Chapter Seven
Isabella took a delicate sip from her pewter goblet, grimacing as the watery mead slipped down her throat—would she ever become accustomed to this insipid English drink? In France they drank red wine from the moment the cock crowed till eventide. How she wished for its full-bodied fortification today, the day when she began the pursuit of her husband, the useless King of England. She tapped her fingers on the table, restless. Where was everybody? She looked up as the heavy curtain over the arched doorway of the great hall twitched, then drew back. Mortimer strode in, the slanting sun from the high windows polishing his straight black hair to the sheen of a raven’s wing. ‘Ah! Roger, at last! Did you find her?’
Mortimer nodded. ‘She was with Lussac, at the bottom of the steps.’
‘Bring her in here quickly,’ Isabella snapped. ‘We haven’t much time; we must move on today.’
‘I’m well aware of that fact,’ replied Mortimer, drily. He sprang up the steps to the high dais and threw himself into a carved oak chair next to the Queen. ‘The Earl has suggested lodgings for tonight, and then we can head for Bury the day after that. The sooner we catch up with Edward, the better.’ A terse smile crossed his face. ‘I have heard that London has turned against him. And—’ he grinned wolfishly, showing a perfect set of white teeth in his tanned face ‘—I have learned he has put a price of £1,000 on my head.’
Across the pristine white tablecloth, Isabella pressed her forearm, a tiny, discreet movement, against Mortimer’s. ‘You are worth far more than that,’ she teased gently. She allowed herself this small liberty in their relationship, for although they had to keep their affair secret for the sake of the support of the English people, at this hour the great hall was deserted; there was no one to see this gesture of affection. September was a busy month; the peasants had broken their fast before the sun rose and were already out in the fields, harvesting the crops before the winter.
Isabella frowned slightly as Lussac strode into the room, his face stern, impassive. On his arm was a young woman, supposedly the incredible acrobat from the performance the night before. Was this slight, diminutive figure really the person who had swung from chandelier to chandelier, astonishing them all with her daring acts of bravado?
The Queen cleared her throat. ‘How kind of you to bring the maid to me, Lussac.’ She inclined her head towards the tall knight. ‘I wasn’t aware Mortimer had sent you to fetch her?’
‘He didn’t.’
The Queen waited, but one look at Lussac’s impenetrable expression told her she wouldn’t receive any more information on the subject. She sighed. As a friend of her brother’s, she had known Lussac since childhood, but the man had become a stranger to her now. Still formidable in battle, an expert strategist and skilled at commanding an army, he would plunge into skirmishes like a man possessed, even more so since the tragedy that had befallen his family. Charles relied heavily on him in France and trusted him with his life, but she knew, on this campaign, Lussac’s motivations lay elsewhere. Charles had expressly told her that she could not call on Lussac to help her: Mortimer would lead her army and Mortimer alone. Still, she couldn’t help hoping that Lussac would find what he was looking for sooner rather than later, and come back to serve her in the campaign. It had been too long.
She switched her attention to the maid, speaking with the gentle, cajoling tone she reserved for the peasant class. ‘Come, come closer, my dear, do not be afraid.’ Half-rising from her chair, she indicated the exact spot on which Katerina should stand. The jewels on top of the Queen’s head twinkled crazily in the streaming sun, needles of light piercing outwards into the crepuscular gloom of the great hall.
Lussac. So that was the name of her tormentor, Katerina thought. It didn’t seem to fit him, somehow. The name implied light and joy, an enthusiasm for life, but one look at the darkly scowling face at her side made her think of anything but that. As if in a trance, Katerina stumbled forwards, Lussac’s arm providing a support she yearned to throw off. She curtsied clumsily before the Queen, velvet skirts brushing the grey expanse of flagstones as Lussac bowed. He was not going to let her go. She stared down at his arm wound snugly around her own, the tanned fingers covering hers, strong, capable, warming her icy skin. A scratch crossed one of his knuckles, she noticed, a thin red line of dried blood. Panic rose in her gullet and she bashed it down; fear would not help her now. All she had to do, all she must do, Katerina told herself sternly, was to get through this audience with the Queen, and then...
‘I said, “What is your name?”’ the Queen repeated testily. Really, was she to be surrounded by dunces in this country?
‘I am Silver Bird, my lady.’
Isabella smiled benevolently. ‘I mean, your real name. Where are you from?’
‘Yes, tell us, Silver Bird,’ Lussac muttered under his breath.
Katerina tried desperately to ignore the man at her side, the warmth of his hip bumping intimately against her left flank. She shrugged her shoulders diffidently. ‘People know me as “Katerina”. I have been with the troupe for a long time.’
‘You were born into it?’
‘Something like that,’ Katerina replied, attempting to keep her answers as vague as possible, without telling an outright lie.
Isabella’s fine eyebrows shot upwards at the obvious dissembling. Her lips tightened imperceptibly. ‘Your act, last night, was truly wonderful. Where did you learn such skills?’
‘I was taught by a member of the troupe, my lady.’ This, at least, was true. Waleran had taught her everything she knew.
‘And your parents? Are they with the troupe?’ Beneath a jewelled net, Isabella’s blonde hair shone in two precise rolls. Intricately cut diamonds studded the simple gold band that circled her head.
‘Er...no, no, they passed away,’ Katerina managed to stutter out.
‘Utter rubbish!’ Mortimer said suddenly, shoving his pewter goblet down upon the table. A drop of wine shuddered out, splashing on to the cloth at the firmness of the movement.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Isabella glared at him.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Isabella!’ Mortimer smacked the table with the flat of his palm, his manner triumphant. ‘It’s obvious who she is! Where have you seen that colour of hair before? It’s not exactly common!’
A churning feeling welled up in Katerina’s stomach—a gathering, roiling nausea. Blood roared in her ears and, for one horrible moment, she wondered if she were going to faint. This was it. Mortimer knew who she was. He had recognised her from the colour of her hair. Her damned hair! She watched in horror as his mouth opened wide, focusing wildly on the dark, cavernous interior of his gullet.
‘She’s Katerina of Dauntsey. You know, the Dauntseys, who live out at Longthorpe. Thomas’s daughter. He has an older brother, remember. They’ve all got that hair. I’d recognise it anywhere.’ He pinned his narrowed eyes upon Katerina. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ His booming voice echoed around the great hall, across the trestle tables swept clean, up across the colourful embroidered tapestries that adorned the high stone walls.
Lussac acknowledged the soft sag of Katerina’s body against his right flank as Mortimer spoke the name and watched as the neat head, pinned with delicately braided amber coils, nodded in proud defeat. Maintaining his hold on her, he wondered if she were about to collapse. Her face was grey, ashen with shock. Why was she so afraid of people knowing who she was, her identity? Mortimer’s revelation had supplied the answer to Lussac’s earlier question. If the cuff belonged to Katerina, and, despite her fervid protests, he was in no doubt that it did, then that simple leather band was connected to the Dauntsey family. Knowing that, it wouldn’t take him long to track down his murderer. He should have been as triumphant as Mortimer up there on the top table, beaming away at his Queen. But somehow, as he watched the defiance, the stamina drain out of the woman at
his side, it didn’t feel like a victory at all.
* * *
In the rising sunlight, horses thronged the inner bailey: huge, muscled destriers, warhorses, tramping and colliding with each other as the stable-boys darted between them, throwing the heavy saddles on to their backs. The animals jerked their heads up, eyes wide and rolling, snorting hot plumes of air from widened nostrils, scraping at the cobbles with restless hooves. And above this seething, heaving chaos, the wide bowl of sky was blue, carrying the promise of heat later in the day.
‘So, Katerina...’ Lussac spoke her name for the very first time, dipping his head to her ear as they stepped out together from the great hall. ‘Katerina of Dauntsey.’
‘Please, please do not speak that name,’ she whispered. Her toes were frozen within the insubstantial shoes as she balanced precariously above the churning chaos of men and horses.
He barely heard her voice. ‘I don’t understand. Why do you deny who you are, when you have such talent? Why do you hide behind the trappings of your performance, disguise yourself as a boy?’ His searching gaze swept the length of her, across the pale-grey silk hugging the neat indent of her waist before it flared out over the gentle curve of her hips. ‘It’s almost as if someone is searching for you, as if you don’t want to be found.’
She stared at him, aghast. Her world was in pieces, saliva turned to dust in her mouth.
‘You don’t want to be found.’
A small sob tore at her chest. ‘I have to go! I have to leave...now!’ She plunged away from him, her broad-shouldered tormenter in his surcoat of dark blue, down, down the steps and into the swarming mass of animal flesh. Injustice shook at her, seizing her breath in a fierce, shuddering clasp. Her whole existence, her livelihood, was in jeopardy. Her identity had been revealed, but if she vanished now, hid for a while, she might be able to salvage some small fragment of her current existence.
Reckless now, desperate to escape from Lussac, she shoved at a rounded, glossy rump that blocked her way towards the gatehouse, glaring at the wall of chestnut horseflesh when it refused to budge. Stalled, she nibbled at her bottom lip in worry, now fully aware that she drew many interested glances. All she wanted to do was to reach the gatehouse and disappear out to the tents, to pack her bags and flee—was that too much to ask?
‘Excuse me, my lady, but maybe I could be of some assistance?’ A knight appeared at her side, a well-padded, portly knight, only a few inches taller than herself. Laid over his chainmail, his dark blue surcoat, decorated with embroidered fleur-de-lys, stretched tightly across his protruding stomach. His rounded face, fleshy cheekbones, held a kind, considerate expression as he addressed her in a beautiful, modulated tone. ‘Philippe, Count of Garsan, at your service, mademoiselle. Please, allow me to escort you from this...this...’ He struggled to find the appropriate word to describe the mayhem happening around them, and, failing to find it, simply waved his hand over the inner bailey, before extending one gauntleted hand towards her. Despite the iron band of panic winching around her chest, Katerina smiled at the knight’s generosity. She refused to glance behind—was Lussac following her?
‘Aye, thank you,’ she blurted out in relief. The tight bundle of her breath released suddenly. She clutched at the knight’s glove, the hard leather of the rigid, creased fingers catching at the soft skin of her palm.
‘She’s with me, Philippe,’ the stern voice spoke behind her. The knight’s hand dropped away beneath hers, a look of surprise crossing his face; in consternation, she realised the leather cuff was still gripped within her palm. Lussac stood at her side. ‘Let’s go somewhere quieter,’ he said, his voice cutting low and powerful across the noise of the bailey.
‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you!’ she squeaked. ‘Please, please, leave me alone!’ Her protests fell on deaf ears, his bare fingers curling around her own. He forged through the horses, shoving the gigantic animals aside as if they were nothing more than common dogs or sheep. She skipped to keep up with his extended pace, cheeks flaming with the cold, with embarrassment, as they crossed the drawbridge and moved in the fields of pasture outside. She lost one shoe in the process, now probably stamped to shreds by those massive horses; the wetness from the thick grass soaked through her stocking.
Lussac stopped abruptly, facing her in the patch of grass between the high castle walls and the huddle of white canvas tents. He pushed one hand through his dark-brown hair, silky strands falling back over his forehead, like ruffled feathers.
‘I think you can help me, Katerina.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Listen to me.’ He reached down, disentangled the cuff from her trembling fingers. The silver ovals winked in the light. ‘I don’t care about who you are, or what you are hiding from. It means nothing to me.’ He held up the cuff, inches from her face, blue eyes glittering. ‘But this does. This means everything to me. I need to find out who this belongs to.’
‘I thought you said it belonged to you,’ she said crossly. Did he not realise her whole existence teetered on the brink of destruction, the fragile glass walls of her life about to topple, to lie in broken shards around her?
‘I found it,’ he said shortly. ‘And you recognise it... No—’ he held up his hand to silence her speech ‘—no protests, please. And as we now know you are Katerina of Dauntsey, courtesy of loose-lipped Mortimer back there—’ he jerked his head in the direction of the castle ‘—I suspect that the owner of this cuff is a member of your family.’
Katerina crossed her arms over her stomach, hugging her sides. Freezing liquid ran in her veins. Overhead, a pack of gulls wheeled and circled, their eerie cries piercing the sun-soaked air.
‘Take me to your home, Katerina. Take me to Longthorpe. Go into your tent, now, and pack your things.’
‘Never, I refuse to do it. You cannot make me.’ But even as the words spilled from her mouth, she realised the stupidity of them. How could she hope to best him? Physically, never—he towered above her—but maybe, just maybe, she could outwit him.
‘I can make you do anything I want,’ he replied bluntly. ‘It’s your choice: either I drag you from this place, kicking and screaming and making a spectacle of yourself, or you’ll come quietly. It’s your choice.’
‘Please, I can’t, I can’t go home.’ The sudden fear, the pleading in her voice, shocked him. Guilt scoured his tongue, a thick, bitter liquid.
He scowled down at her, trying to ignore the rigid set of her jawline, the devastated expression in her pewter eyes. Why was she making this so difficult? ‘Yes, you can, Katerina. Like it or not, you are coming with me.’
Chapter Eight
Frustration clouding her eyes, Katerina plunged into the relative safety of her tent, thankfully empty, hearing the heavy canvas flap shut behind her. Her fingers shook as she ripped off the borrowed veil, the elaborate gown, wrenching brutally at the fine fabric to pull it over her head. One of the small buttons snagged in the coils of her hair and she ripped at the material, dislodging several strands that drifted around her head, a spun net of amber.
She dropped to her knees, the dress spilling into a forlorn puddle at her side, and rummaged in her bag for more comfortable boy’s clothes: dun-coloured braies, fawn hooded tunic. She tipped up the bag, shook it, dislodging all the contents.
And there it lay, on the faded stripe of the rug. The leather cuff. Her leather cuff, falling from her bag like a curse. The cuff she had unfastened from her mother’s wrist on the day she died. The man prowling outside her tent, the man who waited for her, had not lied. The cuff she had found in the bailey belonged to him. How, she had no idea. The tears that had threatened all morning began to pour down her cheeks; Katerina sobbed as she secured the cuff high around her forearm, pulling the tunic’s bristly wool over her head, the long, wide-cut sleeves covering the shining discs. She sobbed for her life, her identity. Stagg
ering to her feet, she hauled on the braies, fastening them securely around her waist, stuffing her costume back into her scuffed bag. It was all she had in the world, apart from a few measly coins in a pouch that hung from her belt.
Slinging the long strap crosswise across her body, she stood up, scrubbing brutally at the tears on her skin, reddening her cheeks. It would do no good feeling sorry for herself. Self-pity would not help her now. She relied on her wits, nay, prided herself on them; she would extricate herself from this mess, no doubt about it. But she needed time to think. Time, which that horrible, arrogant man, pacing about outside, would not allow her to have.
The tent flap punched back. She jumped.
‘Who’s that man out there?’ Waleran said, as he came in. The outer corners of his nut-brown eyes crinkled as he smiled. The sounds of the camp being dismantled followed him: the flap and snap of sagging canvas as taut guy ropes were released on the tents, the indignant snorts of the mules and horses as stuffed panniers and saddle-bags were loaded on to their backs.
Katerina stared at Waleran, trying to push back the sense of desperation, of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm her. Against the white canvas background of the tent, he appeared smaller, more wiry, an expectant, encouraging smile fixed on his narrow features as he waited for her to speak. ‘Who is he, Katerina? What’s happened?’
Katerina shook her head. ‘Oh, Waleran,’ she said softly, ‘the worst has happened.’ She fastened one of the loose straps on her bag, her hands drifting forlornly to her sides. ‘Roger Mortimer, the Queen’s commander, recognised me and all because of this! My stupid wretched hair!’ She touched her head in anguish, knuckles against her skull. ‘He knew my name, Waleran. He spoke it out loud.’ She pulled the hood of her tunic firmly over her head, obscuring the glistening colour.
‘Are they going to make you go back to your father?’ Waleran spoke slowly.
‘It’s worse than that. I was so stupid, Waleran, so stupid! You know the leather cuff I wear? Around my wrist?’
The Knight's Fugitive Lady Page 8