by Tamara Leigh
“What do you know of my dreams?”
Tilly looked up from her needlework but showed no dismay.
“Dreams, Catherine?” Lavinia said where she sat beside the maid. “Of what do you speak?”
Catherine had wanted to confront Tilly in private, but the day had waned without an opportunity to do so. Thus, she had come to the lord’s solar. “I speak of the dreams my father warned I should reveal to no one—those that show me the morrow.”
The confusion on Lavinia’s face seemed genuine.
“Sit, child.” Tilly nodded at the chair opposite.
As Catherine lowered to it, the maid set her needlework in her lap. “You have the gift of your father’s mother. When I had fewer years about me, I served her.”
Tilly had never mentioned she knew Catherine’s grandmother. “And the gift?”
“Of sight, as you surely know.”
A curse, not a gift, Catherine silently amended.
“As in your grandmother’s dreams, into your dreams come the future, that which will be and cannot be changed.”
But Collier had changed it.
“What is this nonsense about foretelling the future?” Lavinia said. “It sounds most unholy.”
Tilly inclined her head. “Lord Algernon could not tell you, my lady. He feared he would lose you.”
Lavinia raised her chin. “Though my husband tried to hide that his mother had not all her wits about her, I have ears to hear the things people speak whilst one’s back is turned.”
“She was not mad, my lady. ’Twas the sight she had, not a sickness of the head.”
“I think we ought to leave the subject be.” Lavinia set her needlework aside. “We must needs begin preparations for the evening meal.”
“Nay,” Catherine said. “I wish to know of my grandmother. Tell me, Tilly.”
The maid glanced at Lavinia, then continued, “Though I knew her not until her middling years, she was a fine lady, giving and good. But she tried to change what she could not.”
As Catherine had learned she could not change those things revealed to her. “When did the dreams come to her?”
“Mostly during times of trouble so great she slept poorly—sometimes so poorly it might be days ere she found her rest. But when she did…”
“’Tis the same for me.”
“Aye, my lady. Unfortunately, your grandmother began speaking of her dreams in hopes of effecting change. It was then—”
Lavinia surged upright. “Cease!”
“I must know, Mother,” Catherine entreated.
“But it cannot be!”
“It is.”
Gripping the cross hung around her neck, Lavinia turned accusing eyes upon the maid. “Why did you never tell me of this, Tilly?”
“’Twas not for me to do, my lady.”
Lavinia closed her eyes, murmured, “God have mercy,” and crossed to the window.
Leaning toward the maid, Catherine said, “What happened to my grandmother?”
“Your grandfather loved her very much, but no matter how he pleaded for her to hold close her dreams, she would not. Lest she was accused of sorcery, he committed her to a convent where she took a vow of silence.”
“And my father?”
“Though approaching manhood, it broke his heart to lose his mother.”
This the reason he had made his daughter promise not to speak of her dreams? Might he love her after all? Had he but feared for her? “Did my grandmother keep her vow of silence?”
“’Tis said she did not speak once during her years at the convent, that she died without a word.”
Catherine’s heart swelled for the woman who had passed to her granddaughter the sight of things to come and been forced to live with the consequences of trying to change them. Torn from her son, her husband, her home.
A thought struck her. Would Collier send her away? If she bore him children, would he tear them from her arms and send her to a convent? She touched her belly. Even now she might carry his child.
“What is it, my lady?”
She clasped her hands in her lap. “I told my husband of my dreams after he revealed you knew of them.”
Tilly nodded. “As thought.”
“I should have denied it when he asked.”
“You need not fear he will send you away.”
Catherine shook her head. “You do not know he will not.”
“I know he will grow to love you.”
Would he? More likely, it would be the image of Aryn he loved. “Even if he should feel for me, you said my grandfather loved my grandmother.”
“’Tis true, but your husband is different from your grandfather—as you are different from your grandmother.”
Certes, Collier was different from any man she had known. “Tell me how I am different.”
“Ever your grandmother struggled for self-control. But as harsh and demanding as Hildegard was, she made you strong, giving you the gift of restraint your grandmother lacked.”
Then it had been more than an alliance between the Algernons and their liege…
Tilly smiled. “In that, your father did well by you.”
“And poorly by me.” Lavinia turned from the window.
“Ah, my lady, ’twas not a decision at which he easily arrived, knowing how great your love for your daughter—so great you would not provide the discipline required for her to contend with her gift.”
Lavinia looked ready to argue, but Catherine said, “Tilly, did Hildegard know of my dreams?”
“She did not. So superstitious was she, never would she have accepted you. All she knew was that you were willful, and in that she found good, certain with her guidance, you could be shaped into the strong wife her son required.” Tilly laid a hand over Catherine’s. “I accompanied you to Strivling so I might alert your father if you began speaking of your gift. Just as he knew what might be gained in sending you to Hildegard, he knew what was at risk should you reveal your dreams to her.”
Then Lewis Algernon was not the detached father he had seemed. “What of my grandmother’s mother? Had she the sight?”
“Nay, your grandmother was the first girl child born to her family in more than two hundred years.”
“Two hundred years!” Catherine shook her head. “And before that?”
“I was told the last girl child born before your grandmother also had the sight.”
“Then it is passed through the female line.”
“’Twould seem. For this, your grandmother refused to take her husband into her bed after your father was born. She had given Irondale its heir, and that was enough.”
Might it happen again? Catherine wondered, then looked to her mother. “If you knew naught of this, why did you never visit—or write?”
“Your father forbade me. He said it was as Hildegard required.”
Of course she had. The Lady of Strivling would have tolerated no interference in raising her son’s future wife.
“I never forgave him for sending you away, especially to that woman,” Lavinia said past a suppressed sob.
Catherine crossed to her, and when she put her arms around her, Lavinia bemoaned, “If only he had trusted me enough to tell me.”
Trust. It was the same Catherine wanted from Collier. “Though I am sorry my return has pained you, Mother, I am glad for the good in it.”
“The good?” Lavinia croaked.
“Aye, providing you allow what we have learned this day to reconcile you with father ere…”
Lavinia began to cry in earnest, and as Catherine held her, she sought Tilly’s gaze.
The woman smiled sadly. And pushed the dark lock out of her eyes.
“I have heard tale you cannot even swing a sword.”
Collier looked from the impudent Antony to the battered blade with which the boy had been practicing. “Never mistake a man’s facility with weapons with an ability to defend himself.”
“Then ’tis true you fight with fists like a man of
the soil.” Antony smiled. “But then that is what you are—a commoner wearing the boots of a dead noble.”
“Are you challenging me?”
With mock disbelief, Antony glanced at his brother who watched from atop the fence, then to those on the walls. “Challenge the new Lord of Irondale? Dare I?”
“You dare.”
Antony raised his sword. “Would you care to sport, my lord?”
Collier certainly needed the practice. He drew his sword and mirrored his opponent’s stance.
Beneath the watch of the castle guard, the two parried for the first minute or so, then Antony lunged.
Collier thought himself prepared, but the boy was fast—and more surprised than Collier when he scored his opponent’s arm.
A scratch, but it made Antony reckless. He leapt forward again and slashed without regard to protecting himself.
Lacking sword skill, Collier employed his superior size, strength, and reactions to catch the edge of Antony’s sword with his own and send the boy’s weapon flying.
Antony froze.
“Retrieve your sword.” Collier said.
Eyes fixed on his opponent, Antony scrambled for his weapon.
Shortly, they once more traded blows. Around the training yard they moved, Collier on the defensive, Antony on the offensive. But Collier held his own—until the boy executed a move that spun Collier’s sword from his grasp and into Antony’s.
Had it been a movie, Collier would have rewound it and watched the sequence frame by frame. “Well done,” he said. “You will have to show me how you do that.”
Antony smirked. “You are at my mercy, Lord Gilchrist.”
Collier spread his arms. “What do you intend?”
Antony glanced at their audience.
Collier did the same. It was the older knight, Sir Ennis, who captured his attention. Unlike the others, he did not look pleased.
“I ought to kill you,” Antony said.
“But you won’t.” At least Collier hoped he wasn't that foolish.
The boy’s lids narrowed. “You think I fear your king?”
“For certain you do not.”
“Then?”
“You haven’t yet learned to take another’s life,” Collier said and understood that well since neither had he. “Until then, you won’t kill me.”
“You could be the first.”
Collier wiped his forearm across his moist brow. “Could be, but not today.”
Resentment flashed in Antony’s eyes, but he tossed Collier’s sword to him.
“Same time tomorrow?” Collier said as he returned the blade to its scabbard.
“If you dare.”
Shortly, Collier crossed into the inner bailey and started up the steps to the keep.
“You drop your shoulder,” someone said.
He looked around.
Sir Ennis stood at the bottom of the steps.
“My shoulder?”
"Aye."
What did he care how a Yorkist wielded a sword? “I’ll keep that in mind.” Collier started to turn away.
“And you place too much weight on your front leg.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Irondale deserves a lord capable of defending it—and defending it well.”
“Which I will do.”
The knight smiled wryly. “Then you had best learn how to use that sword.” He pivoted and strode across the bailey.
Collier followed the man’s progress until he went from sight, then resumed his ascent to the great hall. Was Sir Ennis more concerned with the welfare of the castle than whether or not it was a Lancastrian who governed? Or did the knight have an ulterior motive?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I know about grandmother and her dreams.”
In her father’s eyes, Catherine saw alarm alongside words he was incapable of speaking. She had not meant to approach him so soon after learning about the woman who had bequeathed her dreams to her granddaughter, but upon finding the hall empty but for Lewis Algernon, she had seized the opportunity.
Having gained the chair beside his, she leaned near and pressed a hand over his clenched one. “I know why you did not tell me.”
He opened his mouth, but only a strangled sound came out.
She shook her head. “Words are not necessary. I understand ’twas out of love you hid the truth and sent me to Strivling.”
Tears filled his eyes, and her heart swelled for him. “I dream too, Father, but I am not my grandmother.”
He dropped his lids, released a shuddering breath, then turned up his hand and clasped her fingers.
She slid an arm around him. “I love you,” she whispered and thought how awkward the words felt on her tongue and lips. Other than childish declarations spoken before being sent to Strivling, she had told no one she loved them. Hildegard had not believed in that emotion.
Her father dropped his chin to his chest, and she held him until his silent weeping subsided. When she drew back, he smiled with the half of his mouth that yet obeyed.
She kissed his cheek. “We have much to—”
His gaze swept past her, and she followed it to Collier who stood just inside the hall, his perspiration-dampened tunic attesting to his having exerted himself. How long had he been there? How much of the reunion with her father had he witnessed?
When Lewis grunted his displeasure, she said, “I have told my husband, Father.”
His eyes widened.
“He is trustworthy,” she said, though she feared Collier might send her away if she lost the self-control Hildegard had taught her. That is, if he stayed.
She stood. “You wish something, Husband?”
“Forgive my intrusion.” He strode across the hall and ascended the stairs.
Lewis made a low, guttural sound.
“Father?”
He jerked his chin toward the stairs and raised his eyebrows.
Guessing he wished to know her feelings for her Yorkist husband, she said, “I know not, but I do know he is good. Twice he saved my life, and in doing so nearly gave his. He is not like other Yorkists.”
Lewis Algernon considered her long, then lowered his lids.
“Do you wish to lie down?”
He shook his head.
Did he sleep here? When she had earlier come belowstairs to break her fast, it had appeared he had not moved since the night past. Did he think it all the dignity left to him—a lord’s seat of which he was no longer the lord?
Her thoughts turned to Collier, who had not demanded her father’s removal. Had Rudd Walther been awarded Irondale, he would have forcefully removed his predecessor.
She sighed. It always came back to the one thing she knew for certain about Collier—he did not fit.
“I will leave you to your rest, Father.” She rose and touched her lips to his cheek, whispered, “Your heart speaks most clearly to mine.”
Though his eyes remained closed, one side of his mouth rose.
Catherine walked to the stairs and, halfway up, her mother appeared.
“How did he receive you?” Lavinia asked.
“Well. Methinks ’tis time you spoke with him. Time to forgive.”
“I wish to, but I know not how.”
Catherine smiled. “You will find a way.”
Chest bared, Collier stood before the trunk containing his wife’s clothes and his few possessions.
Remembering the feel and scent of him, Catherine averted her gaze and murmured, “I am grateful.”
“For?”
“That you allowed my father to keep the high seat. Methinks he shall leave us ere much longer.”
Collier turned. “You have dreamed it?”
“Thankfully, nay. But ’tis in the air.” And, she prayed, when he departed this world he would be at peace.
“What happened to your grandmother?” Collier asked.
Though he would not reveal his own secret, she refused herself the fleeting comfort of pettiness and sai
d, “She spoke of her dreams as she should not have. Fearing for her, my grandfather sent her away.”
Collier crossed to her. “Do you think I will send you away?”
“I…” She momentarily closed her eyes. “That would require you stay. Will you?”
His brow lined. “I haven’t decided. But if I stay, wherever you are is where I will be.”
She lowered her gaze to his unclothed chest. “I wish to believe you.”
“Do.” He tipped up her chin.
Loving his mouth on hers, she leaned into him, but when he angled his head to deepen the kiss, the rasp of his bearded face made her pull back. She was grateful he neglected his grooming, for she knew where such caresses led, and if she was not already pregnant, a child could result.
And were the babe a girl…
And did Collier not stay…
“Catherine?”
She set a hand on his chest and inwardly shivered at the heat and ticklish hairs beneath her palm. “Until you decide to stay, pray do not make a child on me.”
He nodded. “You are right, though it is possible I’ve already done so. In which case, I would not leave you.”
That did not truly surprise her. What surprised was regret over pulling away from him. More than before, she wished him to stay, and if they had not made a child on their nuptial night, they might have done so this day. But that was not the way to keep hold of him.
“I thank you,” she said, then smiled. “As I thank your prickly beard for bringing me to my senses.”
“Ah.” He drew a hand down his rough jaw. “I’m badly in need of a shave.”
“Then you do not wish to grow a beard?”
“What I wish is to avoid what passes as a razor here. I am not very proficient with one.”
“All the more reason you must acquire a squire.”
“Whom do you suggest? Surely not Antony. Where I’m concerned, he’s likely less proficient with a razor than I.”
Would Antony let the blade slip? Catherine did not wish to believe it, but it was possible. “Then until you take a squire,” she said, “I will have to suffice.”
“You?”
“’Tis a service Hildegard believed a wife ought to perform for her husband. Providing you trust me to be more proficient with a razor than Antony, I will shave you.”