by Barbara Bard
The sun, dimmed by lowering clouds, stood straight overhead. Though his wound pained him, he found himself able to ignore it for the most part. Only when his mount stumbled did he find himself grimacing in agony. Every hour, he dismounted and walked the horse, permitting him to snatch mouthfuls of grass as they traveled. Water was plentiful, and Ranulf drank of the clear, cold streams as often as his horse.
“Dinnae give up, lass,” he muttered as he walked. “Ye ken I be comin’ fer ye.”
His mind skittered from what Hargrove would do to her. If he planned to marry her immediately, he would then take her to his bedroom and – “Nay,” he said to himself fiercely. “He wi’ want tae dae it right. Wi’ witnesses, a bishop tae perform the ceremony. I hae time afore –”
Once again, Ranulf could not bring himself to think of Hargrove’s body on top of Catrin’s, raping her on their wedding night, taking her savagely, hurting her – getting her with his child.
“If she be wi’ child, it be mine!”
Alternating walking and riding, munching dried meat as he traveled, Ranulf continued on through the night, guiding himself by the stars. If Hargrove stopped to rest for the night, Ranulf had a chance of closing the distance between them, even with his slower pace. In the early hours before the dawn, Ranulf lay down to sleep for a short while, leaving his horse to munch the grass.
Dawn found him mounting up again, crossing the moors of northern England. Walking and trotting, his stallion seemed no less for wear even if Ranulf himself was exhausted. Still, he dismounted to walk, as the beast not just had to get him to Hargrove’s castle, he had to carry both Ranulf and Catrin back out.
Late in the afternoon, he crouched on a hill, gazing down at Hargrove’s castle. He observed the usual activity – men guarding the walls, peasants moving in and out, sheep and cattle grazing over the moors. He had no way of knowing if Hargrove had returned with Catrin but realized he could do nothing until after dark.
Munching cold fare, his horse grazing behind him, Ranulf rested, preparing himself to sneak into the castle and bring Catrin out. He grinned, knowing exactly how he would manage it.
“Ach, lass,” he said, “ye clever lass, ye dae teach me how tae get in and you oot.”
Chapter 31
Glaring furiously, Catrin fought as Gilbert of Hargrove marched her, his strong hand hurting her arm, down the passageways of his castle toward the chapel. His pair of knights, Sirs Jarrett and John she discovered their names were, followed behind them. Without a weapon, she was as helpless as a kitten in his grip. Though she knew what he planned could not hold up in the law of the realm, she was terrified of what would follow.
“Marrying me by force,” she gritted, struggling. “Will avail you nothing. My father will declare it null and void, and the church will annul it.”
“By now,” Gilbert said conversationally, “your illustrious sire is dead.”
Catrin stopped fighting and tried to stop her feet from moving forward. “What?”
Gilbert stopped and grinned down at her. “Saul planted an assassin in your father’s household. He will die as your brother planned, to put poison in his drink. Everyone will believe it is his illness that finally claimed his life. And you, my soon to be bride, will inherit his wealth and estates, and as the law states, you will then turn them over to me.”
“No,” Catrin gasped. “Not my father. You cannot murder him.”
“Why ever not?” Hargrove laughed. “I killed the son, so why not the father?”
Tearing her arm from his, Catrin backed away, retreating until she struck the armored chests of the knights. “No,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes from his. “You killed Henry? Why? He was your friend, he loved you. Why?”
Gilbert gestured toward her. “To marry you, of course. With Henry alive, you were just a wife, an alliance, with him. But with him dead, you are the source of wealth, power, the ear of the king himself. Now your sire is dead, and you as my wife, I will rule half of all England.”
“King Edward will never permit it,” she snapped. “A marriage under duress is illegal.”
“But no one except you and I,” he said, “will know. Except for my witnesses, of course, who will testify you married me willingly. You, my sweet wife, will never speak to anyone except whom I want you to speak with. Now let us go. The priest is waiting.”
Seizing her by the arm again, Gilbert dragged her down the stone corridor, not caring at all that he hurt her. Catrin tried not to grieve for her father, tried to find hope that he avoided, even by accident, the assassin’s poison. She tried not to think of Ranulf, who even yet may lie dead, far to the north. Ranulf, be alive, please be alive.
Men at arms opened the doors to the chapel wide as she was forced inside, observing the priest, who appeared even more terrified of what was happening than she was. The poor man stood with his cross before him, clad in his formal vestments, fear sweat dripping down his cheek.
Gilbert’s hand on her shoulder forced her to her knees in front of the cleric. One of the mailed knights grip kept her there as Hargrove also knelt. As Catrin frantically prayed for deliverance from this atrocity, the priest, his voice shaking, spoke the words of the ceremony that made them her husband and his wife.
Though she refused to speak her vows, that did not seem to bother Gilbert at all. It was necessarily brief, with the Earl vowing to love and cherish her. As the priest made the sign of the cross over them both, he said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
To her disgust, Gilbert kissed her full on the mouth. Taking her by the arm, he dragged her to her feet. “I apologize for not having a wedding ring, my beloved wife,” he said, grinning, “but I will get you one. Eventually. Maybe.”
Seizing her arm again, he dragged her to her feet. With the two knights following, Catrin was hustled out of the chapel, her terror rising. After her first sexual experience with Ranulf, she knew what to expect. However, she knew Gilbert would not be gentle. She knew very well how brutal men could be when raping women, and rape, despite their alleged marriage, was what he would do to her.
As they strode rapidly down the corridors and up the stair ways to his chambers, Gilbert leered at her. “I have been dreaming of this day for a very long time, my dear wife. You in my bed, your father’s wealth in my coffers.”
Catrin struggled to wrench her arm from his grip but could not. “You are vile,” she spat, trying to kick him, punch him with her free hand.
“Ah, and here I thought you would love me for my charm.” He laughed. He ignored her attempts to fight him as though she were a toddler trying to do the same. “You are rather helpless without a bow in your hand.”
“Then give me one and lose your eyes.”
Passing a few windows, Catrin found night had fallen outside. Her terror and dread increased as she noticed the bulge in Hargrove’s trousers, clear even through his tunic covering his hips and crotch. Though she knew he would not kill her, for he needed her alive to produce children, Catrin had no doubts she was in for a very terrible night.
Opening the door to his chambers, Hargrove stopped, glancing at the two knights. “You two remain here. She is not to leave my chambers.”
The pair bowed low as he shut the door, shoving Catrin toward the bedchamber. “Get undressed, wife.”
Catrin rubbed her sore arm, watching him carefully as Hargrove stripped off his tunic and mail shirt. “No.”
He shrugged lazily, his chest and shoulders almost as muscular as Ranulf’s. “So be it.”
He lunged for her, but Catrin was ready for it. Dodging his reaching arm, she swung her fist and cracked it across his eye. The blow hurt her fist and wrist; still she hit him again even as his hands tore her gown down the front. Hargrove cursed, smacking her across her cheek, snapping her head around.
Lifting her knee, Catrin tried to slam it into his bulge, but he twisted his body to the side, and she struck his thigh instead. He grunted, grinning, even as she raked her nails across his cheek. Bleedin
g, Hargrove winced, and back handed her across her face. Catrin fell to the stone floor, dazed.
“While I like a feisty maid now and then,” he said, panting lightly, “I grow weary and crave to be in you.”
Catrin glared up at him. “Then, as always, you follow behind Ranulf.”
Hargrove, reaching for her, stopped, staring at her in disbelief. “You – slept with Thorburn?”
Clutching the torn folds of her gown together, Catrin grinned maliciously up at him, scrambling to her feet. “I did. I may already carry his child.”
“You bitch.”
Using his fist this time, Hargrove struck her hard across her cheekbone, knocking her to the floor again. “You are no longer a virgin,” he gritted, incensed. “You are tainted. I should kill you right now.”
Her head spinning, filled with pain, Catrin tasted blood in her mouth. Yet, she still raised a sneer in his direction. “Then you gain nothing from my father or my inheritance.”
Seizing her by the arm again, Hargrove lifted her to her feet. Expecting to be hit again, Catrin braced herself. Hargrove glared into her eyes, spittle forming on the corners of his mouth. “You will pay for your folly, Catrin,” he snarled.
Dragging her to the door, he flung it open. Startled, the two knights turned, questioning with raised brows, as Hargrove sent her spinning into their arms. “Put her in the dungeon,” Hargrove ordered harshly. “Until I decide what to do with her. And bring me a wench. A virgin.”
As Hargrove slammed the door in their faces, Catrin wiped blood from her lips with the back of her hand as the two knights seized hold of her arms. While their hands did not hurt her as Hargrove’s had, they were implacable and strong. Though she felt some relief that she was spared rape that night, Catrin knew she was far from being free of danger.
Unable to keep her torn gown together as they marched her down the stairs, Catrin flushed as they passed bowing servants, many of whom stared openly at her bosom. She caught a rapid glimpse of one with red hair and hazel eyes in the faint torchlight before he, too, bowed, reminding her painfully of Ranulf.
Hustled down into the dank, darkness of the castle’s roots, Catrin swallowed her fear as the two knights shoved her down stone steps that felt slippery with mold and damp under her feet. The place stank of death and rot, rats hurrying away from the sound of their steps. The knights stopped long enough to light a torch, then pushed her even further down into the dark.
Fear and despair filled her heart as the knights shoved her into a cell and shut the steel door with a clang. Before they walked away, taking the torch with them, Catrin caught a glimpse of bones gleaming in the corner amid the nasty straw, the grinning skeleton of someone who had died in there, long before.
Then the knights climbed the steps and vanished, leaving her in the absolute dark.
Chapter 32
Leaving his stallion tied on the hill, Ranulf crept down the hill in the dark, grateful there was no moon that night. Hurrying from shadow to shadow, he made his silent way toward the castle, keeping a sharp watch for guards on the walls. He heard no shouts of alarm to indicate he had been seen as he reached the base of the castle. Gazing upward into the dark, he saw no watchers. But they were there.
Just as Catrin had climbed down two different walls, Ranulf found the same hand and foot holds she had. Slinging his sword across his back to avoid risking the hilt clashing against the stone, he slid his boots and fingers into crevices and uneven granite blocks. Ignoring the pain of his injury, Ranulf climbed steadily up.
Nearing the battlements, he froze, listening for the scrape of boots on stone that informed him watchmen patrolled past. Sure enough, he heard the steps of a guard walk past, then slipped noiselessly through the crenellations. Crouching in the shadows, he remained still, moving only his eyes as he looked for threats. As the guard had paused at the end of his route to speak to another, Ranulf used the opportunity to hurry toward the doorway that led off the castle’s roof.
Slipping silently through it, he hurried down the steps, keeping all his senses on high alert. At this time of night, most of the castle’s occupants had sought their beds, but he knew servants still walked the corridors and halls as they performed their duties. Suspecting that Hargrove, like many nobles, would have his quarters on an upper level, Ranulf slid eel like down the corridors, searching for Hargrove’s.
He heard the servant before he saw him. Reaching for his dagger, Ranulf wedged himself into a black corner, out of the faint torchlight that lit the stone corridor at intervals. Reversing the hilt, he waited until the servant passed him, then struck the back of the man’s head. The servant collapsed in a heap.
Opening the nearest door, Ranulf discovered it to be a small unused room, dusty with age. Dragging the servant inside it, he silently closed the door. Feeling his way in the darkness, Ranulf stripped the man of his tunic bearing Gilbert of Hargrove’s emblem on the breast. Pulling it on over his own, he adjusted his sword belt so that it lay flat against his back with the hilt against his shoulders.
Taking the servant’s cloak, he threw it on, covering his sword, yet kept the emblem exposed. Hoping the servant would not wake for hours, Ranulf slipped through the door and closed it behind him. Walking openly now, he rounded his shoulders as a peasant servant would, and continued his search for Hargrove’s apartments.
He passed other servants, who offered him brief nods of acknowledgment, but grew frustrated when he could not seem to find where Hargrove slept and would now have Catrin. While he had not wanted to ask a servant, fearing his accent would betray him, he began to think he would have no choice.
Continuing on, Ranulf tried not to think of what the brutal Earl might be doing to her. He knew if he did, he would not be able to control his rage. “I be comin’ fer ye, lass,” he muttered. “Be strong.”
Hearing a door slam on the floor above him, Ranulf froze, waiting, listening. While it may not be Hargrove’s, he suspected it might be. Servants would not slam doors for fear of enraging their masters. Walking a few steps closer to the stairs that led upward, he then heard the sounds of booted feet on stone.
Stepping to the side, his back to the wall and out of direct torchlight, he hoped the sword on his back could not be seen as the owners of the feet headed toward them. Three of them, he saw, two big knights – and Catrin between them. They held her by the arms, marching her along, and his anger rose when he saw her gown had been ripped down the front.
Swallowing his rage, Ranulf bowed low as the knights passed him. He caught a rapid glimpse of the fresh bruises on her face, but she appeared otherwise unharmed. Permitting the knights and their captive to walk ahead, Ranulf followed. Though it would be too easy to attack them from behind and retrieve Catrin, he knew he could not fight his way out of the castle. Getting her out safely meant using stealth and shadows.
The knights made their way steadily down into the bowels of the castle, Ranulf sliding from shadow to shadow on their heels. The further down they went, the fewer servants they encountered. At last, they opened a door to a dark stairway, stopping long enough to light a torch. Now knowing they planned to put her in the dungeon, Ranulf decided to hide, waiting for them to come back out without her.
Long moments passed, Ranulf growing more and more concerned. Surely, they did not torture Catrin down there – he heard no screams that would indicate it. Just as he was about to follow them down, the knights returned. Closing the door behind them, they walked past his hiding spot and vanished, taking the torch with them.
Hurrying to the door, Ranulf went through it, and discovered why the knights had needed a light to carry. The place was so dark he could not see anything at all. Walking back toward the main corridors, he glanced around carefully before taking a lit torch from its sconce. He then went down the steps into the dungeon.
Nearly slipping on the dank stone steps, Ranulf continued on down, scenting the odors of mold and rat urine, seeing the rodents scuttle away from him. Reaching the final level and the c
ells within, he whispered, “Catrin? Catrin? Where ye be?”
The sounds of clothing rustling came to his ears even though he saw little beyond the light of the torch. Then he heard the sweetest word ever. “Ranulf?”
Following the sound of her voice, Ranulf trotted to her cell. The light fell upon her bruised face, but her smile lit a fire in his heart. “Oh, God, you are alive,” she exclaimed. “I was so afraid you were dead.”
His fingers found hers through the bars of the metal door, her touch jolting him. “Ye should ken by noo I be hard tae kill.”
“You came for me.”
“’O coorse.”
The cell door was locked, but Ranulf was not a Scot for nothing. Using the tip of his dagger, he sought the mechanism inside and flipped it. The door opened with a screech, and then Catrin was in his arms. Holding her tight, Ranulf breathed in her sweet scent, her hair tickling his nose.