‘Her plans are falling into place better and sooner than she expected,’ Hugh said. ‘I cannot believe we have so little time.’
Neither of us was prepared. I had anticipated a few days at least to consider our plan. We had gone over it time and time again in the days after Blod’s death, and knew what we had to do – but so soon?
‘If you are to kill Llewelyn tonight—’ Hugh began then paused, his head cocked listening. In one swift move, he lunged off the bed and pulled the handle. The door swung open, and he let out a cry of surprise.
I had time to register the shocked, white face of one of the men Ifan had had with him when he searched my room, before the soldier whirled on his heel and sprinted towards the stairs.
Chapter 33
Hugh leapt forward, about to give chase. I grabbed his tunic, and he fell out of the door, his lunge carrying me with him. I hung on with a desperate grip.
‘Let go of me, Cat!’
‘Stop. You cannot catch him. Listen.’
Ifan’s man yelled the alarm as he clattered down the stairs. I don’t know what he had heard, but it was clear he had heard too much.
‘Go!’ I yelled, pushing Hugh. ‘Run!’
He grabbed my hand to take me with him, but I yanked it free.
‘If you move fast you might escape through the gates,’ I cried. A false hope, but I had to say it. At the first shout, those huge wooden doors would have thudded shut, and the guard on them doubled.
His face wore a mask of desperation. He knew the futility of my words. ‘I am not leaving you.’ He seized my hand again, squeezing my fingers.
‘I can take care of myself. I am Cat. They won’t find me. It is you who are in danger.’ I spoke the truth.
He jerked me to him and kissed my mouth with dry, cold lips. I felt the despair behind them. It was a final kiss, a last kiss. He did not think he would kiss me again. I wished he would not underestimate me.
‘You will most likely be caught,’ I said, dragging my lips from his. ‘Stay strong, my love. I will come for you.’
Hope flickered in his eyes. This was not the time to tell him that his freedom would not be my freedom. If I smuggled him through the gates, he stood a chance of escaping Llewelyn’s clutches, but I would never escape Joan’s. Not alive, anyway.
He gave me one last frantic look, turned on his heel, and sped down the passage to the stairs.
I plunged inside myself, seeking the remembered feel of fur and paws and tail, transforming faster than I thought possible. Pain wrenched my back and tore my limbs, the stab slicing heart and head alike, the pull and wrench and twist moulding me into another form, with the huge, savage hands of wild magic. The feel of the feline, both so familiar and so alien, enveloped me. The change was complete.
With no time to lose, I ran, my body low to the ground, ears flattened, tail flailing like a rope behind me, and I chased after my love, catching up with him in the bailey.
Surrounded, he stood with empty hands raised. A dozen or more blades bristled towards his chest. Only Ifan had not drawn his weapon.
I skidded to a halt and wove between mail-clad legs, undetected.
Ifan circled Hugh with slow, measured steps, looking him up and down, before coming to a halt in front of him. I expected derision, or hatred. What I saw, was curiosity and confusion.
‘Why kill Llewelyn? What could Abergavenny possibly hope to gain by it?’ Ifan asked, shaking his head.
A crowd gathered, its angry murmuring, a disturbed wasps’ nest of a sound, humming and swelling across the bailey. Entertainment such as this, in the boring never-ending depths of winter, was not to be missed. I bet many folk hoped it would culminate in a public hanging, or better yet, the prisoner being hung, drawn and quartered. A rare treat indeed.
Hugh said nothing. A wise move.
‘I thought there was something not right about that woman. What part does she play in it?’ Ifan circled Hugh once more. My love held himself stiffly, barely moving his head, waiting for the coup de grace.
Not yet, Hugh, it will not happen yet. Ifan wanted his questions answered before he put his prisoner to death. I prayed Ifan would eat supper first, have a good night’s sleep, and wait until morning if he planned to torture answers from my beloved. All I needed was a dark, quiet, witching hour – and a great deal of luck.
‘You’ll answer my questions, one way or another.’ He turned to his men. ‘Take him away and make sure he is secured,’ Ifan instructed. ‘The oubliette should be secure enough.’
Stunned, I shrank back. The oubliette! Deep, dark and dank. No keys to steal, no bars to slip through – I had next to no chance of spiriting him out of that hole.
‘Aww, Mam, look. A kitty.’ Two grasping pudgy hands grabbed my middle and hauled me off my feet. I hissed in fear and alarm, dangled for a heartbeat with legs and tail drooping, then twisted around, squirming in the child’s clasp, to spit and claw. Two bloody scratches down one chubby arm proved sufficient. The girl screamed and let go. My paws were moving even before I hit the ground.
Heads turned, and the muttering grew louder. The child wailed. Someone said the word “blood” and a shout went up.
An elderly man, his back bent under the weight of the firewood strapped to his back, tottered as I darted between his legs. Unbalanced, he toppled sideways, crashing into the woman next to him. They both went down.
‘We are being attacked!’ a man yelled from the back of the crowd, and his mistake caused mayhem. Fearful of being crushed, I darted and dived, avoiding the stamping, churning feet and desperate bodies as serfs and nobles alike milled and surged, first one way then the other, seeking an opposite direction to the unseen enemy.
Metal clashed on metal. I dreaded to think who fought who.
The crush thinned. The howling of the child carried across the bailey, her screams of pain having turned to screams of fear. A horn sounded, incessant and demanding, high on the rampart, the cry to arms booming from one of the gatehouse towers. Soldiers raced to man the walls, as common folk fled for the sanctuary of the keep.
I was desperate to find Hugh.
The clang of sword on sword and a rapidly emptying space told me where he might be. I jumped over a downed man and almost fell, my headlong rush coming to a stupefied halt as I spied Ifan, sword drawn, circling his foe, seeking an opening. Hugh held his blade with languid ease, waiting for Ifan’s lunge. The man on the floor was weaponless. Hugh had been unarmed and subdued a few moments ago; he should have stayed that way. Or perhaps he intended to die by the sword, a nobler and swifter end than being tortured to death or left to rot in the oubliette. He must have guessed what the oubliette meant for any escape attempt.
The men held their longswords with both hands, Hugh’s low, Ifan’s at waist height. Ifan moved in, and Hugh raised his weapon with a smoothness born of long practice, the movement fluid and unconscious.
They circled, slow and deliberate. Ifan lunged and withdrew without making contact, testing for weakness. Hugh’s sword was in place each time, anticipating the blow which never came. Thrust, dance back, circle.
Both men appeared equally matched to my layman’s eye, as I did my own dance, in order to dodge shuffling feet, as Llewelyn’s soldiers surged and fell back to the rhythm of the fight in their human-made arena. One of them jabbed a sword at Hugh’s back.
‘Leave him, he is mine,’ Ifan called, not taking his eyes off his opponent. His men moved back.
‘It is like playing with your food,’ one voice behind me muttered. ‘What is Ifan waiting for?’ He shouted, ‘Eat him up, Ifan,’ to a chorus of yells and laughter.
Ifan’s lips twisted into a semblance of a smile, and I also wondered at the charade. Even if Hugh were to draw blood, he would not be allowed to live. Hugh’s motives were clear to me, but Ifan’s?
Quicker than an adder strike, Ifan lunged, his blade-tip spearing the air where Hugh’s heart had been. Hugh side-stepped on lightning feet, and brought his own sword up, circling it aroun
d his head in a mighty swing. Ifan caught the downward stroke on his blade, and the clang of iron on iron pierced the evening. My ears rang with its resonating death knell, and I shuddered, as my mind crawled and itched with dread.
The dance was over, the fight had begun in earnest. Both men swung and parried, grunting and panting, hobnail boots scraping across the cobbles, the scent of sweat and danger cloying the air.
The clash of metal striking metal pealed its discordant song, and the ring around the two men widened, giving one of them room to die. Neither man wore armour, only chainmail. One lucky strike and all would be over. Please, do not let it be Hugh. I would think of a way to get him out of the oubliette, I simply needed more time.
A short, savage blow caught Hugh on the shoulder. He stumbled back, his raised weapon fielding the next stroke, his face a grimace of desperation. I looked for blood but saw none; the blade must have struck him broadside.
Hugh deflected blow after blow, Ifan forcing him back. I did not want to watch, but I couldn’t look away. Ifan attacked again and again, and all Hugh could do was parry and retreat.
Suddenly, his feet went from under him, and he was on his back, rolling to the right as Ifan’s sword swung down. The blade struck the cobbles in a burst of sparks, and tiny spots of light seared my eyes. I blinked, and when they had gone, Hugh was on his feet again, a smile on his face.
I studied his eyes, the concentration in them, the determination, and realised his scheme. Ifan was panting hard, his sword held low, the tip of it nearly touching the ground. The violence of his attack had tired him. Hugh was panting too, but his sword pointed at Ifan’s chest and his hands were strong and steady.
It was my love who appeared to be the one playing with his food.
Hugh moved, fast and powerful, one arcing strike, then another. Ifan raised his weapon for the first blow, deflected it with his own blade, but the second came too quick for him. Hugh landed a brutal clout to Ifan’s right arm with the flat side of his blade, and the sword fell from the other man’s nerveless fingers.
The tip of Hugh’s wickedly sharp blade sliced across his opponent’s neck. A thin line of blood welled. I drew in a sharp breath. Had Hugh opened Ifan’s throat?
No pulsing, spouting jet of blood followed. Just an ooze and a trickle. I waited for Hugh to finish Ifan off and he raised his sword above his head for the final swing.
He brought his arm down, the graceful curve of metal arced through the air, reflecting fire and lamp-light into the darkening sky. Ifan’s men rushed forward. The makeshift arena shrank as a wall of swords surged inwards. The sword fell free, spinning. Hugh no longer held it.
My love had thrown it away, and in that brief span of time between one heartbeat and the next, I knew he called to Death and awaited his answer.
‘Stop!’ Ifan shouted. ‘Do not kill him.’
Hugh pushed aside the nearest weapon, and the soldier cursed, but did as he was bid. An angry rumble issued from the rest, but no one made any move to run my beloved through. Hugh stepped forward.
‘Watch him!’ A sword tip stabbed towards his chest. He ignored it, and I held my breath, hoping Ifan’s men remained obedient.
Hugh gave a wry smile and held out his hand to the fallen man. Ifan took it and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. A soldier handed Ifan his sword, and he slid it into its sheath.
‘Why did you spare me?’ Ifan crossed his arms, and stared Hugh square in the eye.
I wanted an answer to this, too. Hugh almost had death in his grasp, yet he threw it away. The gamble might not pay off.
‘Can we discuss this in private? It is a delicate matter.’ Hugh lowered his voice. His glance flickered to me, then away again.
Was he playing for time, or did he really intend to confide in Ifan? If the latter, how much did he plan on telling him?
‘You want my lord dead,’ Ifan stated. ‘What is there to discuss?’
‘I am not the one who wants him dead.’
Ifan frowned but gestured to his men to move aside. He pushed Hugh through the opening in the wall of bodies, and I fell in behind. The crowd followed.
‘Llewelyn may want to question you himself,’ Ifan said.
‘Best if he does not,’ Hugh replied. ‘You may want to keep what I am about to tell you to yourself.’
A guard opened the door of the gaol, and Ifan ushered Hugh inside. ‘Wait here,’ he said to his men.
The door closed, before I had a chance to slip through. I wondered if I should find another way in, and with dread in my heart, I slid into the shadows, hoping Hugh knew what he was doing.
~~~~~
Clearly, he did not. I barely had a chance to skulk around the side of the gaol, when a startled yell of laughter was followed by several shouts and the sound of a scuffle. I dashed to the front of the building in time to see Hugh fall through the door, bent in half, hands clutching his stomach, one eye beginning to blacken and swell.
‘Oubliette,’ Ifan said, rubbing a knuckle. Narrowed eyes and lips showed his displeasure. ‘For this alone, I will put you to death.’
‘Do it,’ Hugh said, his breathing ragged.
‘Not yet. I want the truth first, and you will give it to me.’ He snapped his fingers at one of the soldiers. ‘Find the woman, Caitlyn. She is here somewhere. Turn the castle upside down if you must and bring her to me. She has something to do with this.’
‘She does not,’ Hugh said, through gritted teeth.
‘I beg to differ.’ Ifan’s smile chilled me to the bone. ‘How long do you think you can hold your tongue when she starts to scream?’
Despite him knowing I would not be caught, Hugh looked stricken.
The closer we came to the oubliette, the more I smelled it. Slime, moss, dead things. I crept as close as I dared to the feet marching Hugh down to the cellars. Plenty of rock and stone lay between the dreaded hole and people above, to stifle the screams. No one lingered down here unless they had to. Each soldier grabbed a brand before they hauled Hugh down the steps, lighting the darkness below. For now.
In the cellars, barrels of wine and ale were stacked on wooden shelves, cheeses above, and root vegetables below which were stored in dry sand carted from the beach. Sides of meat swung in the breeze of our passing, so many sack-robed ghosts looming out of the shadows. The stink of tar, used for coating the beams from which the dead carcasses hung, irritated my nose. Rats didn’t like tar, and avoided climbing up anything painted with it, but their squeaking and scurrying told me they lived down here nevertheless, gnawing their way into the vegetable boxes and nibbling on anything else they got their claws on.
The oubliette hid in a far corner, the wooden lid firmly on and covered with a thick layer of dust. I could not remember the last time it had been used. Certainly not since I had been at Criccieth.
Hugh’s face was ashen in the yellow flames, and I smelled his fear above the stink of burning tallow. However strong the man, it would take very little time to break him. Oubliettes were notorious for it, magnificent in the simplicity of their design and purpose.
One of the men bent and brushed the dust away with his hands, searching for the circular handle embedded in the wood. He found it and heaved, and it came free with a rush of stagnant air.
The hole was ten-foot-deep, a narrow circular shaft with sheer-sided walls and no room to sit. That was part of its efficacy; no light, no sound, entombed by rock, and with muscles cramping, men did not last long in this particular prison without losing their minds. No sense of the passage of time, pathetically grateful for each lowered cup of water or thrown hunk of stale bread, it was like being buried alive, and everyone broke eventually.
Another soldier held his brand close to the yawning hole. ‘Smells as if the last poor bastard is still down there,’ he quipped. Fear lurked beneath the joke.
Ifan jerked his head.
Hugh breathed deeply and stood straighter. I guessed he was unwilling to show his horror. Two men, one either side of him, dragged
him closer to the hole. He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes widened, meeting my panicked stare with a grimace. I turned away before anyone wondered what he was looking at, conscious that my own eyes probably shone out of the dark.
They threw him in.
Chapter 34
The footsteps faded, along with the light. Utter and impenetrable darkness reigned. Even my cat’s eyes, better used to the night than any human’s, saw nothing. I sent out my senses, quivering with unnamed dread, ears and eyes straining, flesh aquiver, tail bristling.
A light touch on my tail made me hiss, and a rat squealed a cry of warning – cat in the house. Skittering and panicked squeaks filled the air. My fur stood on end in disgust and anxiety. What if these obnoxious little rodents noticed I was hardly bigger than them? They might also realise one cat could be easily outnumbered.
I called to Hugh, a high meow.
No answer.
I had to change, become Caitlyn once more. Cat couldn’t lift the lid of that thing; Cat would not be able to get him out. Caitlyn might not, either, but she had to try.
Feeling infinitely better in human form, I groped for the tell-tale lump between my breasts. Still there. The Blood of Christ lay nestled under my chemise, close to my heart, the vial safe in its leather pouch. Hugh and I had decided I might have more luck putting it in her food or drink than he would, so it was best if I carried it. I seemed to be good at hiding destruction under my clothes.
I inched forward, step by cautious step, drawing closer to the shaft, using my booted toes to prod the ground. I took more steps than anticipated, and halted. Where was it?
‘Hugh?’
‘Cat?’ He sounded far away, further than he should, even with four inches of oak lid muffling his call.
‘Call again, I cannot find you,’ I said.
Caitlyn Box Set Page 75