Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  I prayed the potion was doing its work on her insides.

  She looked at the goblet still in her hand, a small frown-line between her brows, then her head came up and she stared at me, her blue eyes almost black in the gloom of the dying fire. I knew the look on her face; I had seen it many times, the same incredulous, disbelieving surprise worn on the face of someone who had been delivered a death blow.

  The goblet tumbled from her fingers, and she clutched at a spot underneath her breastbone. I wondered what she felt there. Was it the heat of righteous fire as the internal flames ate away at her magic? Or was it a freezing chill as the potion extinguished her powers?

  She took her hand away and looked at it, as if she had been gut-stabbed and expected her fingers to be covered in blood. They were as clean and pale as ever.

  ‘What have you done?’ Her voice was the whisper of silk on bare skin.

  She took a slow, ponderous step, holding out one supplicant hand, her actions sluggish as though she were underwater. I gulped and backed toward the door. The movement brought her out of her daze, and she seemed to see me for the first time since she had swallowed the Blood of Christ. Her gaze sharpened and hardened, her lips drawing back from her teeth and twisting into a snarl. The reaching hand became a claw, and grabbed at me. I stumbled back and bumped into the door, the noise over-loud in the stillness of the night.

  ‘What have you done?’ she screeched.

  Propelled forwards by the door behind being swung violently open, I fell, almost landing in her arms.

  ‘Hold your mistress!’ Hugh shouted at Ifan. ‘I have to see to Cat.’

  My love yanked me back, pulling on my bodice, catching my hair in a painful grip, and I yelped as he tackled me to the floor. I knew what was coming, and it terrified me. This was not going to be a gentle falling asleep never to wake again, or a sudden strike through the heart. This was going to be nasty and brutal, and I knew my body would fight against it, whatever my head wanted.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ Joan cried.

  ‘Apologies, my lady, but I cannot release you.’ Ifan panted with the effort of restraining her.

  ‘If you do not take your hands off me, my husband will slice off your balls and feed them to the pigs!’ Her voice was imperious and haughty, no hint of the panic she must be feeling.

  ‘Will you tell him, or shall I?’ Ifan demanded.

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘I heard everything.’

  ‘I captured this woman, and all you heard was me interrogating the prisoner. Nothing more.’

  ‘We both know that isn’t true. I heard you conspiring to murder Llewelyn with my own ears,’ Ifan said.

  All I could see was Hugh looming over me, but the sounds of Ifan scuffling with Lady Joan were loud enough to carry into the corridor. Hugh leaned across me and slammed the door shut.

  ‘Keep her quiet,’ he said to Ifan, ‘I have to concentrate.’ He brought his face close to mine, using his weight to pin me to the floor. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, his agonised gaze searching my eyes.

  ‘Get on with it,’ I pleaded. ‘Hurry.’

  She had been a part of me for so long, this latest mistress of mine, I had grown used to her presence in my soul, like a stain on white linen – always there but not always noticed. Abruptly aware of the loss of her, I searched for that stain, disconcerted to find only a remnant of it remained, fading fast. A call, faint and indistinct, blew through my soul. A new witch, an unfamiliar mind, brushed against mine, awareness blossoming behind distant eyes. The spell was busy seeking someone whose magic was intact and potent.

  ‘You have to do it now,’ I cried, ‘while I am between witches and the spell is at its weakest.’ I didn’t know this for a fact; no one had told me, but I sensed I was right.

  Hugh grasped both my hands in one of his and held them in a bruising grip over my head. His chest lay across mine, squashing the breath out of me, muscled thighs trapping my legs beneath him.

  My lungs tried to heave in a deep instinctive breath, but his weight prevented them, and his large hand stretched across my mouth, my nostrils pinched shut by an iron thumb and forefinger.

  For a couple of heartbeats, I relaxed, not yet feeling the burn, listening to Ifan’s grunts as he fought to keep his captive silent. Joan’s muffled screams told me Ifan was doing his own version of suffocation on my former mistress.

  ‘I am sorry, so sorry,’ Hugh whispered. His eyes were huge, glistening with unshed tears. ‘I love you. I don’t want to do this… if only there were another way.’ His voice hitched and caught.

  I blinked, trying to show my love for him, my gratitude for setting me free, one way or the other. Both ways involved my death.

  It didn’t hurt at first, but as the need for air increased, my throat began to burn, and my chest heaved. My need became desperate. I panicked, straining beneath him, hips lifting off the floor in my frenzied fight for air. My heels drummed on the floor-boards, and Hugh shifted his weight to try to keep them still.

  I thrashed and writhed. Oh, it hurt, it hurt, please make it stop. He had his head down, tight against my shoulder. Look at me, Hugh, I screamed inside. Look at me. See what you are doing. You have to stop. You have to. I cannot take this, I cannot do this anymore.

  Through the blood pounding in my head, I heard his chanting whisper. ‘Sorry, so sorry, I love you, so sorry.’

  If you love me you would stop, I yelled, my silent pleas unheard. My lungs were on fire, roaring, licking flames eating my flesh from the inside out. With one last despairing lurch, my flailing, failing body pitched and bucked, but Hugh held firm and steadfast.

  The fight drained out of me, my energy spent. My limbs refused to obey, every muscle was disconnected from my mind. My heart fluttered, faster than the wings of a panicked bird caught in a cage, then stuttered, rallied, and stuttered again. Flutter away, little bird.

  Patterns in the soot-stained ceiling drew my gaze, a dragon, a face, fading, dimming. No more fluttering, no more blood pounding. The silence came from inside, loud as a church bell and just as compelling. I listened hard to the stillness within. Hush, Hugh, I thought, you are distracting me. No need to keep telling me that you love me. I know, and I love you, too. But where was God in this blackness of my mind, and this quiet of my body? Where was the light, the love, the forgiveness?

  Thoughts raced, darting through the corridors of my mind on velvet paws. I felt her – Cat. She meowed as she ran, and I watched her go, her tail held out behind her, low and straight. Goodbye Cat, your time is over. She gave one last, sad call, then she dwindled, disappearing into the shadows.

  I felt her no more.

  My heart, my still, silent heart, grieved at her passing, even as lightness flooded my soul, and the weight of her, so crushing for such a small creature, lightened my mind. I was free, the chains of magic, the bounds of unnatural flesh and fur, dissolved by death. My own death.

  Oh Hugh, my love, it is my turn to be sorry. I am sorry you ever met me; sorry you loved me; sorry you had to kill me to set me free. I wouldn’t have wished this burden on you, but I thank you for carrying it. Your love has given me the will and the power to end it. Be happy, my sweet. Find a good woman, an uncomplicated woman, one who loves you, gives you plenty of children. A woman to grow old with, a woman to love. Don’t yearn for me, don’t grieve. Think of me now and again whenever you see a small, grey cat, then go on with your life.

  I love you…

  When the light came, a tiny dot growing brighter and bigger, I welcomed it, ready and willing, peace saturating every inch of me.

  Is this what it was like to die?

  Chapter 37

  The light grew brighter, coming towards me swifter than a galloping horse. Was it moving, or was I? A black dot appeared in the centre of this cold, white star, a blemish in its perfection, it goose-pimpled my mind. Hard, blue moonlight, not soft, yellow sunlight – I should have been fearful, but the shaft of brilliance radiated calm in the way a fir
e radiated heat. I bathed in it, wallowed in it, and ignored the growing blackness at its centre, pretending it was not there. Just the thought of it made my soul shudder.

  Was this light, God? Heaven? Was the man-shaped silhouette at its heart the devil? Had Satan come for me after all? This might be my own hell, crafted especially for me – eternal love and salvation dangled, carrot-like, in front of my eyes, conning me that I wasn’t damned to the everlasting flames of hell, only for Heaven to be snatched away at the last second, and nightmare blackness overruling the light and dragging me down into the depths.

  ‘Oh no, lady. Not yet.’

  It was Blod’s voice. The devil was tormenting me, else why assume the guise of someone I had grown to love, to respect? Why not make my torment complete and send Herleva? Or was that part of Satan’s dark delight, to make my desolation more poignant?

  ‘You have to go back,’ it said, blackness engulfing the light and I roiled in despair.

  ‘Please, do not take me to hell. I did not have any choice.’ I hated begging and knew the futility of it. God had judged me, had found me wanting, and had consigned my soul to damnation. Too late to plead for mercy, too late to beg forgiveness; nevertheless I didn’t have any control over the terror running rampant through my mind.

  ‘I wanted no part of the magic,’ I cried. ‘I didn’t ask to be a familiar. Please, you must believe me!’

  ‘Hush child, and hurry. If you tarry any longer, it will be too late.’ It loomed over me, reaching out a stick-thin arm.

  Recoiling in fear, my mind froze and a chill settled deep in my phantom heart. Too late for what? What did this she-devil have in store for me?

  ‘Do not fight it. Go back. This is not your time to enter the light,’ the demon said. Blod said. I couldn’t think of my tormentor as Satan or one of his minions, not when the demon sounded so much like Blod.

  ‘Go back where?’ I found enough courage to ask.

  ‘Life, child. My grandson has need of you. Listen? Do you hear it?’

  ‘Hear what?’ Oh, that.

  I felt a blow, so massive that it shook me to my bones, and a distant thud followed, a single beat. A brief pain flared in my ethereal chest. Another beat, louder this time and stronger, then another. The faint susurration of air, in, out, in, out. Breathing. Someone was breathing.

  ‘My Hugh is bringing you back. I knew he could!’ Blod cried.

  I understood that I was balancing on the dagger-edge of life and death, a chasm on either side. It was my decision which way I fell.

  ‘What about God?’ I asked. ‘Will I go to Heaven if I stay here?’

  ‘One God, many gods, all the gods? Bah! The light is the light, and its peace is everything. It takes us all, and it will still be here for you when it is your time to die,’ she said.

  ‘No heaven or hell?’

  ‘Only that which we make for ourselves. Hurry, child. You must hurry.’ She gave me a push, surprising strength in her thin arm. She receded. Another push, symbolic this time, and she withdrew further. I watched her go, a dark boat on a bright sea, and the light went with her.

  ‘Cat. Please, Cat.’ Hugh’s voice came from far away, a whisper on the breeze flowing in and out of my chest, echoed in the faint heartbeat. ‘Cat…Cat…’

  He sounded broken, lost, hopeless. His pain was my pain, his misery, my misery. My heartbeat stuttered, and his moan filled my mind, coating every corner of me with his agony. I couldn’t bear to feel his own heart tearing in two, when I could so easily make it strong and vibrant.

  Decision made, I turned my senses away from the diminishing light, seeking another brilliance – Hugh’s love – and I found it, deep and true, flowing through my soul, twin river of the love inside the light.

  I chose my chasm and fell.

  Chapter 38

  I eyed the ginger tom with a mixture of dislike and resignation. This was not the original ginger tom, the one who had tried to tear out my throat the first time Hugh and I met, but a wedding gift from my beloved. A wedding gift which I cursed him for, despite the sentiment behind it. The original ginger tom had hated me on sight. This one wasn’t too keen on me either. I couldn’t blame it on my catness, for that particular magic had died when I had, so I had to accept the fact the cat simply hated me. Perhaps it was a ginger tom thing…

  I shuffled past it, keen to keep out of the way of his spaggy claws. He was far too fond of swiping at passing ankles, that one. He opened his mouth and showed me his teeth. I opened mine and did the same. His impenetrable cat-stare told me he was less than impressed.

  The hot oaken cakes burned my fingers as I reached across the hearth to turn them.

  ‘Smells good.’ My husband’s presence never failed to make me smile – though sometimes, like any wife, the smile was more a grimace of irritation. Today it was one of anticipation; I had some news to impart. I would tell him after he ate.

  Hugh sat and eased off his sturdy work-boots with grimy hands, a faint smell of sheep emanating from him. It was shearing time, and everyone helped.

  ‘You can have a slice of yesterday’s mutton and some bread,’ I said, slapping his hand away. ‘These oatcakes are for supper and they are not cooked yet.’

  ‘They look done to me,’ he argued.

  They might look it, but that was only on the outside. I had felt just how not-done they were when I turned them; too much give and squish between my fingers. Another failed attempt. I didn’t claim to be a cook, and the only time during the last two centuries I had been in a kitchen was to steal food. Why Hugh suddenly expected me to produce something edible was mystifying. He churned out much better meals than I, so perhaps he should take a turn at the hearth, and I could wrestle with the sheep.

  ‘We have a guest for supper,’ he said. A smile still played about his mouth, but his eyes had grown wary. I hoped it was not his insufferable father, come to gloat at what he considered the drop in his son’s status.

  ‘Don’t let your father bully you. You owe that man nothing,’ I said, beginning the familiar rant. Hugh pointed at the smoking cakes. Bugger, they were burnt again.

  I retrieved them, staring at the blackened round discs in dismay. ‘Besides, you paid for this land with your own money. It is not as if he gifted it to you,’ I added.

  ‘He didn’t want me to have it at all.’ Hugh leaned back in the chair, feet towards the fire. It might be July, but the westerly wind blowing in from the sea often felt chill. ‘Enough of my father, he is not our guest.’

  ‘Who is, and where is he?’ I asked, curiously.

  ‘Tending to his horse.’

  I flapped my hand in annoyance. ‘Ned should be doing that. You don’t expect a visitor to unsaddle his own beast.’ I turned away to carve a slice or two of meat from the leg of mutton. The ewe had been an old one, and her flesh was tough, but slow boiling overnight over the embers of a dying fire had softened the meat.

  ‘He insisted,’ Hugh said, a chuckle hiding in the words.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘I did,’ another voice said, and I whirled, knife in hand.

  ‘Careful, my lady, I don’t wish to be gut stabbed.’

  ‘Sir Ifan!’ I placed the blade on the table, and went to him and he embraced me in a hug. I held on longer and tighter than was seemly, but I had a great deal to thank him for.

  ‘What brings you to Pembroke?’ I asked, finally letting him go. He hadn’t changed in the two years since I last saw him as he stood beneath the mighty gates of Criccieth Castle and watched us take the road south. I remembered little of that night. Later, Hugh had set straight the jumble of images in my mind. But I did remember the determination and resolution on Ifan’s face. And the hurt. He would not easily forgive Lady Joan.

  ‘Sit, and I shall tell you,’ he said.

  I fetched our best cider and poured him a cup. I had pressed the apples myself last September, and the brew was good and strong. He took a seat across from Hugh and washed the dust from his throat, while I tapped my foot
and silently urged him to hurry. Hugh raised a quizzical eyebrow, but kept his impatience curbed.

  Ifan rested the empty cup on his knee, and I refilled it.

  ‘I know how much you care for Lady Eva. It was she who suggested I bring you the news,’ he said.

  ‘What news?’ Hugh and I chorused.

  ‘Sir William is dead.’

  Shock muted my tongue.

  Hugh shook his head. ‘Poor Eva. Poor William.’

  ‘You won’t be so quick to pity him when you know why he died.’ Ifan took another long pull at the cup. I resisted the urge to kick his outstretched foot. ‘Prince Llewelyn caught him in Joan’s chamber,’ he explained.

  Hugh’s eyes were as wide as my own.

  ‘They were both naked,’ Ifan added.

  ‘Did Llewelyn run him through?’ Hugh asked, his hand dropping to where his own sword would have hung on his hip a couple of years ago. He kept it under our bed, oiled and wrapped, just in case.

  ‘No. He hanged him,’ Ifan said.

  ‘Poor Eva,’ Hugh repeated. ‘I shall go to her on the morrow. She will be in sore need of comfort.’ He stared at the floor, his expression clouded. William had been his lord for many years, even his friend. He was bound to feel pain at the man’s death.

  Ifan gave a soft belch. ‘You make a good brew for a cat.’

  I surrendered to the urge to kick him, and nudged his booted foot with my toe. ‘We have not thanked you for helping us leave Criccieth,’ I said.

  ‘I also deserve thanks for preventing Lady Joan from having you hanged, drawn, and quartered. She once told me she wished Hugh had not succeeded in bringing you back from the dead. It was the only time we ever spoke of the matter, immediately after you left. Ever since, she has acted as though nothing untoward happened.’

  ‘How did Llewelyn take the news of my escape?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘I told him that my man heard wrong, and I was satisfied there was no plot to murder him, but I did suggest you left sooner rather than later, for your own safety.’ Ifan shifted in his seat. ‘I swear I have never seen anything like it before or since.’