by Shea,Lisa
Jack nodded slowly to himself. “I think I heard about the event - Catherine was the daughter of the Bowyer’s Lord and Lady? Their sole heir?”
“Yes, that was Catherine,” agreed Peter. “Normally even Bowyer women do not go on patrols, but she was quite the rebel. She had been training as a swordswoman since she was a teen. I know she was not as strong as the men, but she was agile and quick. She was really something to see, with her long, dark hair curled back in braids, sparring rounds in the practice arena. She was not to be taken lightly.”
Jack sensed the sadness in his friend’s eyes and a thought occurred to him. “Were you two ... special to each other?”
Peter looked up and chuckled softly. “Oh, it was not like that,” he corrected with a slight smile. “She was a best friend, but we were quite different from each other. She often joked that I was the ‘sunlight on a grassy meadow’, while she was ‘moonlight in a forest glen’. We appreciated each other greatly, and spent many long hours in discussion - but we were not meant to be a couple.” He rolled his shoulders. “Still, for someone so strong to be cut off in the prime of life, it gives one pause.”
Jack nodded quietly, and the two rode the rest of the distance in contemplative silence.
Chapter 5
Jack blinked awake in the bright warmth of a midday sun. He stretched, noting that the aches and bruises of the previous days had eased slightly with the long, much needed rest. He dressed quickly, making his way down to the main hall. The large room was dotted with tables and benches, half-filled with diners and servants, wafting with mouth-watering aromas.
He smiled as he spotted Peter at a small table by the fireplace, and moved over to sit with him.
Peter waved at a servant, then nodded merrily to his friend. “About time for you to wake. Feeling rested?” Food was delivered promptly, and Jack ripped off a piece of the warm loaf with pleasure, downing a long draw of the cool ale.
“Yes, I am quite refreshed, thank you. How are my charges?” He leant back and looked around the sunlit hall, his eyes scanning the diners.
“They woke perhaps an hour ago and headed promptly into the altar area,” commented Peter with a chuckle. “Apparently the four of them feel their safe arrival here had divine assistance, and they have pledged themselves to two days of prayer in thanks.”
“It was a rough journey,” agreed Jack readily, taking some more of the bread. “I would count my thanks that Shadow found us, however, more than any hand of God in what happened.”
“Maybe the two are not that different,” replied Peter, raising an eyebrow. “It is quite fortuitous that he found you when he did, after all.”
Jack nodded in consideration. “I still am unsure of what triggered the convergence of forces that night,” he mused. “Shadow must have been there before I arrived. How did Conrad know where to find his quarry? How did Shadow know to be there to intercept them?” His eyes moved up to Peter’s. “And what exactly is in that book? Father Berram was rather elusive when I asked him about it.”
Peter chuckled, leaning forward. “As well he might be,” he confided in a low voice. “It is not something the church is proud of. It is a private diary that one of the fathers kept in addition to his official church records. It lays out the actual genealogies of the region, of who is related to whom, of bastard children and other relationships.”
Jack looked at him in confusion. “Conrad wanted to get his hands on a diary? Does he have something to hide?”
Peter shook his head. “I imagine he was hired by someone whose motive was simple greed. From what I have heard, an unethical person could blackmail a number of wealthy men in the region with the information. He could threaten to reveal connections that their wives and families might not approve of.”
“I see,” considered Jack, sitting back again. “If people would just tell the truth, they could never be tripped up later by lies.”
“Not everyone sees the world the way you do,” smiled his friend, toasting him with his mug. “If they did, then I imagine the world would be a far simpler place to live in.”
“What does Father Berram intend to do with the book?” asked Jack, considering.
Peter shrugged. “Apparently the material does have some value, in a historical sort of sense. A friend of his out in St. Albans, Father Oswold, is a well-respected historian. It seems Berram wishes to bring the book to him for safe keeping.”
“Sounds fine by me,” agreed Jack. He downed the rest of his ale. “Are you up for some sparring?”
“Always,” agreed Peter with a smile. He stood easily, and Jack led the way out toward the barracks to gather up their gear.
* * *
Saturday’s steady stream of incoming guests, drenched by the rains, kept Jack busy from the moment he woke until long after dark. He was grateful when Sunday rolled around; few would travel on the holy day. He was doubly thankful when the heavy rain eased into gentle mists, boding better weather as spring finally began its soft approach.
He smiled with pleasure as he approached the entrance to the main area of the church and came up to Michael, Walter, and John. The lads welcomed him warmly. Jack could see that Father Berram was already seated in the frontmost pew, his wispy hair combed into neat order. Jack moved with the three young men to sit alongside him, and soon Peter had joined them as well. The service moved by with quiet dignity, the unusually large throngs of visitors adding extra meaning to the morning.
Jack offered Father Berram an arm, helping him slowly walk the distance back to the dining hall, settling him in at one of the smaller tables with the three acolytes. In short order the four were supplied with ale, relaxing and enjoying the hubbub.
Feeling content that they were comfortable, Jack’s eyes sought out Peter, and together they walked out the back door, moving into the soft afternoon of drifting dew. Jack smiled with pleasure, relishing the quiet. Their feet followed the familiar wending of the gravel path behind the cathedral.
“So, Peter, we finally have a moment. It is impressive how many have come to be heard in this debate. While I appreciate their desire to help, it is also nice to be away from their babble for a while. Tell me, what have you been up to these past weeks?”
He looked about him as they moved. The rains of the past few days had broken into an almost warming sunshine, and he took in a long breath of the fresh air, smiling. He felt rested for the first time in many weeks.
“Did I tell you I was eyeing that young stallion the baker had for sale?” asked Peter with a grin. “I think I can talk him down to a reasonable price, and even get some fresh rolls thrown in as well.”
Jack shook his head, smiling at his friend. He and Peter had known each other for almost twenty years now, and the familiar ease of conversation warmed his soul. Their words flowed like a sparkling summer stream, moving from horses to the state of events in London, then on to the political issues being caused by King John’s unpopularity.
The afternoon faded on into a chilly evening, and still they wandered the grounds, reluctant to return inside to the throngs of visitors.
They found themselves at the far back end of the cathedral, where a small fish pond was nestled in a curving length of ivy-laced wall. The sun was setting behind the cathedral, shining across their shoulders, sending their shadows walking in front of them. Ahead, a short bridge crossed the back edge of the pond for decorative, rather than practical, reasons. The sun shone full onto the bridge giving it an otherworldly quality.
Jack stopped to appreciate the quiet scene. A woman in a ground-length black cloak was standing on the bridge, her body at an angle to him, looking down at the water with a pensive gaze. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, falling nearly to her waist. Her left hand rested on the railing, her outer dress and inner chemise sleeve both reaching to her wrist.
Jack found himself struck by the woman’s countenance. Her eyes were sad and weary, while her lips held a resigned acceptance.
Jack turned to ask Peter who
the woman was, then stopped in surprise at the look on Peter’s face. Peter had gone white, first in shock, then transforming into a beam of bright joy. In another moment Peter sprang into motion, running in a dash toward the woman, crying out, “Catherine! Catherine! You are alive!”
Catherine looked up at the call, and a warm smile spread across her face. She held out her arms both in a welcome to her friend and in a quiet effort to slow his pace. “Gently, gently,” she called out in a melodious voice as he raced enthusiastically toward her.
Jack jogged along behind Peter and saw that, as Peter went to draw Catherine into a large bear hug, she held him back with her arms outstretched. “Please, be easy,” she called out in a more concerned voice. She turned to look at the men full face.
Peter gasped, then brought both hands tenderly up alongside her cheeks. “Who did this to you,” he asked, his voice a steely rasp.
Jack came alongside the pair and saw that her right eye was black and closed. There were smaller cuts and injuries on the rest of her face. Reaching down, Peter drew back the long, draping sleeves which covered her left arm. She moved to resist, but he slid them enough to show that her arms were also mottled with bruises.
Peter looked up sharply, holding Catherine’s gaze. He spoke out again, his voice anguished. “Tell me who did this to you,” he insisted, the anger choking his throat.
Catherine looked up with a fond smile and moved in to tenderly embrace him. Peter hesitated a moment, then carefully wrapped his muscular arms around her, holding her close without putting any pressure on her injured body.
Catherine sighed. “Oh, Peter,” she murmured softly against his chest. “I have missed you so much. I am sorry that I had to lie to you along with everybody else. I had no choice.”
More than a few moments passed with her relaxing in his embrace, him holding her close, resting his cheek on her head. Finally she pulled back and looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. “Please believe me. I wanted to tell you I was still alive,” she vowed, brushing the dark red hair from his brow.
“Alive, but barely,” ground out Peter, his gaze focused on her blackened eye.
Catherine’s voice became flat, emotionless. “As for the bruises, the perpetrators have already been brought to justice. That is fully resolved.”
“Oh, Catherine,” he sighed, bringing a hand to rest against her bruised face. “What in the world did you get yourself into? How can I help?”
Catherine broke his gaze and looked down, as if uncertain she wanted to continue. A long moment passed, then she spoke more softly, not meeting his eyes. “I wish I did not need to ask, but if you have some of your healing salves available, I would be most grateful if I could use them later in the evening.”
Peter looked down at her in concern. “But surely Lord Epworth’s -”
Catherine’s response was quick and short. “No!”
Peter was shocked into silence.
She took a deep breath and continued more calmly, meeting his gaze again. “I do not want to involve him. None can know the full extent of my injuries.” Her eyes came up to meet Peter’s with serious focus. “I need to have your word that this will remain between us.”
Peter nodded uncertainly. “If that is what you wish, then yes, of course.”
Catherine gave him a tender hug. “I have always been able to count on you,” she half-whispered, before drawing back, turning her eyes finally to acknowledge the second man in the group.
Peter gave himself a shake. “I am sorry, Catherine, let me introduce you. This is my good friend -”
“Let me guess,” she commented with a knowing smile. “You must be Southerner.”
Jack chuckled softly at hearing his alias twice in such a short period of time. “I am known as Southerner near your homelands,” he agreed amiably, bowing slightly. “However, I do have an actual name. I am Jack, foster son to Lord Epworth.”
Catherine’s face stilled, and she looked between the two men quickly. “Surely you cannot be both men, both Southerner and Jack ...”
Jack regarded her with quiet intelligence. “You have been told that these were not the same man,” he replied, making it a statement rather than a question.
Catherine slowly nodded, her face a study of concentration. “Yes, and by those who would have known better,” she commented quietly to herself.
She glanced up at Peter, and she shook herself; her face lightened again. “That does not matter right now,” she smiled to him, fondly taking his arm in her own. “I am starving – let us begin by finding some dinner! Then we can talk to your heart’s content.”
Peter allowed himself to be led back toward the cathedral, matching his pace to Catherine’s slow movements.
Jack unobtrusively remained at her other side, fully aware of the tender limping that marked her progress. His mind half followed the conversation of shared remembrances, but it also wondered at the hinted, deliberate deception someone had made of his character. For what reason?
The possibilities swirled through his mind as they moved into the main dining hall, as they found seats and were brought food by the alert servants.
* * *
Catherine laughed in delight. “Mmm, I am still famished,” she called out, reaching over to grab a drumstick from Peter’s meal. Her shoulders finally eased their tight tension as she settled into the comfortable presence of her long-time friend. She could see the questions dancing in his eyes, and she knew that, once the room cleared of strangers, they would be voiced. For now, he carefully kept the conversation on casual topics, and she appreciated his caution.
Peter smiled at her fondly, calling for a fresh round of ale, which the page quickly delivered in large, solid pewter tankards.
He gave her a playful nudge. “Speaking of healthy appetites, how is Marcie doing?” His grin grew. “And is Susan still impressing everyone with her archery?”
“Yes, my friends are doing fine,” she agreed with a smile, taking a healthy bite out of the meat. “Susan asked after you, you know.”
“Oh, did she?” Peter’s eyes brightened. “I always did have a thing for blondes.”
“She will be glad to hear that,” chuckled Catherine. She looked up as the three novices came over to the table.
Walter’s round face was flushed with drink. “We are off to our prayers.”
Peter turned in his chair, waving a hand toward Catherine. “Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to an old friend of mine.”
Walter grinned with glee. “Oh, we have already met Catherine, earlier today,” he offered. “She kindly joined our game of cards to make a foursome. She played quite well, too.”
Catherine winked at him. “I could have had you, if I had thought to hold onto that three,” she teased. “You are very good at the game.”
Walter blushed even deeper scarlet, then gave a low, courtly bow. The three moved off toward the main church area.
Catherine looked around as she finished off her remaining bites of meat. The other household members were rising and slowly ambling toward their rooms. Another pair of visitors made their ways to their chambers, and at last only the three remained alone in the darkening hall. The fire was dying down, the low flames sending tongues of orange scattering amongst the shadows.
Jack leaned back against the table, gazing steadily at the fire. Peter sat sideways on the bench, watching Catherine as she nibbled at the meat and licked her fingers. Neither man spoke as she finished off another two large rolls, washing them down with the ale.
Finally satiated, she sighed with pleasure and eased back against the table, taking care to avoid the many bruises and wounds. After a moment she brought her ale up for a long draw. The silence drifted on in comfortable relaxation, and she stretched her arms out in a long yawn.
She felt Peter’s eyes on her, and turned her head sideways, giving him a fond smile. She had missed him these past few years. It was good to be back in his company, if only for the short while her Council had allowed her
.
The room grew quiet and still, with only the occasional popping of a log breaking the silence.
Peter held Catherine’s look for a long moment. Finally he spoke. “Catherine, we have known each other many years now. We have been through a lot together. I hope that you trust me.”
Catherine tilted her head to one side, contemplating Peter. “Of course I do,” she replied fondly, putting her hand over his on the table. “I count you among my closest friends.”
Peter sat forward. His voice was low and insistent. “If you trust me, please tell me what is going on with your supposed death and this beating you have been given. I can help if you let me know what is happening.”
Catherine’s eyes flicked quickly to Jack. He had turned slightly to face the other two, and was watching quietly. He held her gaze for a moment.
“I am happy to leave you two alone,” he offered without hesitation, “although I promise that I am quite able to keep a secret, and I would also be willing to assist. After all, only Peter and I know about the extent of your injuries.”
Catherine held his gaze for a long while, pondering the man before her. She looked over the firm set to Jack’s face, his well-muscled body, the leather armor that he wore almost as a second skin.
Most of all, she looked into his grey eyes, saw the intelligence, wisdom, and concern that lay within. Her lips pressed together, and she nodded.
“I cannot divulge the details of my current injuries; there is a confidence issue there which I cannot violate. However, as we are alone, I will tell you what I can of my reported death.”
The doors to the room flew open with a loud bang. Jack and Peter immediately stood on either side of Catherine, their stance protective and alert. A short, sturdy man in his late forties thundered into the room, dressed in a heavy, dark blue tunic, long grey traveling cloak, and thick, scuffed leather boots. He wore a broadsword at his side, and his flaming red hair matched the fury in his eyes.
He immediately spotted Catherine and strode over to stand a few feet in front of her. “How dare you!” he stammered in rage. “How dare you feign your death in order to sabotage the Wilmslow negotiations!”