Welsh hated the de Braose family, hated William.
The light faded quickly from the sky at this time of year, and by mid-afternoon, the sun hung low. For once, the rain held off, clouds clearing from the west, and a weak, sullen sun illuminated the sandstone walls and five towers, the inner keep glowing a dull red, standing tall and regal. I wondered if Eva and her children watched our approach, and if so, would she be glad to have her husband return?
Today I rode, as I had done yesterday and the day before. My behind was sore, and the inside of my thighs were rubbed raw, but anything was better than the bumping confinement of the cart. I called my horse Gerald. He was a big, feather-footed work-horse, more used to carrying provisions than ladies. Most of the food had been eaten en route, so now he carried me instead. We had a rapport, Gerald and I; I asked nothing of him except for his plodding, measured gait, and he duly obliged. On the one occasion I asked him to canter, he turned his head and stared incredulously at me out of one eye, snorted, and managed to break into a trot. Lord knows how he would have reacted if danger had demanded a gallop.
Townsfolk lined the narrow streets as we clattered past. The horses, scenting respite, pranced and skittered, eager to reach warm stables and plentiful feed. Even Gerald perked up and arched his neck, holding his tail higher than usual.
Many folk called greetings, and William laughed and shouted back. Hugh and the seven men captured alongside William smiled and nodded. William was clearly well-lik
ed by his people, but Marshal’s grim-faced men rode with nary a glance to left or right. This was not their home, and I suspected they would return to Marshal on the morrow, if the weather held out. No doubt, the great man was anxious for news of the safe return of his son-in-law. After all, he had paid enough for him.
A deep ditch encircled the impressively high curtain wall, and our horses thudded across the wooden bridge and underneath the arch of the gatehouse. Then we were in the bailey with the keep, which had been built on a defensive mound, towering over us, the uppermost stones bathed in the dying sun’s last rays. A face, indistinct and too far above to discern whether it belonged to a man, woman or child, peered down.
Grander than Criccieth, this castle housed royalty when the King deigned to visit. Larger and taller than most of its surrounding cousins, it served as a warning to all who dared come near. Abergavenny was well placed to rebut Welsh incursions into the borderlands, and I imagined the dread which attackers must have felt on seeing the unscalable heights of these walls and towers.
No one came to help me dismount, so I wriggled my feet out of the stirrups, lifted a leaden leg across Gerald’s broad back and slid off, to stand wobbling on stiff legs and wondering what to do.
A stable boy grabbed the reins from my hands and led the horse away, and I watched Gerald go with regret; my only friend in this place. Throughout the journey most of the men had ignored me; a woman in a man’s world, I was out of place and more of a hindrance than a help. Hugh had been the sole person to make any effort to speak with me, but after the outlaw incident, he had become withdrawn and distant. So, I had spent the rest of the journey in my own company, listening to half-heard conversations, gleaning what information I could about the castle to which we headed and the woman who was its mistress.
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