‘I love you.’ He stroked her cheek, tears trailing down his own and glistening in the hair of his fledgling beard. ‘I don’t want you to die.’
‘I know, son, I know. But death comes to us all, and I have seen more of life than most. I am ready.’ As the breath left her body, Blod gripped Hugh’s hand in a frail clasp and said one last thing. ‘As are you.’
She hitched in a wet lungful of air, and her eyes rolled back in their sockets. I glanced over my shoulder. The Grim Reaper walked among us, his silent tread and ethereal body sensed with the soul and the heart.
A sob caught in my throat and I forced it back. I needed to be strong now, for Hugh and for what was to come. I could not afford the luxury of tears. But when Hugh’s cry of anguish rent the night, I lost control and wept with him.
~~~~~
Hugh strode out of the barn as soon as daylight touched the sky, leaving me alone with Blod’s body. I stripped the sweat-soaked garments from her wasted frame and bathed her with infinite care, my tears mingling with the lavender-scented water. The farmer and his family kept a respectful distance, the wife offering me her last chemise, hastily washed and dried over their fire. I made a note to remember to ask Hugh to compensate her.
I felt as though I were dressing a doll, when I lifted and pulled, turned and pushed Blod’s thin arms through the sleeves and tied it at the neck. Straightening her legs, I crossed her arms over her chest, and sat back, wondering what else was needed.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered. ‘For Hugh, and for yourself.’
I thought I heard her cackle in the rustle of the straw under my feet, and her voice in the draft around the badly-fitting door. ‘You are welcome,’ it said.
I never made a habit of speaking to the dead. Maybe because none of them touched me in life the way Blod had. She had wormed her way into my heart and made her home in my soul. I would carry her with me for the rest of my life – however much of it remained.
My love for Hugh rested at her door. Without her insights and bloody-mindedness, I might never have opened myself to him. She was to blame for this love I felt, and most likely for his love of me.
‘It is your fault,’ I said, placing my hand over hers.
‘What is Blod’s fault?’
Hugh had crept in, careful not to disturb this house of the dead with the life he exuded. I knew how he felt, because I felt it too, this church-like reverence.
‘That we love each other,’ I said.
He stopped, frozen like a carving of one of the saints. All expression fled from his face, but the intensity of his gaze seared my soul.
‘Do you love me?’ he asked, his voice grave-quiet.
‘You know I do.’
‘I know nothing of the sort. You have never told me.’
‘I’m telling you now.’
‘Say it.’
‘Here?’ I glanced at Blod. Now was not the time nor the place.
‘She would like to hear you admit it.’
‘She would?’
‘Yes, she loves it when she is proved right.’ He spoke of her as if she were still with us. Perhaps she was.
‘I love you,’ I said, hating myself for the hope it gave him. The unfairness of what I was doing to him twisted my insides. He would hurt all the more when I died, but I could not help myself. Blod’s passing seemed to have crumbled the wall I had so assiduously built, exposing my raw and bleeding emotions to the air. He had given me all of him, and he deserved no less from me.
I stood, and we embraced, Blod’s prone form between us at our feet, sharing our love.
He held me for a long time, his heart beating in rhythm with mine, his breath in my hair, his soul in my keeping, and when we pulled away and I glanced down at the dead woman on the floor, I swore she smiled. Perhaps she did.
The time to bury her had come. The grove, washed clean by yesterday’s rain, smelled of earth and leaves. A deep freshly-dug grave, open-mouthed and earth-dark, waited for Blod’s body. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Hugh had strewn boughs of holly, strands of ivy, and clumped balls of mistletoe on the nearby bushes and low-growing branches. A bed of moss awaited her, and more evergreens sat at the grave’s edge, for a blanket. Earth to earth, sun to darkness.
Neither of us knew a druid’s prayer, so we said the Christian one for the dead, leaving it to the gods to take from it what they wanted.
Blod’s final bed was not a deep one, tangled tree roots saw to that, but after Hugh lowered her carefully into it and covered her with a sheet of living green and the soil to which she would return, I helped him pile stones on top of the little mound. Life to death, death to life, and the wheel turned.
We knelt on the cold ground, on either side of her, our hands clasped above her, eyes closed. I do not know what Hugh prayed for, but I asked the gods for more than anyone had a right to.
I prayed that Blod would find eternal peace. I prayed for Eva’s deliverance from Joan’s lust and ambition. I prayed for my own death to be swift and painless.
I prayed for Hugh’s happiness.
Chapter 32
Criccieth castle rose out of the sea, a sharp black silhouette against a clear sky. The rain which had harried us incessantly for the past few days had ceased, the clouds scudding off to the east, clear weather following behind. The rain served to wash away the remains of the snow, and the biting cold had lifted. In exchange, it made lighting fires impossible, and the sodden earth proved as difficult for the horses as ploughing through two feet of snow.
My feelings at returning to Criccieth separated out like curds and whey, into relief and worry. Our journey’s end meant dry clothes and a hot meal. It also meant Joan, and danger, and death.
Hugh gave his name and purpose to the guards patrolling the causeway, and we waited for permission to enter, the January afternoon deepening to night around us. My skin prickled and I glanced up at the gatehouse towering above. My horse sensed my unease, tossing her head and crabbing sideways, snorting anxiously. I reined her in and tried to relax.
A nod from a sentry and the guards moved aside. We clattered through the open gates, the arch, over forty feet deep and twenty high, making a tomb of the entrance. Then we were out and into the bailey, with the castle surrounding us. Would those vast curtain walls become our tomb? It felt like they might, and I had a foreboding neither of us would leave the castle alive.
Joan knew I was here. I hadn’t felt her presence during the hard, bitter journey, but now her call tugged at my mind, growing stronger with each heartbeat. I had to go to her. I had no choice.
My feet tangled in the stirrups in my haste to dismount. A stable boy steadied me as he took hold of the bridle and Hugh slid off his horse.
‘What is it?’ Hugh asked, reaching my side.
‘Joan.’ Her name stuck in my throat, and I had to force it out.
‘You expected this. You knew she would sense you.’ He tried to calm me.
What he said was true, but my heart skittered in my chest all the same.
‘Stick to what we agreed,’ he murmured, his eyes on the stable boy, aware that castles have more ears than a warren full of rabbits. ‘I have to go to Llewelyn and explain why I am here. I expect he has been informed of my arrival.’
Two men approached, others lurked in the background. Hugh winked at me and turned away. The men ignored me, their attention focused on the heavily armed knight in front of them. Hugh unbuckled the belt holding his scabbard and handed it to one of the soldiers. He did the same with his short sword and dagger. The last item to be handed over was the shield strapped to his back.
Unarmed, he stood before them and waited to be taken to Llewelyn. The Prince of Wales would want to speak to William’s man himself.
I watched them lead him away and wondered if I would ever see him again. Llewelyn would not like the news my betrothed bore. A widowed William was a loose arrow. Joan, though, would be overjoyed.
I hoped.
My legs moved without consc
ious thought. Joan wanted me, and I had to obey her. They led me to her solar, Joan’s favourite room apart from the one in which she performed her witchcraft.
‘Well?’ she demanded. No asking after my health, no niceties, no lip-service to manners.
‘I have done what you asked. William’s wife is dead.’
‘Already? I instructed you to wait until the spring.’ Satisfaction warred with annoyance on her face. ‘I wanted a decent interval between your arrival and her death. I hope no hint of suspicion has fallen on your head?’
What she meant was, she hoped nothing could be traced back to her. My head was for the most part irrelevant to her.
‘Of course not.’ I tamped down any defiance, and my tone was conciliatory as I said, ‘Lady Eva had a craving for blueberry sauce with her meat.’
Joan’s eyes narrowed at the word “craving”. She likely thought Eva might have been pregnant, and it took two to get a woman in such a condition. She ground her teeth, and I knew she was imagining her lover in bed with his wife.
‘She took her supper in her rooms with just a few of her ladies in attendance,’ I explained. ‘I waited for the sauce to be brought and added the belladonna berries. They looked no different to the dried blueberries. When she and three of her ladies were taken ill, everyone blamed it on the grouse. I was careful to eat only the lamprey pie.’
‘Did she suffer much?’
The question took me by surprise. Was Joan genuinely curious or was she trying to catch me out in a lie?
‘Yes,’ I said, recalling my own experience with those innocuous little berries. ‘She did. I did not witness it myself, but it was said that all the ladies complained of a great thirst. They became delirious, and I heard talk of Eva not recognising her husband nor her children at the end.’
Joan smiled, an unpleasant little smile of gratification. ‘How did the Lord of Abergavenny take her death?’ she asked.
‘Publicly, he was distraught. I have no insight into his private feelings.’
‘You have done well.’
High praise indeed.
‘My husband will not be so delighted with the news, although I shall tell him you accomplished your task and rendered William sterile.’
‘He may question Pembroke,’ I took care to keep my voice level, ‘who will say Lord William was fit and well when he left him.’
‘Do not concern yourself. I will tell him you slipped the contents of the vial into his ale and watched him drink it before you left. He will never hear a different tale.’
Because, by the time any further contact was made between Criccieth and Abergavenny, Llewelyn would be dead. Joan would not want to waste any time, nor give King Henry the opportunity to present a more suitable bride for William. She intended to wed the lord as soon and as fast as possible, with the minimum of fuss, with or without the King’s blessing. Once the deed was done, it would prove harder to undo, however much Henry might want to marry off William to a woman of his own choosing. Marriage was a political game of strategy, and the King was a consummate player.
‘I have another task for you, and it is important it is done quickly,’ she said.
‘Dispose of Llewelyn?’
She nodded. ‘Do it tomorrow or the day after, at night, while he sleeps. I will plead my monthly courses, so he will retire to his own bed. At least one of my ladies will stay the night with me, for I must be above suspicion in this matter.’
My expression must have revealed my consternation. ‘So soon? Why the haste?’
‘You have been gone a little more than four weeks. I must be married within a month if I am to convince the world this baby is William’s. It will be hard enough to pass off a full-term infant as one born eight weeks early. Any later, and no one will believe it. They will say he must be Llewelyn’s son.’
Joan was pregnant? My thoughts whirled, but I failed to pin one of them down long enough to form a sensible reply.
‘Before you ask, for I can see you want to, yes, the babe is William’s,’ she said.
‘There has hardly been time for you to have missed even one of your courses. It is far too early to tell if you are with child, and I bet Llewelyn has not forgone his marriage rights since William left. Has he?’
‘I conceived the night before William travelled south. I have no doubt of it.’ She gave a crafty smile. ‘I saw it in the mirror, and the mirror does not lie. There is also this.’ She held up the vial the Prince of Wales would shortly believe I had given to William. ‘Llewelyn has not fathered a babe on me for several years, and this is the reason why.’
It took me a moment to gather my thoughts. She had emasculated her own husband, but I understood her reasons. How many women, faced with year upon year of unrelenting pregnancy and childbirth, would not do the same?
‘But, the timing?’ I asked. Even if this infant were truly William’s, there would still be talk that it might be Llewelyn’s. ‘And you asked me to wait until spring to kill Eva.’
‘I did, but at that point, I hadn’t realised I had conceived. Your speed in dispatching her served me well. William shall have his first son.’
‘But—?’
‘I will pretend to bleed tonight,’ she said. ‘There will be no doubt I had my moon-time just before Llewelyn was brutally murdered. My women will testify to it, as will the servants who wash my linen.’
Two words stood out. My mouth dried, my tongue a wooden board inside it.
‘No, please, not brutally,’ I said. I assumed she would use poison.
‘Llewelyn always sleeps with a dagger close at hand, usually under the bed. Use it. I do not care if you stab him or slit his throat, just get the job done. Soon. No one will see you, no one will lay the deed at your door.’
She intended me to enter as Cat, murder her husband as Caitlyn, and leave as Cat.
‘Who will be blamed?’ Llewelyn did not sleep with a guard outside his door, believing himself to be safe enough in his own stronghold, but even so, regular patrols around the keep meant it unlikely anyone could enter or leave Llewelyn’s quarters without being seen. They would also know that no one would have visited the Prince. Perhaps she intended his murder to be the work of the devil?
‘We have a ready-made assassin in the form of Hugh of Pembroke. You will inform Pembroke that Llewelyn wants to speak with him, privately in his room. Of course, Sir Hugh will oblige, but Llewelyn will already be dead. By your hand. Pembroke will be arrested, and as long as you remain a cat everyone will assume you fled when Llewelyn’s murderer is caught in his chamber, because you were in league together.’
She paused, and her face lit with a smile. ‘Sir Ifan will be pleased to be right about you.’
~~~~~
Hugh stood in the centre of the hall, looking solemn, as befitting the sad news he bore, surrounded by a horde of castle folk busy debating how the death of William’s wife might affect Wales, and who his next spouse might be. I caught snippets of conversation as I wove and dodged.
‘— it all depends on the King—’
‘—Abergavenny will aim for the—’
‘—they say she looks like the back end of a bullock, but if she’s—’
Poor Eva. If she had been dead, it was shameful how little thought was given to her. This world was not made for the regard and comfort of women. Traded like heifers for their pedigree and connections, the only real value was their ability to breed, and how much wealth their bridegrooms might be awarded on their wedding day.
A deeply buried anger threatened to rise to the surface, and I took several steadying breaths, hoping the pot of my temper would not boil over, worrying at my lack of control. I had carried this sharp little pain with me since Rhain had taken my maidenhead, nay, even before that – since my mother informed me I was to be given in marriage to the King of Deheubarth, to seal a treaty between our two countries. A dark-haired, barely-out-of-girlhood gift, hardly older than the children I was expected to mother.
Hugh had his back to me, and I tu
gged at his sleeve.
‘Come,’ I hissed in his ear.
He broke off his conversation and turned around, eyes widening when he saw my face. I must have looked as wild and as desperate as I felt.
‘What is it?’ He held the tops of my arms with both hands and gave me a searching look.
‘Not here.’
He let go and followed me to the other side of the hall and out into the snapping cold of the late December evening. The clear skies of the afternoon meant a crisp and star-filled night. Breath furled about our heads, trailing from noses and mouths like smoke from a fire, chill air sucking the warmth from ears and cheeks.
I led him to my little room, hoping the charm which kept it hidden still worked. It was hardly any warmer inside. The hearth was empty, the fire having not been lit for many weeks. The door, which was still splintered and cracked from Ifan’s hobnailed foot, failed to close properly. I would not sleep here tonight. I probably would not sleep at all. Not until we had done what we came here to do.
‘What happened,’ he asked, stepping inside.
‘Joan wants me to murder Llewelyn tonight. Tomorrow night, at the latest. She intends to blame you for it.’
‘Of course, she does. I am the perfect suspect. But why the urgency?’
‘She is pregnant. The babe is William’s.’
Hugh sat on my unmade bed, counting silently on his fingers.
‘She knows,’ I said, anticipating his next question, ‘and the child is definitely William’s. Llewelyn cannot father any more children.’
‘If we hadn’t returned so early with news of Eva’s death, then she would have been forced to pass the babe off as Llewelyn’s child. What was she thinking?’
‘She was not thinking at all.’ My tone was dry. ‘Her loins sent all thought out of her head, and lust took over. Now though, she realises the potential and wants to use the situation to her best advantage. You ought to have seen her face. Not only is Eva “dead” but Joan is carrying William’s heir. She is like a glutton at a feast.’
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