by Barbara Bard
Taking her by the shoulders, he pushed her gently from him, gazed down into her eyes. “Did he – hurt ye, lass?”
Catrin shook her head. “He did marry me in front of a priest, but he did not – you know. I told him that you and I – well, it infuriated him. He sent me down here.”
Ranulf drew in a deep breath. “Then the marriage be nae consummated. It be nae valid in the eyes ‘o the church.”
“Marrying me by force also negates it,” Catrin agreed. “I did not speak any vows.”
Swiftly kissing her, Ranulf took her by the hand, the torch in the other. “We be dog meat if we dinnae get oot ‘o here noo.”
Leading her toward the steps, he went quickly up them, Catrin moving nearly as silently as Ranulf. Reaching the upper door, he peeked around it, listening, and heard nothing. With the hour growing even later, he suspected more servants and occupants of the castle had sought their beds. Even so, he kept them both to the shadows, returning the torch to its sconce.
Unwilling to take the time to search for a room with a window in the outer wall, Ranulf took Catrin with him to the rooftop and the battlements, listening at the door he had entered through. Cracking it open a fraction, he waited, watching and listening as the guards walked their posts.
It took several long minutes before the opportunity came. When the watchmen paused at the far end, Ranulf gestured to Catrin that it was time to go. She nodded, following him out onto the battlements. Nipping through the crenellations, Ranulf faced the wall and began the slow climb down. Catrin, more experienced than he, reached the ground before he did, and stood in the deep shadows waiting for him.
Glad she knew how to move quickly and silently, Ranulf once more took her by the hand and led her away from Hargrove’s castle. His spirits rose the further they got from it, his hopes soaring, but he also knew they were still in danger of being captured.
Climbing the hill, far out of earshot of the walls, Catrin said, “We did it. We got away from him. I almost cannot believe it.”
“We nae be free yet,” Ranulf said, untying his stallion. “This lad has tae carry us leagues intae Scotland afore we be free ‘o Hargrove’s clutches. Nae doubt he be oan uir trail come first light.”
“Maybe we should head for Linfield first,” Catrin said as he helped her into the saddle. “Get another horse.”
“Nay.” Ranulf mounted up behind her and reined the horse down the hill. “We must ride, hard and fast, get tae me men. E’en then, Hargrove wi’ follow. He nae let ye gae that easy.”
Catrin grasped his arm. “We need to get to my father, Ranulf. Hargrove planted an assassin in his servants to kill him. He killed Henry, too.”
“’Twas Hargrove who killed ye brother?” Ranulf asked, astounded. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Gilbert murdered Henry to clear the way for Catrin to inherit.
“Yes, and he is going to kill my father, too. Please, we have to ride to my father, to warn him. To save him.”
Though it went against every Scottish drop in his blood to ride openly to a Sassenach castle, especially one he was at war with, Ranulf had to agree. He needed the Duke alive in order to stop this war, to make his peace with Henry, the Duke of Whitewood. Now that he could ride there with the name of Henry the younger’s murderer, he wondered if he could ever forgive the Duke for hanging his brother.
“Very well,” he replied with a sigh. “We ride fer yer da. I jist hope he dinnae hang me oan sight.”
Catrin grinned. “I will not let him.”
Riding as hard as they dared the remainder of the night, sparing the horse as much as possible, they arrived at Catrin’s ancestral home by early afternoon. Topping a ridge overlooking the Castle Linfield, Ranulf felt shock like a blow. In the castle’s shadow lay an armed camp, tents and banners of the men called to fight his country.
“It is really happening,” Catrin murmured. “The war has started.”
“Nae as long as they be here,” Ranulf replied, nudging the horse down the hill. “The war nae started yet, but soon wi’.”
Riding amid the tents and the camp filled with armed men, they drew curious eyes, but none challenged them until they reached the castle. Before they could cross the drawbridge, soldiers bearing the badge of the Earl of Kesterton blocked their path with lowered halberds. Ranulf felt Catrin stiffen. “Where are my father’s men?” she muttered.
“I am Lady Catrin of Whitewood,” she called to them. “Lower your weapons and let us pass.”
Murmurs ran ahead of them like a breeze through a meadow, men speaking her name as the men at arms bowed them through. Trotting into the bailey, Ranulf reined in as a stocky man with a long grey beard hurried from the castle’s postern door. With a gasp, Catrin lifted her leg over the pommel and slid down from the saddle.
“Uncle!”
As Ranulf also dismounted, Catrin and the man embraced. “Where is Father?” he heard her ask as he walked up behind them.
The grey beard stroked his hand down her hair. “Thank God you got here in time. He is dying, Catrin.”
Chapter 33
Catrin could not believe what Kesterton had just said. “Dying? No, that cannot be.”
Stunned, feeling as though she had just been punched in the stomach, she stared as her uncle took her hand. Her father could not possibly be dying, she and Ranulf had ridded hard to save him, there must be some mistake. Half turning, she found Ranulf’s strong presence beside her.
“He is, Catrin,” Kesterton said gently. “Come. You must see him before he goes.”
Rushing into the castle, her heart in agony, Catrin heard Ranulf ask, “Was he poisoned?”
Kesterton halted a moment as though seeing Ranulf for the first time. “Who are you?” he asked.
“This is Ranulf Thorburn, Uncle,” Catrin said. “I will explain everything later. But was he? Poisoned?”
Continuing on, almost running, Kesterton asked, “Why would you think that?”
“We just came from Gilbert of Hargrove,” Catrin said, picking up her skirts to hurry faster, her heart thudding in her fear. “He kidnapped me, forced me to marry him against my will, he told me he planted an outlaw in the castle to poison Father. He also told me he killed my brother.”
“Good God.”
Kesterton hurried her up the staircase to the floor where her father kept his apartments. “You must tell this to your father, girl,” he said, striding quickly at her side. “If it is not too late.”
“Maybe he will get better.” Catrin tried to reassure herself that this was just another episode in her father’s long illness, that he was not poisoned, and that he would improve with time. He had done it before and could get well again.
Kesterton gave her a long look under his bushy grey brows. “Let us hope so,” he murmured.
The anteroom of the Duke’s apartments was filled with people as they entered. Catrin gazed around, recognizing the Marquesses of Summerland and Folkshire, who offered her slow, somber bows. William of Breedmont also bowed without smiling, taking her hand to kiss. All three eyed Ranulf askance but said nothing.
Sir Alban stepped forward to bow. “My Lady. Please come.”
Clasping Ranulf’s hand to make sure he came with her, Catrin, filled with fear, walked behind the knight into her father’s bedchamber. The room was dark with the shutters drawn over the windows, and candles pushed back some of the gloom. The Duke’s physicians bowed as she entered, as did the castle’s priest. These men stepped aside for her as she walked hesitantly toward the bed.
Her father lay in it, his eyes closed, covered to his chest by the coverlets. His arms lay outside them, and, sitting gingerly on the edge of it beside him, she picked up his hand. “Father?”
His breathing shallow and uneven, the Duke’s skin was sallow, his cheeks sunken in. In her fingers, his felt unnaturally cold, as though he had already died. Yet, his chest rose and fell, and she could feel his slow pulse. Licking her dry lips, Catrin tried again.
“
Father?”
This time, his eyes fluttered open. After blinking a few times, they rolled around until they settled on hers. The Duke smiled. “Catrin,” he whispered.
“I am here, Father,” she said, gripping his hand tightly. “I am going to look after you, make you well again.”
“No, my daughter,” he murmured. “Your mother is here, waiting to take me home.”
Tears filled her eyes, streamed down her cheeks. “No. You cannot leave me. Please, stay with me. I love you.”
Desperate, willing him to live, Catrin stroked her fingers down his hollow cheek. “You are going to be all right.”
The Duke’s eyes roamed past her, gazing at Ranulf. “A Scot,” he murmured.
“Father,” Catrin said, sobs choking her throat, her tears half blinding her. “This is Ranulf Thorburn. His brother did not kill Henry. Gilbert of Hargrove did, he told me himself. His brother was innocent.”
“Thorburn.”
Henry’s eyed closed for a long moment, his breathing slowing until it was almost imperceptible. Then he shook his hand free of Catrin’s, and his eyes opened. Reaching past her, he offered his hand to Ranulf. Half turning, Catrin watched, holding her breath, as Ranulf took it.
“Thorburn,” her father murmured. “Forgive me. Please. I was wrong – to hang Kyle. Forgive me.”
Ranulf’s face, devoid of emotion, told Catrin nothing. He had told her time and again he wished to confront her father with the name of her brother’s murderer and make peace. But now, with his bitter enemy’s hand in his, would he refuse? Catrin knew quite well he had the right to say no.
“Aye, Yer Grace,” Ranulf said at last, his voice low. “I dae forgive ye. May me brother and yer son be sharin’ ‘o handshake e’en as we dae.”
The Duke gave a tiny nod. “Be at peace, Ranulf Thorburn.”
“And ye, Duke ‘o Whitewood.”
Henry lowered his hand, offering a tiny smile. “You are free to marry my daughter, if you so wish.”
Ranulf sucked in his breath. “Aye. I dae.”
Henry’s eyes returned to Catrin. “Take care of her, all the days of your life.”
“I wi’. I swear it.”
“Father,” Catrin pleaded, taking his hand. It felt colder than ever, as though his spirit were already leaving his body. “Talk to me. Please, you must live.”
But her father did not answer her. His eyes slowly closed again, his breathing once again grew shallow. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, Catrin feared the end had come. Her tears fell faster than she could wipe them away as Henry’s breath left his lungs and did not return.
Henry Waterford, the Duke of Whitewood, died.
Barely aware of the shutters being flung open to permit his spirit freedom, Catrin sobbed. Bowing her head until it rested against the coverlets, she lay her arm across her father’s chest and wept.
And wept.
***
Catrin buried her father two days later.
With Ranulf beside her, her father’s friends, allies, vassals and retainers in a wide circle around the grave, she half listened as the priest intoned prayers. He would be interred between her mother and her brother, the place he had selected long ago. Her eyes dry as befits the heir of the Duke of Whitewood, she still felt the deep heaviness in her heart.
The service over, she returned to the castle, Ranulf at her side, her head up and her back straight. William, the Duke of Breedmont, walked to her other side as her uncle Kesterton walked behind. The others followed according to their rank.
“Are you certain you wish this meeting now?” William asked.
Catrin smiled wanly. “Yes, we need to discuss how best to end this war before blood is spilled.”
“King Edward has sent word that he is a week’s ride away and has twenty thousand men with him.”
“That gives us a week to find Gilbert of Hargrove and hang him.”
William eyed her sidelong. “The King may disapprove of your betrothal to Ranulf.”
“He may also see it as a blessing to end the carnage between two countries.”
“You would have made a fine Duke had you been born a man,” he said, grinning, and including Ranulf in his humor.
Catrin took Ranulf’s arm. “I will make a better Duchess to Duke Ranulf.”
Leaving most of the details of the funeral and the subsequent meeting to her uncle of Kesterton, as he was the executor of her father’s will, she nonetheless knew he had planned a funeral feast. She, Ranulf, and her father’s leading allies and vassals, would discuss the future of their alliances at the high table.
It felt strange to her to sit in her father’s chair. Ranulf sat to her right while William of Breedmont took the chair to her left. Below, knights, minor vassals and her father’s men at arms and retainers filed in after the burial and sat at the tables.
“Now then,” she said as the servants began serving the wine and food. “You all know of my father’s wishes that I marry Ranulf of Scotland. It is my hope that you will honor the old allegiances you gave my father.”
William stood, raising his goblet and his voice. “To our new Duchess, Catrin of Whitewood!”
All around the high table, and the entire hall, raised their cups and shouted, “Hail, Catrin of Whitewood!” The place thundered under the yells of hundreds of voices that saluted her. But it was not lost on her, or Ranulf, that they did not salute him. Bitterness rose to Catrin’s mouth and hung there, but she was realistic enough to realize the old hatreds between England and Scotland could not be healed with a single marriage.
In a sidelong glance at him, Catrin found Ranulf’s expression calm, neutral, as though he expected nothing less. Discreetly, under the table, she fumbled for his hand and squeezed it. He pressed her in return but did not look at her.
“Permit me to start, My Lady,” William said. “I am willing to honor the alliance I had with your father. However, I align myself with you, as Duchess, not your future husband.”
He met Ranulf’s eyes boldly. “While I respect you for what you have done to save our lady’s life and honor, I cannot commit my loyalty to a Scotsman.”
Ranulf inclined his head. “And I respect ye fer yer honesty, Duke.”
The Earl of Kesterton spoke up. “I have no qualms about Thorburn,” he said, his voice hard. “Upon their marriage, I will put my hands between his and swear my undying loyalty as his vassal. It is what Henry would have wanted. What I know about him so far, I believe he will make a worthy Duke to follow.”
“It is time to put aside our differences,” Catrin said. “English, Scottish, we are all people. Ranulf has as much honor as anyone here, as my esteemed uncle pointed out. As Duke of Whitewood, he will rule these lands with a just and fair hand.”
“And should England and Scotland go to war?” asked the Marquess of Summerland, leaning forward, his eyes intent. “Where will his loyalties be then? For the English King or for the Scottish?”
All eyes turned to Ranulf, even Catrin’s. She knew this would be difficult position for him to be in, caught between his loyalties to England as his sovereign, or to Scotland, the land of his birth. She had no idea what he would say to the Marquess, but obviously he would have to make a choice. Ranulf glanced at each and every one of them in the eye before he spoke.
“If there be war, now or in the future,” he said slowly. “I wid relinquish my titles in Scotland and lead my Sassenach forces against me own people. Though it wid break me heart tae dae so.”
Gusts of breath resounded through the room as no doubt many held their breath in abeyance, waiting on his words. The Marquess of Summerland nodded, as did the Marquess of Ffolkshire, the two most powerful of the Whitewood vassals.
“Then I would not hesitate to swear my loyalty to you, Ranulf of Whitewood,” Summerland stated firmly.
“I dae thank ye.”
“Me as well,” added Ffolkshire. “If you have enough honor to side with your wife’s people, then I am with you.”
Si
r Alban, seated further down the table, also spoke up. “I, too, will swear my loyalty to Ranulf. For what he did to save My Lady Catrin, he will have my undying loyalty and service, if he will have me.”
Catrin smiled at the knight, knowing he grieved for the old Duke almost as much as Catrin. He had served Henry with honor and had been one of his closest friends as well as his advisor. That he was willing to serve the new Duke told her just how much respect Sir Alban had for Ranulf.
Ranulf inclined his head graciously to all three. “I swear I wi’ be a guid and jist laird tae ye.”