“A little of both, I suppose.”
“Ah, well. Your Scotsman seems too hardy for a fever to take him off, and there is little prospect of a battle where he may fall, yet some disaster will put an end to him. A pity, but he brought it on himself.”
An odd numbness seized Cate’s chest. “No, no, surely it won’t come to that!”
Marguerite lifted her head from where she’d rested it on Cate’s shoulder. Her brows almost met above her nose as she scowled. “It sounds as if you might care what happens to him.”
“Of course I care. He is a decent man who went to great ends to save me, Marguerite, and did nothing untoward afterward. We have made it up between us to avoid the king’s command, and so we shall.”
“You did what?” her sister asked, her eyes widening with shock.
It was necessary to present every detail. By the time Cate was done, she and Marguerite had reached their chamber, kicked off their slippers and settled in comfort upon the featherbed. Gwynne, the serving woman who attended to their needs, was absent upon some task, so they need not watch their words.
Her sister stared at her in frowning concentration where she rested her back against one of the bedposts. “You think intentions matter where the curse is concerned? You believe your Scotsman will be safe as long as he doesn’t agree to marry you?”
“Something like that, though I wish you would cease calling him my Scotsman.”
Marguerite waved that objection away. “But, Cate, that’s wonderful. You may enjoy Dunbar’s company without troubling over whether he’s courting death as he courts you.”
“May I, indeed?”
“Only consider! When has any one of us had the freedom to walk with a man, talk with him or simply be with him without fearing he will seal his doom by deciding to take us to wife?”
“Why, never,” Cate said in dawning discovery.
“Dunbar has not only given you his word, but knows his father will never consent to a marriage.”
“Just so.”
“You need feel not a whit of guilt, no matter what may come to pass between you.”
Cate narrowed her eyes in sudden suspicion. “What are you saying?”
“Why, only that— Well, aren’t you curious, Cate? Do you never wonder what it might be like to meet a man in a garden as in the Roman de la Rose, to allow him the caresses that may lead to…to exploration of soft petals and warm centers? Love like that between Isabel and Braesford is so rare. If we are never to have husbands because love is denied, well then?”
“Marguerite!”
Her sister’s face turned mutinous. She took a corner of her veil, nibbling at its hem. “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t thought of it, for I won’t believe you.”
“Well, if I hadn’t, then I will now that you’ve put the idea into my head!”
“What is wrong with that, pray? Are we to be denied such joy of the flesh because of a stupid curse? Life is uncertain, Cate. We have so little time to gather memories before we dwindle into old age, like the forgotten women in nunneries.”
“Oh, Marguerite,” Cate whispered, leaning to put her hand on her sister’s bent knee. She had not known her younger sister felt so passionately about what the curse foretold for their futures. “We may be denied the boon of being wives and mothers, but we have also been saved from the grief of being wed to men twice our age, men who will get a babe upon us every year without the least care for whether we live or die. We have avoided brutal men like our stepbrother, who would give us bruises rather than kisses or caresses.”
“So you suppose, but how can we be sure? Who can say we might not have found love among the men-at-arms who serve our husbands, once we had provided him a son or two to secure their lines? It happens to other women, Cate. It happens.”
“Yes, and young girls die from bearing that son or two while they are still children themselves. Meeting a man in a garden could lead to the same thing.”
“It would almost be worth it to have the mystery understood at last, to lie in a man’s arm, to feel the kisses and caresses.”
“Or it could be a vast disappointment.” Cate managed a wan smile. “But I do see what you are saying, Marguerite, and I have thought of it. Oh, yes, I’ve thought of it.”
“Well, then?”
“I don’t know,” she answered with strain in her voice. “I can hardly go to Ross Dunbar and say, ‘Please, kind sir, make love to me so I may know what it’s like just once in my life.’ What if he laughed? What if he refused because he thought it was a trap to make marriage necessary? What if he had no desire to take me into his arms, much less his bed?”
“What if he did?”
What if he did.
The thought was a fire in the blood, a mystery of mysteries, a rare and wild unicorn of the heart. Cate felt it settle inside her, within the small, tight fence of her mind. How she would be rid of it, she did not know, or if that was even possible. She feared it might be with her until set free with the aid of the Scotsman.
The following morning brought a great hustle and bustle in the castle as the king’s retinue prepared to take to the road. Several carts laden with bedding, foodstuffs and other comforts left ahead of the rest, additions for whatever preparation might be made by the household of the nobleman they would descend upon come nightfall. Cold beef and bread would be their fare during the day’s ride, but they could expect more sumptuous viands at day’s end. The Feast of Saint Nicholas had passed while they tarried at Winchester, ushering in the Christmas season which would not end until Epiphany or even Candlemas. Doubtless there would be rich and warming stews and soups this evening, along with roast goose, bacon with lashings of mustard, venison, frumenty and a hundred other things.
Once the main column left the town of Winchester, Cate rode with Marguerite and one or two other heiresses ordered to attend upon Henry. They ambled along at a pace not much faster than the slowest cart, with Marguerite on a bay gelding and Cate on her palfrey. It was a pleasure to be mounted upon Rosie again, just as it had been a joy to discover her safe in her stall. The gray mare seemed none the worse for her run through the wood, beyond a few welts from limbs and a briar scratch on one fetlock. Cate leaned forward often to smooth her fingers over Rosie’s neck or run them through her mane.
The king rode at the head of the winding procession for the most part, but coursed up and down its length every hour or so. He was a meticulous man who left little to his minions, but seemed compelled to make certain all was well with the march.
Ross Dunbar rode with Henry, both while in the lead and for his inspections. Cate caught the gleam of his ebony hair under his tilted Scots bonnet, was able to compare the width of his shoulders to those of the king who, though a tall man, was less square and broad even with the aid of his flowing cloak. Still, the two were a fair sight in their mature strength, both being of an age. Cate’s gaze strayed in their direction more often than she liked.
It was a fine day, with the sun glistening in eye-stinging brightness on the melting snow, and a hint of something near warmth in the wind. Bird calls could be heard above the rattle of hooves and squeal of axles. Spirits mounted as the morning passed. After a while, someone began to sing. Others took up the old rondel about the holly and the ivy. Beneath its innocent verses lay an older paean to love in which the holly was a pagan man and the ivy his woman.
Cate, laughing with Marguerite over the suggestive lines, failed to notice Ross Dunbar’s approach until he thundered up beside her. She turned sharply, her heart battering against her breastbone as she controlled Rosie’s efforts to shy away.
“Good day to you, milady,” he said with a smile. “Your mare looks in fair trim after her adventure, as do you.”
“We both thank you,” she said with a wry smile, but could think of nothing at all to add.
“You gave me to understand that you could not sing, but I see it was mere modesty.”
“By no means!”
“I disagree. And we we
re to sing, you and I. Shall we?”
“This?” The verse that came next, she blushed to recall, was about the growing, swelling fervor of the holly caused by the ivy’s embrace. “What better?”
Merry challenge lay in the dark blue depths of his eyes. How was she to refuse it? With a smile and half despairing shake of her head, she took up the refrain.
Ross joined her in a baritone as deep and full as it was true. Their voices soared, rising above the rest. That was until Marguerite joined them in an alto that matched well in counterpoint, so they were not quite so conspicuous.
So they rode, the pacing of their horses well matched, Ross’s knee brushing Cate’s thigh now and then, sending shafts of tremulous awareness to the center of her being. And they sang as if nothing momentous pended between them, as though nothing mattered except the melody and Henry’s slow yet certain pace toward London.
It was on the third day of the progress, after a morning spent slogging through mud churned to the consistency of butter, that Ross was finally able to secure a few moments alone with Lady Catherine. She had left the cavalcade, riding to the top of a brown knoll. She sat her palfrey, watching the long procession wind past below her while a light wind stirred the mud-spattered hem of her habit and lifted the linen layers of her veiling like angel wings behind her. She appeared pensive and in low spirits, he thought. Without conscious intention, he kicked his mount into a canter and rode out to join her.
“Weary?” he asked, circling her position to draw up at her side.
Her smile was slow in coming. “No more than anyone else.”
“A seat in one of the carts can be arranged, if you like.”
She shook her head. “I’d as soon ride horseback as have the teeth jarred from my head.”
He could hardly argue, as he felt the same. “We won’t be that much longer on the road. With luck and good weather, you’ll be back in some chamber at Greenwich by tomorrow night.”
She looked at him then, a curious glance. “And you, where will you sleep?”
“Oh, I’ll find a rat hole somewhere.” The words acknowledged his odd position at court, neither as high as the English nobles nor as low as their lackeys, neither courtier nor court fool. He had slept in high places and low in his months with Henry; not that it signified either way. He had endured worse in Scotland, as well as enjoying better.
“I expect the serving woman who travels with us can arrange something. Gwynne is a genius at finding the best of what’s available.”
“For you and your sister, doubtless. She’ll not be troubling herself for the likes of me.”
A smile flitted across Lady Catherine’s face. “Oh, I don’t know. Gwynne has an eye for a fine-looking man.”
“Does she now?” he drawled, more intrigued and, yes, pleased than he wanted to admit by the oblique compliment.
The lady colored and looked away from him. He had not meant to embarrass her. In a swift change of subject, he said, “While rubbing elbows with Henry, I learned he sent a messenger bearing the betrothal agreement to my father. The man was instructed to continue to Holyrood to gain the approval of King James.”
“Already?”
“He wastes no time, does Henry.”
She took a deep breath, released it with a sigh. “I had thought he might wait until he was established at Greenwich Palace.”
“Or even after the Christmas season.” Ross lifted a shoulder covered by the long tail of his plaid. “He was apparently not so inclined.”
“Think you…” she began, before trailing to a stop.
“What?”
“That your King James will agree? I mean…”
“Could be. Jamie is of a mind to form an alliance between our two countries, as witness the treaty. He almost married his son to Elizabeth’s sister, Cecily, some years back, so may look with favor on another such tie.”
“I feared as much, particularly after such haste to arrange it.”
“As to that, Henry sends couriers in every direction during the present uncertainty, but especially to the north, where any landing by an invasion force is to be expected. He doesn’t intend to be caught napping like Richard III.”
“Is that likely?”
“Who can say? I hear tell Margaret of Burgundy may contribute equal amounts of gold and spite to the plot involving the Yorkist pretender.”
“It’s natural enough, I suppose. Margaret was close to her brothers, both Richard and Edward.”
“I’ll hardly argue against invading with revenge for a reason, not being a hypocrite.” He shifted in the saddle to stretch a tight muscle. “But I only meant to point out that Henry had no need to send a special messenger north to the border, as he had one headed in that direction already.”
“How long do you think before he can have an answer?” she asked, her gaze clouded with uneasiness.
“With my father, it’s hard to say. He may not answer at all.”
“If he considers the proposal beneath contempt, you mean.”
“Or in the nature of an insult,” Ross said in wry agreement. “At least he won’t send the messenger back minus his head. I trust not, anyway, as I am in Henry’s hands.”
She looked at Ross askance. “Surely you don’t believe Henry would execute you in retaliation?”
“Maybe, maybe not, though he would be justified.”
“What of King James? How long before we hear from him?”
“A month or two, even three, as he’ll want to turn the question up, down and sideways, searching for a trick.”
Her smile for his drollery was brief. “And if he decides in favor?”
“Who? Jamie or my father? Or is it that you fear they’ll both betray us?”
She swallowed, a movement in the line of her white throat that made his belly clench. “Yes, both.”
“Trilborn believes I should break my parole and return to Scotland.”
“Unwise, I would think. Your king may take it in bad part if you avoid a wedding he considers politic.”
“Possibly.”
She searched his face, singling out the doubt he could feel there. “Or not, if it should be a ruse, and James intent upon taking advantage of Henry’s distraction during any invasion.”
“He is not so underhanded,” Ross said in stiff rejection. “He will keep to the treaty he signed last spring. Besides, it would be cannier for him to wait and see who wins. As for fighting, I will follow my king when I can, though I’m not much disposed to kill men I’ve been drinking with these many months.”
“Not even Trilborn?” she asked in dry tones.
“An exception might be made in his case.” Ross paused, and then went on in a different tone. “He was entertaining you earlier.”
“If you care to call it that. He’s difficult to discourage, without simply riding off and leaving him.”
“Your sister remained beside you, I noticed.”
“It seemed best.”
Grim humor surfaced inside him. “She does have a forbidding way of looking at a man, not that it seemed to trouble Trilborn.”
A gust of wind blew Lady Catherine’s veiling across her mouth. She lifted a hand to draw it away before she spoke. “He left soon enough. I take no particular gratification from his company, as you must realize, but though he is your enemy, that does not make him mine.”
Sudden tightness invaded the lower part of Ross’s body as his gaze was drawn to her moist and enticing lips, emphasized as the veiling was moved away from them. It sounded in his voice as he spoke. “He wants you and means to have you. He made that much plain when he warned me off a few days ago. I almost think…”
“What?”
Ross looked away toward the tail end of the column, which was approaching. “You’ll think it Dunbar mistrust, or even lunacy.”
“Or I may not.”
“Think on this then. You are a good horsewoman. You aren’t fearful of being alone in the wood. You often fall back at the end of the hunt.”
/> Her gaze sharpened. “I’m not sure how you come by the knowledge, but what of it?”
“Those who hunt with Henry are well used to you removing yourself from among them for half an hour or so at the time of the kill, then showing up again. They barely notice when it happens, as you saw in the New Forest. If you had been carried off and held overnight, it would have been no different.”
“You are saying…” She stopped as if unwilling to put the perfidy of it into words.
“I am saying,” he continued, his voice gruff, “that you should have a care for your person. Be aware of what is taking place around you. Avoid going anywhere alone, and know always where the nearest palace guard is stationed.”
She sighed with a slow shake of her head. “Foolish man.”
Irritation surged through him at the lack of alarm in her voice, and the note of pity. He could feel his face set in hard lines. “My lady?”
“Oh, not you,” she answered, with a flashing glance in his direction. “I was thinking of Trilborn. He had best be glad he failed, if abduction was indeed his scheme. He might be dead by now, otherwise.”
“You would have killed him.” Ross thought he kept the skepticism out of his voice, but could not be sure of it.
“The boar would have attacked and killed him, he’d have been unhorsed in chasing after me, and broken his neck, or the outlaws would have murdered him for his purse. Any number of things might have happened, but he would be dead all the same.”
“You speak of the curse.” Ross’s voice was flat in his attempt to control his annoyance.
She inclined her head while still holding her veil back from her face.
“I’m not sure the thing would have been so obliging, or acted so fast.”
“Mayhap not, but he would have contracted an inflammation of the lungs at the very least.”
“After you suffered at his hands.”
A dark look passed over her fine, pale features. “That is possible.”
“You will have a care then, if only to prevent him from achieving that much.”
She sat her horse, her gaze steady upon his face, while the wind flipped her palfrey’s mane and threatened to take the bonnet from his head. Reaching up, Ross snatched off his headgear and then slapped it on again, pulling it snugly forward and to one side. His mount stirred restively, and was controlled by him with more firmness than was strictly needed.
By Grace Possessed Page 7