‘Katerina! Hurry up, or I’m coming in!’ Waleran called from outside the tent. ‘It’s important.’
Stepping over the still-sleeping bodies, Katerina picked her way over to the tent flap and stuck her head out. Waleran stood outside, brown eyes gleaming with interest at her sleep-flushed face, her coiling, coppery braids. Suddenly self-conscious, she hitched her blanket closer around her shoulders. ‘What is it?’
‘The Queen wants to see you. Queen Isabella. It seems she was quite taken with your performance last night.’
Katerina eyed him in consternation. ‘Waleran, nay! Why on earth does she want to see me?’
Waleran shrugged his shoulders, thinking how beautiful Katerina looked in this early morning light. Her skin held a limpid translucency, a shining quality that emphasised the soft grey of her eyes. He wondered when he should make his move; they were such good friends, the transition to becoming lovers would surely be an easy one.
‘I’m not going. Go back and say you cannot find me.’
Waleran jerked his head to one side. Following his movement, Katerina saw two of the Queen’s soldiers standing on the edge of their encampment.
‘Oh, God, have they been sent to fetch me?’
Waleran nodded. ‘Katerina, what’s the matter? You cannot refuse the Queen’s command. All she wants to do is congratulate you. Find something decent to wear...not boy’s clothes,’ he added, hurriedly, ‘and they will take you to her.’
‘I don’t have any women’s clothes, save my costume,’ she answered in desperation. ‘You know that; I left everything behind.’
‘Borrow something.’ Waleran smiled at her, strangely enjoying her discomfort. Normally it was Katerina who bossed him around, confident and self-assured in her own skin.
A look of panic on her face, Katerina’s bright head ducked inwards. The tent flap closed with a snap.
* * *
In a very short time, all the women in the tent were awake, pulling their finest gowns from their satchels, trying to find something that Katerina could wear to be presented to the English Queen. Most things were either too big, or too stained and patched to be presentable, but, at last, Marta pulled out a dress of silver-grey velvet that was only slightly worn around the hem and everyone decided that this would be the gown that Katerina would wear.
‘At last,’ Waleran announced, as she finally emerged from the tent.
‘How do I look?’ Katerina chewed at her bottom lip.
The close-fitting underdress was of light-grey silk, the sleeves tight to her arms and fastened down to her wrists with a row of tiny pearl buttons. The overdress was fashioned from velvet, the colour of pewter, shot through on the diagonal with rows of silver thread. Silver embroidery ran around the hem-line, with only a small section fraying at the back. Marta had parted Katerina’s hair in the middle and retied her braids to pin them in a knot at the nape of her neck, while Brunhild, digging deep into her bag, had produced a simple silver circlet that now sat on Katerina’s head.
‘How do you look?’ Waleran was astonished. He had always been aware of Katerina’s innate beauty, indeed, he had known her when she was the lord of the manor’s daughter, wearing finery like this every day. But he had obviously forgotten how delicious she could look, how utterly desirable.
‘Aye, how do I look? Oh, Waleran, I don’t feel comfortable wearing this; I’m too like my old self. What if someone recognises me?’
‘Nay, it’s not possible. We’re too far from home.’ He touched her arm, a comforting gesture. ‘Katerina, you look beautiful. Now, go with the soldiers and accept the Queen’s praise. You deserve it.’
* * *
Ragged, horizontal bands of gilded sunlight split the grey light of dawn as Katerina followed the tall, broad backs of the Queen’s soldiers. Her hem brushed over the dew-soaked grass, the material darkening with moisture. Her feet slopped in borrowed slippers as she walked; curling her toes, she tried to keep the thin leather attached to her feet. Cold fingers of air sneaked beneath the rounded collar of her dress, touching her exposed collar-bone and the naked hollow of her neck, and she shivered, suddenly wishing she’d thrown her cloak over the whole gleaming outfit. But her cloak was a poor, threadbare affair, not the sort of garment one could wear before the Queen of England. She hoped, nay, prayed, that Isabella would keep the forthcoming interview as short as possible; she had no wish for accolades or praise. Inwardly, she cursed herself for creating a performance that drew too much attention; when she had left home with Waleran, she had had no idea that she would be so naturally gifted. Yet it was her stunning performance that kept her in the troupe—indeed, it was the only thing that kept her in the troupe, as John never ceased to remind her. It was her protection, her insurance. She couldn’t afford to lose it.
The castle walls rose up before her, towering, huge chunks of dressed stone picked out individually by the slanting light. The soldiers led her across the drawbridge and into the dark shadowed gatehouse, dominated overhead by a heavy portcullis, cruel black spikes pointing downwards. Despite the still, impassive stance of the sentries at this gate, male eyes swivelled appreciatively beneath steel helmets as they tracked the slight figure in the silver gown, the brilliant flare of coiled hair.
The inner bailey, ground shiny with greasy cobbles, was almost empty, apart from a handful of soldiers over by the steps to the main hall, who were washing. A servant worked the handle of a water pump, up and down, sloshing water liberally into the trough so that it overflowed, trickling away along a stone gully towards an open drain.
Katerina flushed, ducked her head. The men were bare-chested, stripped to their braies, their strong muscled bodies exposed, naked. They laughed and joked with each other, their ribald teasing jarring the air as they splashed each other with the freezing water. One soldier noticed Katerina and nudged his companion, whispering something. A fresh peal of raucous laughter broke out and she hunched her shoulders defensively, scuttling quickly after her escort, eyes fixed resolutely to the ground. The sooner she was inside the castle, the better. When she performed, she was in disguise, concentrating hard on each movement, on working her body; she barely noticed the audience’s response, oblivious to their close attention as she flew through the air. But here, now, with her hair piled upon her head in elaborate coils, her face and neck revealed, bare down to the collar of her gown, she felt vulnerable, exposed. She hated it, hated this scrutiny, those interested male eyes upon her.
The escort soldiers stopped, flanking the bottom of the steps courteously so she could go up before them. Annoyingly, one of her slippers had come adrift and she wriggled her foot, trying to secure it. An untidy pile of linen shirts near the base of the steps, no doubt thrown down by the soldiers before they washed, caught her eye. She wondered how these soldiers managed to keep the fabric so white, so pristine, while she struggled to keep her meagre bundle of clothes looking anything but smart. Hesitating, with one hand on the iron banister of the steps, she scrunched her eyes up suddenly, a frown gathered between her neat brows. Was she seeing things? A leather cuff, studded with silver ovals, lay on the cobbles beside the shirts. Her cuff.
Her heart gave a quick, treacherous flip. How could she have been so careless? Surely she’d stored it safely away after her performance last night, just like she did every other night, deep at the bottom of her satchel? But, no, there it lay, gleaming quietly, revealing its presence for everyone to see. The cuff that had belonged to her mother, her good-luck charm that she wore for every performance. The last, single link to her old life, her previous existence.
Heart racing, she bent down, seized the cuff between her slender fingers. Yes, it was hers. Swiftly she traced the silver ovals and felt, rather than saw, the etched outline of a single dogrose on each one, before curling it tightly, hiding it in the curve of her palm. She must have dropped it last night, in her haste to flee the castle, the
bags of stolen goods held treacherously against her chest, before... Her thought process stuttered to a halt. No, she had no wish to recall what had happened after that. Spinning on her toes, she smiled up at the escort soldiers, who waited patiently for her to climb the steps.
‘What do you think you are doing?’
The low, guttural voice emerged from nowhere, striking the back of her head like a physical blow. She stumbled under the weight of it, her hand reaching, scrabbling once more for the iron railing on the steps; her fingers tightened around the cold metal. It was him. She knew it was him, before she even turned around. The knight from the forest, the man who had kissed her...and left her wanting more. She sensed his hard, piercing stare drilling into her stiff, unyielding spine, his gimlet blue eyes resting on the nape of her neck, her bound and circleted hair.
‘I said, “What do you think you are doing?”’. His voice rapped again at her, insistent, demanding.
Katerina pivoted, adjusting her chin upwards to meet the eyes of the man who seemed to dog her every move, to thwart her at every turn. He towered above her diminutive figure: restless, threatening, like a prowling animal hunting quarry. What would he do now? Denounce her to the Earl of Norfolk for her thievery last night? A flicker of panic coursed through her, but she stamped it down, snuffed it quickly. Surely she had dealt with bigger problems than this?
Lussac glared down at her, expression fierce in the tough hewn angles of his face. Droplets fell from his wet hair, falling to the bare, polished skin of his shoulders. Like the other soldiers, he was stripped to the waist, the bulky musculature of his chest and shoulders gleaming in the rosy morning light. He had seen the maid the moment she had come through the gatehouse, spotting her slim, delicate profile long before his boisterous companions at the pump. She had emerged from the shadows like an ethereal light, shining out from between the two hefty soldiers. The sight of her sweet face stilled his movements, the cold water trickling down his face, as he tracked her graceful progress across the cobbles, unexpected feminine curves revealed by the silver-grey gown. Shot through with iridescent thread, the pewter velvet of her overdress deepened the stormy grey of her eyes, emphasising the pinkish bloom upon her cheeks. Heart squeezing, he had remembered his hands on that lithe body, the soft touch of her mouth against his own in that fleeting, passionate kiss.
‘I...er...’ Katerina began, stuttering inanely. The solid nakedness of his chest seemed to drive all conscious thought, all logic from her brain. For some insane reason, she seemed unable to concentrate, to find any words, let alone the right ones. She dragged her gaze upwards, forcing herself to look at his face, but that was worse! The generous curve of his bottom lip mocked her, reminding her; she stared at it in dismay. Her palms warmed, pearling with the slick of perspiration, the silver discs of the leather cuff cool against her skin. ‘I...the Queen wanted to see me.’
Her mouth dropped open as he grabbed her hand, twisting it roughly to pull her fingers open, revealing the leather cuff. ‘I meant “this”,’ he said thickly. ‘What are you doing with this?’
He must have seen her pick it up. ‘I haven’t stolen it, if that’s what you’re insinuating!’ she flared back at him, annoyed at the powerful clutch of his fingers around her own. His big, calloused thumb dug into the base of her palm.
He ignored her protest. ‘Does it belong to you?’ His eyes searched her face, flinty, challenging. Katerina drew a deep unsteady breath. He was closer now, surely, so close that she could see the bump of his heart beneath the solid plates of his chest. Water flicked from his hair on to her pale, exposed wrist, a glistening trail sliding across the net of blue veins beneath the pallid skin. His threatening manner made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end; fear threaded like ice along her veins. Was she in danger? The cuff formed the only link back to her family, her identity: she must be careful about revealing any connections.
‘No...no,’ she breathed out. ‘It belongs to a friend of mine. They thought they had lost it; they asked to me to keep an eye out.’
His fingers tightened, crushing the cuff into the centre of her palm. ‘You’re a little liar, Silver Bird, or whatever your name is,’ he ground out. ‘It belongs to you, doesn’t it?’
‘I told you,’ Katerina replied, wide grey eyes burning with hostility, ‘it belongs to a friend.’ She tried to jerk her hand downwards, out of his punishing grip, but his hand, his arm failed to move. ‘Let go of me!’ she cried out in frustration. Twisting her head around frantically, she glanced at the Queen’s soldiers, standing impassively by the steps. ‘Help me!’ she shouted to them. ‘Do something!’ Beneath their helmets, their eyes went immediately to the man who held her, awaiting his order.
‘Leave us,’ Lussac bit out the command. ‘Tell the Queen I will bring Silver Bird to her later on.’ In a trice, he dropped his grip, whisking up his shirt from the messy pile on the ground. Pulling it haphazardly over his head, followed by a dark-blue tunic, he strapped a thick belt around his waist, then thrust his sword with its jewelled hilt into the leather scabbard. Katerina began to edge away from him, slipping her small feet across the cobbles in the direction of the gatehouse, heart knocking frantically against her chest wall.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ He snared her wrist once more. ‘No, you stay with me, until I have some answers!’
His strident tone drove straight into her, needled her. Her breath punched from her lungs in a burst of anger. Cheeks flaming, she drew herself upright, holding her ground. ‘How dare you treat me like this! You have no right! No right at all! I’ve told you, the cuff belongs to someone in the troupe; it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Then tell me who it belongs to,’ he said, more softly, now. ‘It’s important; I need to know.’
Katerina stared up at the grim line of his mouth, the turquoise chips of his eyes. ‘Why? Why does it mean so much to you?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Because this cuff is mine,’ he spoke tersely, in a voice held under tension. ‘I took it from my wrist and threw it down next to my shirt before I washed. Odd that you should recognise it.’
Fear lumped, wedged like a great slab of rock in her chest. She swayed, her body sagging under his intense perusal, the striking turquoise velvet of his eyes. The cuff burned like a brand into her hand, scorching her skin as her mind skittered for answers, thinking of a way to throw him off, for some way out of this mess. How, in Heaven’s name, could the cuff be his? He was no part of her family—the man was a stranger to her! She didn’t even know his name.
‘Have it back then,’ Katerina replied shortly. Pretence was her only way out of this predicament. ‘Let go of my hand and take it back. I saw the gleam of silver...’ she tilted her head sideways at him, attempting a wry smile ‘...and I thought it was my lucky day. Those discs alone would fetch a good price at market.’
He should have believed her. From all he had witnessed so far, the maid was a proven thief, light-fingered, adept at pilfering and doubtless escaping all blame for such crimes. With her milk-white skin, and those wide dove-grey eyes, few would suspect her. But Lussac didn’t believe her. He knew she was lying. He could smell her deceit a mile off, could see terror lurking in her beautiful eyes. The maid knew something and he intended to discover what it was.
‘Who are your people, Silver Bird? Where do you come from?’
A strengthening breeze tugged at the hem of her skirts, pressing the fabric against her slim legs. The lump of fear in her chest grew bigger. Katerina shook her head, lips pressed into a mutinous line. ‘It’s none of your business.’ One arm moved defensively across her flat stomach.
She was too thin, he thought suddenly. The bodice of her dress was too big for her, gapping dangerously at the neckline, hinting at the shadowed bosom beneath. Her collar-bone stood out from the fine, white skin of her neck; he noted the shadows of exhaustion beneath her eyes. He released her wrist suddenly, shamef
ully aware that his grip was too forceful, too punishing against her fragile bones.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said, his voice lowering. ‘But you’re wrong. The moment your fingers touched that cuff, it became my business.’ Although he had released her hand, the big frame of his body curled around her, a cage of solid flesh and muscle, trapping her against the stone steps. She wanted to scream and shout at him, to beat her fists against his chest, to be angry, but all she really wanted to do was cry. To sob. All her hard work, all her efforts to hide the traces of her family, the clues to her past, all had turned to ash. All because of one stupid, foolish mistake. She should have left that leather cuff alone and walked straight past it, her head held high.
‘Lussac!’ Mortimer’s dark head appeared in the doorway. ‘What in Heaven’s name are you doing? Bring the maid up here now! Isabella is demanding to see her.’
Lussac hooked his arm around Katerina’s, effectively pinning her to his side. His forearm lay along her forearm, the rounded muscle of his upper arm nudged against her shoulder. Through the flimsy linen of his shirt, the heat of his skin burned through her sleeve. Her body leapt in recognition at his closeness, while her mind unravelled with terror. ‘This is what we’re going to do,’ he said quietly, his voice measured, controlling. ‘We will visit the Queen, together, and then afterwards you will tell me the things I need to know. I need answers and I will get them, one way or another.’
The Knight's Fugitive Lady Page 7