by Sarah Hegger
Then he was gone, shutting the door softly.
“Dear God, Kathryn.” Mother smoothed Kathryn’s hair. “What did you do? I thought he would kill you for certain.”
Every movement, every breath hurt as Kathryn pushed herself to her knees and then onto her seat. “I am all right, Mother.”
“Nay, you are not.” Mother, pale but dry eyed, shook her head. “Are your ribs broken?”
“I do not think so.” Gingerly she touched her aching sides.
“I have a root powder for the pain.” Mother stood and went to her traveling chest. She rummaged within until she unearthed her trusty leather satchel. Lady Mary insured her guests always had a flagon of wine in their chamber and Mother poured some into a goblet and mixed in the grey powder. She brought it back to Kathryn. “Here. It will help. We can bind your ribs for a day or two to make it easier to move.”
How pitiful that she and her mother knew how to hide their injuries so well.
Kathryn drained the goblet. It hit her stomach and she retched. Clamping her jaw together she managed to hold the wine down.
“Come.” Mother helped her to her feet. “You cannot protect us, Kathryn. Not at this cost.”
She could not protect her mother at all if they were separated. Her father’s reminder came just in time. This was what came of putting your fate in the hands of a man.
Chapter 18
Roger lay awake and stared at his bed canopy, trying to force his jumbled thoughts into order. He had spoken with his father, and the marriage would take place as soon as Mother could decorate the hall and the chapel. Roger voted for an immediate wedding, but Lady Mary insisted the thing be done properly.
For his part, he did not care about flowers and ribbons, when he had already won the true prize. Kathryn.
His door creaked open and he propped himself on his elbows. He couldn’t say the slim, shift-clad figure slipping into his room surprised him. More like a welcome midnight visitor.
“Kathryn,” he greeted her.
“Oh.” She stopped partway between his bed and the door. “You are awake.”
“Indeed.” He sat up. “Shut the door before somebody sees you.”
Slowly she made her way to the bed, her gait slightly impaired. Had he made her nervous with his suggestion she close the door? How different to her last nocturnal visit. Then he had been concerned about ridding himself of his unwelcome visitor.
He patted the side of the bed. “Come and sit.”
“Nay.” Three feet away from the bed, she halted and folded her hands in front of her. “I do not plan to stay long.”
Her voice sounded strange, strained and labored.
“Are you all right?” Keeping the sheet to preserve his modesty, he eased his legs over the side of the bed.
“I am fine.” Her hand fluttered toward her ribs and then dropped by her side. “Fine,” she said, louder this time. “What I have to say will not take long.”
Roger did not like the sound of that, nor how still and contained she stayed. This did not bode well. He motioned her to continue.
“I cannot marry you. And I would beg that you tell my father we do not suit.” She turned and limped toward the door.
“I beg your pardon.” With Kathryn moving slower than usual, Roger had time to snatch up his sheet, hastily fasten it and still beat her to the door. Part of him wanted to shake the life out of her.
She stopped, swayed and placed her hand against her side. “You heard me.”
Aye, he had bloody well heard her. The blighted words still shredded him inside. He did not trust his voice or the anger that whipped his reason back like a cur. “Why?”
“We do not suit.”
“You are going to have to do better than that.” Did she think she could rend his heart from his chest and leave without an explanation? Not bloody likely.
“I cannot be a baroness. You must know how bad I would be at it. Only, I am going to need you to tell my father you cannot marry me.” Her breath caught on a gasp.
Reason glimmered through his anger. Something was amiss, badly amiss.
She dropped her hand and straightened. Soft, but ragged, a choked whimper filled the silence between them.
Roger really looked at his Kathryn. The dancing firelight hindered his cause but he dared not leave her long enough to light a taper. His nape tingled a warning he could not ignore. He propped his shoulders to the door and crossed his arms. She need not think she could leave him like that. “You cannot marry me but you need me to tell your father that it is I who cannot marry you?”
“Aye.”
“Because you believe you will make a terrible baroness?”
“Aye.”
Once more her body listed to the right, as if to protect itself. The action seemed instinctive, without intent, and his sense of foreboding grew.
“We do not suit,” she said.
“I cannot agree with you,” he said. “I believe we suit perfectly. We have remarkably similar interests, we enjoy time in each other’s company, and your response to my kiss gives me great hope for our future as man and wife.”
“Please.” It came out more mewl than word. “I cannot marry you, and you must renounce me. Can you not just let it be at that?”
“Nay, Kathryn, I cannot, and you are mad to think I would. I have searched long and hard for a wife, and now I have found her. I will not merely step back and let you leave.”
“You did for Matty.”
“I never felt one quarter for Matty what I feel for you.”
Her breath hitched on a sob. She winced and wrapped her arms about her trunk. “You must not say such things.”
Firelight glanced off the single tear winding down her cheek. It broke through the last of his anger. “And why is that, sweeting?”
“How can I leave you if you say such pretty things to me?” She looked haunted.
Instinct warned him not to do what his heart urged and clasp her to him. “I was rather hoping you would not leave me at all.”
She gave a larger sob, bent at the waist. “It is impossible.”
Something was very, very wrong with Kathryn. Tears she hated to shed leaked down her cheeks unstopped, and he grew certain she had hurt her ribs. As a lad in training, he’d fallen off his destrier onto a stone wall. He had pissed blood for two days, but nothing had hurt more than his ribs.
He cupped her elbow and took some of her weight. “Tell me why it is impossible.”
“I cannot.” She leaned into his clasp and he took a firmer grip on her forearm. Aye, she was hurt or he was the king’s jester.
“Is it because you are afeared of me?”
She laughed, gasped and then doubled over.
“Enough, Kathryn. Where are you hurt?” He grasped her by the waist.
Kathryn yelped.
Roger leapt back from her, truly frightened to touch any part of her. “What happened?”
“I fell.” She stared at her feet.
Something feral, untamed and pure burned through him. She lied to him, and he knew of only one reason a woman lied about her injuries. To protect the sod who had put them on her. Faye had lied for years to them about what her first husband, Calder, inflicted on her.
“You did not fall.” His voice shook with the rage he barely contained.
Her head came up but she evaded his gaze. “I fell, I swear it.”
“Tell me, Kathryn, or I will wake up your mother and father and find out.”
She gasped. “You cannot.”
“Where can I touch you?” He held his hands out to her. She looked as if she might crumple at any moment.
“Do not.” Her jaw clenched.
Sweet Jesu. He could no more cut off his hands, than not touch her. “Sweeting.” He approached as he would a wounded animal. “Let me take care of you. I need to.”
“I…hurt.” Her sob cut him deeper than the words.
Roger cupped her
elbows. Too scared of hurting her by picking her up, he eased her across the chamber and onto his bed.
No marks on her face or neck, her arms as smooth and silky as always. The damage must be hidden from sight. He plucked the chemise ties at her neck. “May I?”
She nodded. Her unbound hair hid her face.
He loosened the ties, and eased the chemise from her shoulders.
She clutched the falling fabric to her breasts. It did not matter. For once, her breasts held no interest for him.
“Dear God!” Bile rose in his throat. Covered from below her neckline to her hips, her skin bore the mottled blue-black and red of recent bruising. If defied him that she could still stand. Her ribs had taken the brunt of the hits. “I need to get Nurse to look at these.”
“Nay!” Cheeks flushed, she tugged her chemise over her shoulders again.
Ivy would have been preferable, but Ivy, now wedded to Tom, lived with him on their farm. Still, Nurse, had eased more than her share of his bruises and hurts. “Sweeting, these are bad.” He crouched at her feet. “We need to know if the hurt is only on the outside.”
“You would parade my shame throughout Anglesea?” Her chin came up in a flash of the fire and steel of his Kathryn.
“Nay, my Kathryn, I would ease your pain, and ensure your wellbeing.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed one and then the other. “Nurse will say nothing, but she can make you more comfortable.”
She stared at him, and finally gave him the nod he sought.
“You will wait here?”
“Aye.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “Time was you did not want me in your bedchamber in the midst of the night.”
“Seems I was mistaken.” He touched her cheek.
Nurse kept her own room below the kitchens, down eerie, dark stairs that led to the cooler depths of the Anglesea cellars.
She awoke with a grumble, took one look at him and hurried him out so she could dress. She emerged again with her bag of medicaments and followed him back to his chamber.
Nurse could chatter a man’s head off when she took it into her head to do so, but she remained cool and competent when needed.
Shutting his bedchamber door on him, Nurse went to work.
* * * *
The old woman shuffled toward her, a huge leather satchel banging at her hip. Mandeville had no resident healer, and her mother had nursed Matty and her. Roger seemed to trust the woman.
“Our lad tells me you have been hurt.” The older woman’s wimple pressed all the flesh of her cheeks forward like a bloated pig’s bladder.
Kathryn affected a casual shrug, and her body bellowed its protest of even that light movement. “I will be fine.”
“Aye, you will be.” Nurse stopped right before her. “When you let old Nurse have a look at what’s amiss.”
Her manner drew Kathryn in, and held her there. Trust me, seemed to whisper from her.
And, just like that, she did. With some help from Nurse, Kathryn wriggled out of her chemise. “It looks worse than it feels.”
Nurse stilled. “Oh, I doubt that, darling girl.” Gentle as a butterfly, Nurse touched gnarled fingers to the worst of her bruises. “Just fists or boots as well?”
“Both.”
“Men!” Nurse spat the word. “The times I would like to take some whoreson out to the woods and beat him to a wet heap of bloody mush.”
Kathryn choked back a laugh, because it hurt too much.
Nurse dug in her bag and brought forth a small, earthen pot. “This will sting a mite.”
A mite! Kathryn near jumped out of her skin at the burn of whatever foul smelling concoction Nurse spread over her ribs.
“Think of something else,” Nurse said. “Like what you are doing in Roger’s bedchamber when you should be in your own.”
As a distraction it worked instantly. Kathryn had naught but the truth to offer. “I came to tell him I could not marry him.”
“Oh, aye.” Nurse carried on applying salve as if they discussed the weather. “And why is that?”
“I think he should know if I am not going to marry him.”
Nurse chuckled. “You are a lively one, aren’t you Lady Kate?”
“Kathryn.” She winced as Nurse applied salve to her hip. “The one who did this calls me Kate.”
After a searching stare, Nurse returned to her ministering. “Here.” She mixed a red powder into a glass of wine. “This will ease the swelling and also the discomfort.”
Kathryn sipped and nearly spat it out.
Nurse’s hard stare made her swallow.
“What was that?”
“A little something I save for lively-lipped lasses.” Nurse winked. “So, why is it that you cannot marry our lad? Seems to me you would be better off with him.”
“My mother,” Kathryn said. “If I am not there, he will do this to her.”
“Ah.” Nurse nodded. She stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “Talk to Roger, Lady Kathryn. He is a good lad, right down to his huge heart. Men like him are a rare find, and a clever girl holds onto one if she has him.”
Kathryn did believe she was a clever girl, and she nodded.
Nurse helped her back into her chemise. “I will give you a moment or two with our Roger, then it is back to bed for you, my lady. Your bed. Alone.”
Roger opened the door at her knock and Nurse bustled past him with a stern look. “A couple of minutes and then you walk her to her door.” She wagged a finger. “You cannot lie to me, Roger-lad.”
“And well I know it.” Roger kissed her weathered cheek. “My thanks, Nurse. We will keep this amongst us.”
“I can keep a secret.” Nurse adjusted her satchel. “Not like that sister of yours.”
Roger shut the door on Nurse’s rotund figure retreating down the dim corridor. He came to sit beside her. “How are you?”
“Better.” The ache in her ribs had subsided to a low grumble. That powder Nurse had given her made her not care nearly as much.
“Was it your father?”
“Aye.”
“Why?’
“He wanted to know where Matty was.”
“And you did not tell him.” Roger rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“Of course I did not tell him.”
“Of course.” He sat up, his gaze searching. “This I swear to you on all that I hold dear, that man will never lift a finger to you or your mother ever again. Ever.” The chaste kiss on her forehead tingled. “Marry me. Give me the right before God and man to keep my oath.”
“Aye.”
Chapter 19
Roger left her at her bedchamber door. Once the door shut behind her, he let his mask drop. He slammed his fist into the wall, relishing the pain.
Fury clamored at him, demanding he wrench Sir Royce limb from limb.
He punched the wall again. The skin split over his knuckles.
“That’s a stupid thing to do.” Garrett appeared out of the gloomy corridor. He looked tired and rumpled.
“Sod off.” Roger leaned against the wall and fought the rising tide of his anger.
Garrett propped his shoulder on the wall opposite. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” Roger balled his fists before he slammed them into the wall again. “How did you know?”
Garrett shrugged. “I watch.” He leaned his back to the wall and pushed a hand through his rumpled hair. “And I spend a lot of time walking these corridors at night.”
“Bea kicked you out?” The taunt came as more habit than aught else.
“Aye.” Garrett shoved his hands in his pockets. “We do not see this the same way. She sees my need to make my own way as ingratitude.”
They stood for a long moment, both of them lost in their own thoughts.
“I have never wanted to kill a man more,” Roger said.
“Aye.” Garrett nodded. “But that will not solve the problem.”
“Aye, it would.” Blood lust surged through Roger. “He can’t lift a hand to her again if I rip them off him and shove them down his throat.”
“You are lord of Anglesea first.” Garrett pushed away from the wall. “You cannot afford to kill another of the king’s barons. And nobody will openly condemn what they see as a father’s right to discipline his daughter.”
Roger wanted to punch the wall again.
“Do not.” Garrett read his mind. He chuckled, a dark, evil sound that lifted the hair on Roger’s nape. “You are so full of honor and nobility it does not occur to you that there is more than one way to make a man pay.”
“You can see a way to make him pay?” Roger shook his head. Garrett and his twisted mind baffled him.
“Not yet.” Garrett strolled away from him. “But I shall certainly give it some thought.”
“You would help me?” Roger found that hard to believe.
“Nay.” Garrett spoke over his shoulder. “I would help Lady Kathryn. No woman deserves that.”
Roger took the opposite direction. His conversation with Garrett had calmed him enough to ensure the safety of the wall and his bruised knuckles.
His father had raised all three boys never to raise their hand to someone weaker, particularly not a woman. At seven years, Roger had pushed Faye over some minor childish squabble. The lesson taught him that day by Sir Arthur stayed with him into adulthood. His father, by not raising a finger, had managed to convey the inherent evil in allowing violence to win over reason, and using might against a lesser opponent.
Sir Arthur had taken him and William to the river, and demanded they drown a sack full of newly born puppies. Both he and William had begged and pleaded for the lives of the mewling, squirming pups. Father had been adamant—drown them! Crying all the while, Roger had taken the sack and approached the water. Only at the point his younger self felt certain the end was nigh, did Sir Arthur stop him and sit both boys by the river bank. Strength was a gift and a responsibility, he had said. The measure of a man’s strength was not in the sword he wielded or the fist he made. It lay, instead, in his judgment and his humility.