by Barbara Bard
Throwing himself from the saddle, Ranulf knelt on the man’s chest, his sword at his throat. “I do swear tae God, Hargrove, ye dae test me patience.”
Gilbert of Hargrove writhed under him, bleeding from his nose and mouth, his face swelling clearly in the faint light, and grimaced. “Bloody hell.”
“That dae be where ye be headed, Hargrove,” Ranulf commented dryly “Whet ye dae tae the lass?”
Gilbert grinned, his teeth stained red, and refused to answer. Ranulf glanced up. “Me Lady?”
Catrin, who had stepped close, unseen, gazed down at them. “It is all right, there is no harm done. He struck me, but I am fine.”
His rage bubbling just below the surface, Ranulf pressed the edge of his blade against Gilbert’s jugular. “One slice and ye be dancin’ wi’ the devil in two shakes. I dae despise a man who hits a lass.”
“We did not know who it was,” Gilbert snapped. “We thought she was a man.”
Taking a longer look at Catrin, he discovered she wore not a gown, but a man’s tunic and lienes. He grinned. “That do look guid oan ye, lassie,” he said.
Catrin rolled her eyes. “Save it,” she snapped. “Now let him go. He is Gilbert, Earl of Hargrove, and you do not handle a man of his stature in such a fashion.”
Ranulf glanced from Gilbert to Catrin, then back. “Ach, I cannae dae that, Catrin,” he said. He stood, and grabbed Gilbert by the neck of his mail, and hauled him to his feet. “This Sassenach dae be trespassin’ oan me lands. I hang trespassers.”
Gilbert thrust Ranulf’s hands away and tried to wipe his bloody face with his sleeve. “I came to take her home to her father.”
“I ken what ye be doin’, wallops,” Ranulf retorted. “Ye still be trespassin’.”
Catrin stepped forward, placing herself between Ranulf and Gilbert. “Let him go,” she said, her tone firm. “Let him return to England and I will remain with you. I will not try to escape again. My sworn oath.”
Ranulf stared at her, astounded. “Ye wid hae me spare his life, lassie? After he hit ye?”
“He and his men did not recognize me until afterward,” she replied. “Had they known, it would not have happened. Now. Will you shake with me? Do we have an agreement?”
Catrin spat on her hand and held it out. Ranulf gazed at it, bemused, then looked at a defiant Gilbert. “Yon lady dae hae a wee bit ‘o fire, eh, Gilbert? Ye cannae handle one such. I take her oof yer hands, then.”
“No.” Gilbert glared at him. “Let us both go. And my men. You had no right to take her.”
“Nay,” Ranulf breathed, an inch from Gilbert’s swarthy face. “I hae every right. Noo ye best get mounted ‘ere I change me mind. Thirty ‘o me men wi’ accompany ye tae the border. Make sure ye gets there safely.”
Spitting into his own palm, he clasped Catrin’s hand. “A right guid decision, Me Lady. This ‘ere be a bad one. Ye ne’er want tae get mixed up wi’ the likes ‘o him.”
“We have a deal, Ranulf,” Catrin said. “Stick to your end of it, and I will mine.”
“Ye dae, lassie,” Ranulf said, eyeing Gilbert sidelong. “But ye did the right thing. I dinnae think ye wid make it tae England wi’ yer virtue intact wi’ this one.”
“The Earl would never harm me.”
“Ye goan believin’ that.”
Ranulf turned toward the mass of men and horses still encircling Gilbert and his men. “Duncan, select thirty stout lads tae escort Hargrove tae the border. Aswin, ye be in charge.”
Taking Catrin politely by the arm, expecting her to struggle and demand he not touch her, he helped her onto his horse. As his men divided, the thirty selected to take Gilbert of Hargrove to the border ringed him and his men around. Ranulf vaulted up behind Catrin, yet waited and watched as Gilbert, still bleeding and fuming, mounted his piebald.
“This be yer final warnin’,” Ranulf said to him. “The lassie’s protection is fer this time only. Next time ye cross into my territory, I wi’ hang ye.”
For answer, Gilbert curled his lip and spat onto the ground. Thus, herded like sheep, he and his men were then forced to move out. Hooves thudding into the heather, the group galloped down the hill, headed south. Ranulf watched them go, unable to stop himself from wondering if he made the right decision to let the man go.
“Time tae get ye back tae safety,” he murmured, leading the way back to the castle.
Catrin said nothing.
***
Though she usually kept to herself or spent time with his father, Catrin remained with him after breaking their fast. Ranulf did not question it and chose to enjoy her company. Her courage in climbing down the treacherous castle wall impressed him greatly. Though she seemed unwilling to talk to him, she hovered close by as he walked among the stables.
A commotion at the drawbridge drew his attention, a small crowd of people in the plain homespun woolens of commoners walked across it. Four men carried something heavy in a blanket, their expressions dark with anger. The wailing of women made him frown, and hurry toward them. Catrin followed at his shoulder.
As Ranulf closed in on them, other men at arms also gathered around as the peasants saw him come, and knuckled their brows. “Whet happened?” he asked, gazing down as the men lowered a corpse to the ground.
“He be slain,” wailed a stout woman in a kerchief and dark skirt. “Me son, me son.”
As she keened and wept, Ranulf ground his teeth at the sight of the arrow buried deep in the lad’s throat. His once blue eyes glazed over in death, his face starkly white, blackened dried blood had pooled on his tunic and flesh. Ranulf gently touched his cold skin and suspected he had been killed a few days past.
“Me lad, laird,” said one of the men who carried the boy in the blanket. “Murdered, he was, guardin’ me flocks. Took three sheep, also.”
“Shot down?” Ranulf asked, dull fury rising.
“Aye, laird. We went lookin’ fer him, and found him dead, just as ye see him nae.”
Ranulf fingered the fletching on the arrow. “That be a Sassenach arrow.”
Half turning, he met Catrin’s wide and stunned eyes. “Gilbert o’ Hargrove done murdered this ‘ere lad. Whet ye say nae tae asking me tae spare his life?”
“I – how can you be sure it was Hargrove?” she asked, glancing from the corpse to his face and back again.
“I ken it. I hae seen his arrows and treachery afore.”
Furious, wanting to hit something, Ranulf ran his hands through his thick red hair. “I dae be sorry fer yer loss,” he said to the grieving parents. “I swear tae ye noo, I wi’ slay the fiend who did this tae yer lad.”
He swung toward Catrin, his eyes boring into hers. “Ye ne’er protect him again, lassie. I dae so swear.”
“If you are right,” she said slowly, “and Gilbert is guilty of this heinous deed, then he should hang for it.”
Her voice pitched so low that he almost did not hear her, she added, “Perhaps you are right in that I am safer with you than with him. I had heard rumors, only rumors, that he is a lawless and dishonorable man. But I did not wish to believe it.”
“Believe it, lassie,” Ranulf said, gesturing toward the young shepherd’s corpse. “There be yer proof.”
Catrin nodded, and glanced toward the parents, now holding one another, weeping. “Those poor people. I feel terrible for them.”
“Aye. ‘Tis a hard thing tae lose a bairn.”
Chapter 8
“How can you be so certain that was Gilbert’s arrow?”
Profoundly disturbed by the knowledge that Gilbert Mulvaney, an Earl and someone she thought she could trust, had murdered a young shepherd in cold blood, Catrin remained with Ranulf throughout the rest of the day. She plagued him with questions about the Earl of Hargrove, and learned of his treacherous behavior, but still felt uncertain of whom to trust.
As Ranulf set his hands on his hips and stared down at her, Catrin tried not to squirm under his intense regard. “After all, it could have been English b
rigands, out to steal sheep and killed the boy.”
“Nay,” he replied, his voice even. “That fletching be Hargrove’s own, lassie. That be all the evidence I need.”
“But why would he simply murder a shepherd when he had no cause?” she went on, persistent. “I mean, to just kill when the boy had done nothing to him?”
“If I was guessin’, lassie,” Ranulf said, gazing into the distance thoughtfully. “’Tis me thoughts he wished no one tae see him in Scotland, tae sneak in and grab ye.”
“He could have just waited, or went around the shepherd,” Catrin said. “Why would he kill him?”
“He likes tae kill.”
Catrin studied his face, gazed into what she thought were his eyes, free of guile. “How can I trust you?”
“Ye cannae,” he replied calmly. “Trust be earned, lassie. I nae earn it. Yet.”
That statement gave her pause, and she pondered it on and off over the next few days. Having given her own word she would not try to run or escape again, Ranulf gave her more freedoms. “Ye may ride oot if ye wish, lassie, provided ye agree to an escort. Fer yer safety, ‘o coorse.”
Catrin nodded. “I agree. I need some items from the village. Will you, er, give me a few coins?”
Grinning, Ranulf handed her a leather purse with silver and copper coins inside. “I knew ye wid need tae shop – lasses always dae.”
Thus, mounted on her grey gelding, an escort of four armed clansmen wearing brigandines riding to either side and behind her, Catrin rode into the village. She had learned its name was Connbury, and its inhabitants paid tithes to the Thorburn estates and owed their loyalty to Ranulf. Sliding down from her saddle, she tied the gelding to a post. Her escort followed suit and strolled behind her as she walked through the market in the village square.
She purchased a comb, a brush and ribbons for her hair from a fat woman who listened to her talk, and scowled darkly. “Sassenach wench,” she muttered, taking Catrin’s coin in exchange for the items.
Catrin glared back at the woman, and bit back the hot retort that rose to her lips. “Thank you,” she said instead, her voice cold.
Turning away, she heard the woman spit. She slowly swung back around, fingering the small dagger hanging from the belt around her hips. “You dare spit at me.”
“Aye, Sassenach bitch.”
Before Catrin could pull her knife and lunge at the woman, one of her escort intervened. He planted himself between the two women, his companions pulling Catrin away. Glaring at the shop keeper, he snapped, “This be a guest ‘o Laird Ranulf, sae mind yer manners, woman.”
“I ne’er be polite tae nae Sassenach,” she retorted, making an insulting gesture toward him.
Catrin thought he was angry enough to say more, but he merely cursed under his breath, and jerked his head for the others to follow. They walked further up the street, Catrin taking deep breaths to calm her temper. I hope no one else feels the need to spit, or I may yet feel the urge to cut Scottish flesh.
Her guard keeping a watch on the irate locals, who eyed her with emotions ranging from distaste to downright hostility, Catrin walked toward a merchant selling bolts of cloth. She liked the look of a pale lavender shade that she suspected would make a very nice gown and asked for a few yards of it. The shopkeeper leaned his hands on his table, palms down, and looked at her with open hatred.
“Nae.”
“She hae coin tae pay, man,” said her escort. “Sell her the cloth.”
“I said nae,” the merchant snapped. “Begone wi’ ye.”
“Keep it,” Catrin replied, growing furious and wishing she could plunge her dagger into the man’s throat. “If he has so much custom that he has no need of mine, so be it.”
Spinning on her heel, Catrin stalked away. Half blinded by her rage, she paid little heed to the gang of youths loitering nearby. A sharp thud and an enormous burst of pain shot through her head. She staggered, putting her hand up to her brow. Her fingers came away slicked with her blood.
Dazed, she gazed up in time to see the other boys cock their arms back. Stones struck her cheek, her shoulder, bouncing off her head, making her stagger. Stumbling, she fell to her knees, bleeding, her vision blurry. Her escort rushed in, yelling, shielding her from more thrown rocks. Holding up their arms to protect both her and themselves, stones bounced off their padded sleeves.
One clansman, shouting curses, drew his sword and ran toward the gang. They broke and fled, scattering like a startled flock of geese in all directions. A hand under her arm helped Catrin to stand, and the soldier pulled out a cloth from his pocket to press against her bleeding head.
“Tch, Me Lady,” he said, his tone kind, concerned. “Hold that tae yer brow. The bleedin’ wi’ stop soon.”
“I feel sick,” she murmured, thinking she might vomit right there in the middle of the street with all the condemning Scottish eyes watching her. She swallowed hard, refusing to give them the satisfaction, and straightened her back.
“We are leaving,” she told her escort, and walked through the crowd of villagers, pushing her way through if they did not give way. Ignoring the mutters of anger and hate, Catrin met their hostility with her own defiance, refusing to bow her head or avert her eyes. Upon reaching her gelding, she mounted as her escort scrambled into their saddles.
Riding at a walk, she endured their curses, their naming her a Sassenach bitch, deriding her as the enemy of the Scottish people. Though she had nothing to do with the continual wars between Scotland and her country of England, Catrin refused to defend her name to them, nor bow her head in shame. She would not give in to the temptation to scream insults, for that would lower herself to their level.
Lady Catrin Waterford, daughter of the Duke of Whitewood, was too good to stoop that low.
Upon reaching Ranulf’s castle, she handed her gelding over to the grooms to care for, ignoring their stares at her bloody state. Though the servants and clansmen in the castle had treated her with nothing save respect and courtesy, she now counted them all amongst her enemies. Making her way stiffly to her chambers, she dismissed her maids with a curt order.
Her head aching as though the boy had thrown an axe rather than a rock, her body hurting, Catrin sat in a chair near the window, gazing out at the distant lake. She wanted to weep, but refused to bow to that emotion, even in private. I am the daughter of a Duke. I descend from royalty. They cannot bend me, nor break me.
Not knowing how long she sat there, a knock at the door broke into her thoughts. Go away. Refusing to answer or invite the visitor in, she continued to stare out the window. When the door opened, she snapped her head around, prepared to scream the words, leave me alone.
Ranulf stuck his head around the door’s edge. Catrin’s words died in her throat, realizing that her men at arms would have reported what happened to their laird immediately. While she wanted to see no one, least of all the source of all her troubles, she knew he would not leave, even if she demanded it.
“Catrin?”
Shutting her jaw, she turned back to the window. Listening, she heard him walk across the room, and drag a chair over to plant near her. When he rested his hand on hers as it sat in her lap, she snatched it away.
“Do not touch me.”
“Ach, lass,” Ranulf said, his tone soft, kind. “I be sorry ye be havin’ such troubles. I ne’er thought the people might turn oan ye.”
“Perhaps you should have. They are your people after all.”
“Aye. The wars took their sons, and they be slow tae forgive.”
“Really? Well, so am I.” Catrin turned her face to glare at him. “You can leave me now.”
“Yer wounds dae be needin’ tendin’.”
“They are none of your concern.”
Ranulf looked away, a tic in his jaw working as he stared across the chamber. “This be me fault.”
“Yes, it is. If you want to make it right, take me home. I do not belong here. I had nothing to do with your brother’s death. Take m
e home. Take me home, you filthy renegade.”
By the time she finished speaking, Catrin’s voice rose to a scream, spittle flying from her mouth. Her hands itched to scratch his face, claw his eyes, as her fear, rage and frustration reached a breaking point. Her emotions spilled out of her in a flood, unwanted tears catching a hold of her.
Sobbing uncontrollably, she put her face in her hands, for the first time wishing that Ranulf had simply cut her throat and left her to die. Her head ached fiercely as she wept, the pain adding to her misery and loneliness and fear. Not caring if he thought less of her for her tears, she tried to scream at him again, commanding him to leave her alone. But the words stuck in her throat, and she choked on them.