‘Joan assures me this child is a boy,’ I said.
He gave a bark of a laugh. ‘She cannot know for certain. All women claim their big bellies contain a boy, until it is proved otherwise.’
‘Do you want to wait eight months to see the truth of it?’ I demanded. ‘In the meantime, Joan will have eliminated both her husband and her rival.’
‘She would not dare. I will not allow it.’
‘You think informing Llewelyn that his wife is an adulteress will solve the problem? She will not let you live long enough to tell him, and even if you did, the Prince would not believe you. The spell she has cast on him is too powerful. Who will Llewelyn believe – his wife, or his second-in-command? Do you want to put his loyalty to the test?’
‘But Llewelyn must be informed his wife is plotting to murder him, and I cannot stand back and watch him be cuckolded. Yet…’ Ifan paused, and the tip of his blade dropped several inches. ‘You may be right about his love for her, and the knowing will cause a great deal of strife and unrest for all of us.’
The blade returned to its former position. ‘Therefore, you both will die, and Llewelyn will be none the wiser.’
‘Did you not hear me? Joan will try again and again.’
‘She does not have the means, not with your heads rotting on spikes above the castle walls. Who else will do her bidding? I will watch her closer than a flea on a dog. She will not have the opportunity to recruit another to her cause.’
‘She will use me.’ Desperation made me reckless.
‘And I have already said I will hang you. A corpse is of no use to anyone.’
‘I will not be hanged. She will not let me.’
‘I don’t take orders from her, and not even Llewelyn would be stupid enough to let you live, however much Lady Joan begs for your life.’
‘You will have no say in the matter.’ I sank to the floor, the change coming on me fast and hard.
‘God’s blood! What is this?’ I heard Ifan exclaim, before the change enveloped me for too many heartbeats and my senses were trapped inside as the magic took hold.
Panting, fur on end, tail stiff as a stick, paws twitching, I was forced to take a moment to gather myself. If Ifan planned on despatching me, now would be a perfect time to do it, as I lay helpless and vulnerable.
But not undefended.
Hugh stood between us. He had a leg of some unidentifiable animal in his hand and was swinging it like a club. Ifan’s face bore a mixture of horror and incredulity. He kept shaking his head, and his eyes were round and staring. He made small jabs at Hugh, slicing tatters of meat from Hugh’s make-shift weapon, but he kept most of his attention on me.
‘Stop. She won’t harm you,’ Hugh said, dodging a swipe. The two men circled around me. Hugh risked a quick glance behind, checking on the progress of my transformation, and I gave a mew of reassurance. Ifan seemed incapable of speech. His mouth hung open.
I scrambled to my paws and ran for the nearest shelves, claws digging into their vertical wooden cliffs. Jars scattered and broke as they hit the floor and a strong smell of vinegar made me sneeze. Ifan crunched his heavy-booted way through the mess on the flagstones, and Hugh let him come after me. Ifan stood no chance of catching a swift, agile cat, especially one the colour of shadows.
Ifan blundered, poking his sword between the contents of the shelves, dislodging more clay pots. Calm and in full control of my feline body and senses, I wove my way to the end of the shelf on delicate, soundless paws, listening to the carnage behind me. When I could go no further, I dropped to the ground and crept around the next tier of shelves and slunk in amongst stacked sacks of grain. Ifan would have to shift them all, if he wanted to find me.
‘You cannot catch her. She is too quick and lithe,’ Hugh said.
He let the shredded leg tumble from his hand. It hit the stones with a thunk and he held up his hands to show he was unharmed. Ifan was in front of him, sword tip at his throat, quicker than I credited such a big man being able to move. Hugh didn’t flinch. A thin trickle of blood welled where the point pressed into his flesh.
‘She will come out of hiding for you,’ Ifan said. ‘Her life for yours. What do you say, cat?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Caitlyn will not exchange her life for mine. Not until she has rendered the witch helpless. You intend to kill me anyway. You cannot let me live. The exchange is an unfair one.’
‘I will kill you, then hunt her down, if I have to poison every cat, dog, and rat in the castle.’
‘You underestimate Caitlyn. She is no true cat. I have been trying to tell you this. She is a woman forced into cat form by your lady.’
‘Lady Joan is no witch,’ Ifan protested.
‘Caitlyn escaped from gaol, did she not?’
‘She did.’ Ifan’s sword didn’t waver, but at least he was talking, and listening. If I were him, I would have sliced Hugh’s head off by now, and taken my chances with the cat.
‘My men were right, God help them. The woman has made a pact with the devil. I didn’t believe them. She must have turned herself into a cat,’ Ifan used his left hand to make the sign of the cross, ‘and escaped that way.’
‘You are right. She did. But who defended her? Who told you a tale of a spare key and sending one of her ladies to set Caitlyn free? And why did none of your guards see this lady?’
Hugh had his back to me, and I couldn’t see his face, but his voice was velvet and honey, a layer of sweet reason coating the bitter tang of truth. ‘Why do you think she did that?’ he added.
Ifan gave a slow shake of his head. I watched him intently, ready to dart forward if he showed any sign of thrusting the blade deeper into Hugh’s neck, and unwound my tail and crept a few inches closer, careful to stick to the deepest shadows.
‘Why did she send Caitlyn to Abergavenny?’ Hugh continued. ‘If Caitlyn is truly the witch, it would have benefitted her more to remain close to Joan. What possible motive could Caitlyn have to want Joan and William wed?’
Ifan blinked. ‘Who am I to question a witch’s motives? She has some black purpose of her own.’
‘Eva is not dead,’ Hugh said. His words resonated with truth, sending shivers through me, making a brush out of my tail. Power charged the air once more, like a storm before the lightning struck.
I realised Blod had been right – Hugh did indeed have power, and not the light and pleasant fae charm I thought he possessed. This went deeper, more visceral, echoing through my mind, reverberating through my soul.
It had the same effect on Ifan. His eyes widened, and the hard set of his jaw loosened, but more importantly, he withdrew the silver tip from my love’s neck and let it wilt to the floor.
‘You said she was,’ Ifan said. ‘You claimed it was the reason why William sent you here.’
More truth, clear and cold as a mountain stream, came out of Hugh’s mouth. ‘William does not know of this. He has nothing to do with any of it, except planting his seed in Joan’s belly. This plot is Joan’s, and Joan’s alone. She will not rest until she is closer to the throne, and if it all comes to nought with Abergavenny, she will set her sights elsewhere, and use her witchcraft to do so.’
‘But, I have known her since she was little more than a child. Why wait until now?’ Ifan stepped back, an unconscious desire to distance himself from the situation, I thought. I did not blame him. What does a soldier know of politics and subterfuge, and a desire to rule?
‘Pope Honorius III recently declared her legitimate. She now has a legal claim to the throne.’
‘What good will that do her? Henry is King, and if he dies without issue, he has a younger brother to step into the breach.’
‘Richard will die before Henry.’ Hugh’s certainty scared me. Was this him speaking? He sounded so unlike himself. His voice came from far away, with a monotone I had never heard before. ‘Joan will remove first one brother, then the other. The rest of old King John’s children are daughters, with her being the eldest. The thro
ne will pass to her; the barons will allow it if she has William of Abergavenny as her consort. She will be Queen of England.’
The thought filled me with dread, although whether that dread was of my own making or sent to me by Hugh, I had no way of knowing. His words echoed, vibrating with intensity, dagger-sharp in their conviction. I had no doubt what Hugh said would come to pass.
Ifan felt it too. Determination straightened his shoulders and hardened his face. A sigh of relief, welcome like a breeze in summer, wafted through me at his next words.
‘How do we stop her?’ Ifan asked.
Chapter 36
The Blood of Christ nestled between my breasts. Imagination gave it a throbbing life of its own, my body nurturing it, warming it like a tiny dark child, and I drew the vial forth, pulling on the ribbon which held it in place until it came free of my bodice, leaving behind a small sense of loss.
The time had come to wield it, this liquid sword of the gods. Made by monks, using the ancient ways, it couldn’t claim to come solely from the Christian God, or Arawn, or Don, or Mabon, or any other Celtic god; its magic was from all of them, and from the earth itself. Grown in soil, harvested by monks according to the druid custom, it transformed itself from plant to blood-red oil.
I fingered the stopper, loosening it, and placed the vial in my pocket.
Through the use of dark magic and baleful intent, Joan had upset the natural balance of things. The Blood of Christ would restore that balance.
All I had to do was persuade the witch to drink it.
I put my fingers to my lips and waved the two men following me to a halt. ‘Stay here and be silent,’ I whispered. ‘Come when – if – I call you.’
Hugh nodded. Ifan eyed me cautiously. Not quite as unnerved at my change back to Caitlyn as the first time he witnessed my transformation, he was nevertheless unsettled and wary, hesitant to put his trust in one such as me.
The pair of them stood well back from the door, flattened against the wall. I knocked and waited.
‘Yes?’ Joan called.
‘It is me, Caitlyn.’
The door opened, a hand shot out, grabbed me by the arm and yanked me inside. As I stumbled over the threshold and the door shut behind me, I listened for any tell-tale noise from outside, hoping both men would move into position without giving themselves away. Ifan, if seen, could maintain that he was standing guard. Hugh had not yet concocted an excuse for escaping from the oubliette and loitering outside Lady Joan’s chambers with his ear to the door.
‘Traitor!’ Joan hissed.
Though I expected it, her voice startled me. Fear clamped my heart and dread goose-pimpled my skin. She stood with her back to the fire, the only light in the room, her face backlit and unfathomable. I stared at her, my expression a hard-fought blank.
‘I will see Pembroke hang.’ Her voice shook with muted rage.
‘No doubt you will, my lady.’ By contrast, I sounded calm and contained, although my insides were knotted and twisted like tangled yarn.
‘As for you, bitch, I will hang you myself. Or throw you in a vat of boiling oil and watch you melt as you scream. Or pull your innards out through your arse with a crochet hook. Or—’
My mistress spluttered to a halt, obviously struggling to find another hideous way to end me. ‘Whatever way you die, it will be long and painful.’
I didn’t expect anything else. Finally, my usefulness as a familiar had been superseded by my gross disobedience. It would take some persuasion to convince her she was wrong.
‘You told me she was dead!’ She screeched the last word, filling it with hatred and fury and disbelief. ‘I saw her, cavorting with him, with William. They were laughing!’
‘What I reported to you was the truth, madam, as I was told it.’
‘Who told you she was dead?’
‘Sir William, my lady. He believed it to be so.’
‘You did not see her body?’
‘I left before she was laid out in chapel. William was grief-stricken, yet his first concern was his alliance with the Prince and the peace so recently rendered. He sent Pembroke to Criccieth to assure Llewelyn that the marriage between your son and his daughter will not be affected by Lady Eva’s loss. My task was complete, so I asked to ride with him. I knew you would have need of me here.’
Joan paused. ‘How sweet of William to think of the alliance,’ she said, her tone showing she meant anything but.
‘I was assured that Lady Eva was dead, my lady. Perhaps she had not eaten as much of the belladonna as her women, and she recovered. Her appetite was not great. I am truly sorry. I should have ensured that she ate it all, but I saw the opportunity and…’
Joan took one step away from the fire, then another. Her features, no longer in silhouette, gave no indication of her thoughts. She was well versed in keeping her feelings hidden.
‘Why were you and Pembroke discussing Llewelyn’s death?’ she asked.
‘Because William desires it,’ I said. It was probably true.
Her gasp filled the room. ‘Did he say as much?’
‘Pembroke knows about your relationship with his lord, and why William might benefit from Llewelyn’s death. He guarded Abergavenny’s room, the first time you and Sir William…’ I trailed off, searching for a delicate way of describing what they had been doing in William’s quarters. ‘William told Pembroke of his love for you. I happened to say to Sir Hugh it was a pity you were still married now that William is free, because you are so clearly meant to be together. Pembroke mentioned it to William, who agreed it was a shame your husband still lived, so Pembroke offered to kill the Prince, to set you free.’
‘Pembroke would do this for me?’ she said. I read nothing from her tone; she disguised her feelings well, now that she had regained control of her emotions.
‘No. But he would do it for his lord. Sir William wants you for his bride.’
She didn’t look at me; instead, she stared over my shoulder, digesting what I told her, testing my tale for falsehood or weakness. She had no cause to mistrust me. I had never played her false – the spell did not allow it; although it would be interesting to see if the spell’s definition of harm included stripping my mistress of her magic. It was Joan’s natural suspicion which was making her cautious and sceptical.
She didn’t speak for many moments.
‘I love William with all my heart,’ she said, and I wondered who she was trying to convince. Ambition, naked and raw, drove her. Not love. ‘I cannot lose him.’
‘Yes, and he loves you,’ I said. ‘There will be nothing to stand in the way of your marriage; I will see to that. With Pembroke in the oubliette when Llewelyn is murdered, no one can point a finger at William. I will return to Abergavenny as soon as I have taken care of the Prince, and I will dispatch Eva. No one will see me, I guarantee it, and I will ensure William is not implicated in that death, either.’
She smiled finally, a feral uplift of her lips, showing white, even teeth. She liked my suggestion I go as Cat to kill Eva. There were more holes in this hastily cobbled story than in a poorly knitted sock, but she appeared to accept it.
‘You must dispose of Llewelyn tonight,’ she urged, ‘and return to Abergavenny on the morrow. I will provide a horse and provisions, but you must make haste. Any longer, and the babe will be too well cooked to pass as an infant born too early. Caitlyn, you will also have to get rid of Pembroke; he knows too much. That reminds me – what were you doing in the oubliette?’
The first hole. I hunted for a patch. ‘I was trying to free Pembroke because you intended to use him as a scapegoat for Llewelyn’s death, and he could hardly be that if he was in a hole in the ground at the time. Besides, Ifan will torture the truth out of him and you would be ruined if Llewelyn discovers your adultery.’
‘Adultery is such a harsh word,’ Joan said. ‘Do what needs to be done. Kill Pembroke, do not free him. The dead cannot speak.’
‘May I help myself to a goblet of wine, my lady? This
night has been thirsty work, and I have not yet had a chance to refresh myself.’
‘If you must. Pour one for me, too. You are right, it has been a long night and it is far from over.’
I used the six steps to the sideboard to slip my hand in my pocket and free the vial from its damask prison. Turning my back to her, I selected two goblets, upended the contents of the vial into one and picked up the jug. Red wine. Thank the Lord. The Blood of Christ would have coloured ale or mead, and although the light was dim, I didn’t want to risk her noticing.
I gave her a third-full glass. My own contained the same amount. ‘Just enough to wet our throats, because both of us need to keep our wits about us tonight,’ I said and downed mine in one gulp, hoping the movement disguised the tremble of my hand.
‘I have to go back to bed,’ she said. ‘One of my women sleeps in my chamber tonight. I slipped a little something into her mead, but it might not keep her quiet for long. I should be there if she wakes, if I am to be above suspicion.’
Gaze averted, I watched her out of the corner of my eye, trying to appear unconcerned, but I couldn’t help the little exhalation of a too-long-held breath when she upended the goblet. Her throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes widening at the same time as she caught my reaction. Too late.
She stared at me, curious and wary, guessing something had happened but not knowing what. Her head cocked to the side to study me. I waited for something, anything, to show that the potion was working.
‘What is wrong?’ she asked.
An involuntary glance at the goblet gave me away, but she didn’t believe there was a problem. Why should she? The spell, the all-encompassing, well-considered spell, prevented me from harming her. Herleva, that long-dead witch who had consigned me to an eternal life of unnatural servitude, hadn’t been as clever as she had thought when she wove the familiar magic. It could not have entered her mind that the Blood of Christ would not be regarded by the spell as causing harm, for not a hair on Joan’s head would be damaged, no torn or bruised skin, no illness would befall her. Outwardly, she would remain unchanged.
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