Yes, and he would ride off to war with a shield on his arm and his sword by his side, while she ached with dread for what might happen to him. Just as she ached now, thinking of what Ross might find when he reached Grimes Hall, his prize from Henry.
And how she had come to that thought, she had no idea. It wasn’t at all what she wished to feel as she watched him disappear from sight.
“Do you think he will return?” she asked in stark doubt.
“Rand? But of course he will.”
“Ross, I meant. And there is no ‘of course’ about it. He may have left me here with no idea of coming back for me.”
“Surely not.”
“No, but how can I know?”
Isabel studied her a long moment. “What you are really asking, I think, is how you can be sure he cares about you.”
“Or if he may in the future,” she whispered.
“Because you love him?”
Her smile was crooked. “I must, or it would not hurt so much to be left behind.”
Isabel twined her arm around Cate’s waist, holding her closer. “There is only one way I know to persuade him to it, and that is to be loving yourself. Men are sometimes like the mirrors made by silversmiths. They can be hard and cold, even the best of them, but if kept well polished, will reflect back what they are shown.”
“And the worst of them?”
“Are to be guarded against, for they are not worth the tears they cause a woman to shed.”
Best or worst—which was Ross? Cate thought she knew, but how could she be certain?
Time closed in upon Braesford Hall. Days slid past, becoming weeks, a month, then two, with little to set them apart. Winter loosened its grip and spring crept over the hills. The guards who kept watch near the iron basket of wood that topped the pele tower came and went, with never a need to kindle it into flame. The men who patrolled the walls had nothing to report. An occasional neighbor rode up to pass the time of day or share a meal, but no strange riders were seen and Trilborn did not appear. Little was heard from Ross, though he did send word that he had arrived. He had met with no opposition, but the hall was a shambles and required much work to put all in order.
Cate was spinning, with her wheel set up in a corner of the great hall, on the day fresh news from London reached them. It came by way of the earl of Peverell, who stopped with them for a night while on his way north. He and Braesford seemed not to notice her presence as they sat talking soon after the earl arrived, or else Rand thought she should hear. At least he made no effort to send her away or even lower his voice.
The rebellion had ceased to be a matter of rumor alone. The priest who claimed to have discovered the Plantagenet princeling, the young earl of Warwick, had appeared with him in Ireland. The boy was presented to the Yorkist faction in Dublin, and by early April, received promise of their backing. This group included the powerful earl of Kildare and his brother, who had no love for Lancaster kings.
With this solid support in the offing, there were rumblings of sedition in Devon and Cornwall. Henry had paraded the true Warwick through London in an effort to calm the situation, but it seemed to make little difference. He then held a council at Shene to form a strategy to deal with the crisis. One result of this meeting was a general pardon for all offenses against the crown resulting from Bosworth, including high treason. The point was obviously to persuade those who might be at odds with his reign to avoid joining the forces against him. Afterward, he had embarked upon an extensive progress through the countryside in hope of quieting the unrest.
The threat of war stalked the land again, so it seemed as it had so often in the past years of conflict between York and Lancaster. It gave Cate a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach to think about it. What manner of pride and lust for power caused men to fight so easily? What made them hack and slice at each other, then hunt down the defeated like vermin when the battle was done, chopping off heads as if ridding a harvest field of rats? It was blood madness of the most pernicious kind, a peculiar lust that fed on the fear of other men.
Did Ross know what was taking place, there where he was resetting stones and cleaning cow byres, or whatever he was doing that he had not returned for her? If so, what did he make of it? Yes, and what did he intend to do?
It was not his quarrel, this business between those who followed the white rose or the red. He was not English, so had little concern for who might or might not be king. Yet Henry had settled lands upon him that he might aid in holding the northern border. He would also expect Ross to take the field when and where he commanded.
And what would happen if Ross refused? Henry would no doubt strip him of his honors. He might be imprisoned as a traitor, or even executed if the king decided he had sided with Scotland to attempt his downfall.
James III had been silent so far on this business, but how long would he remain so? Any weakness in England’s defenses could be seen as an opportunity.
Ross would be damned if he fought for England, and damned if he fought for his homeland. What could he do?
It was tempting to see this promise of war as the work of the curse, the means by which Ross would be finally removed as her husband. Cate shuddered at the thought, but it would not leave her.
She looked up as Isabel swept into the hall, followed by a manservant bearing a tray set with mulled wine, nutmeats, cheeses and marzipan candies. She moved with the grace of a ship with full sails, her features serene, her manner brisk yet kindly. Her sister was noticeably larger now than when she and Ross had first come, Cate thought. Was it possible her babe was due earlier than she expected? Or was she, by chance, to be delivered of twins? One possibility seemed as likely as the other.
Cate need not concern herself with such calculations. Her courses had come and gone, proving she was not with child.
Isabel’s arrival provided a good excuse to pause in her work, leave the hall to the men. Cate set her spinning wheel aside and stood, brushing bits of cream-colored wool from the front of her skirt. As she looked up, ready to say something about duties elsewhere, she caught the glance that passed between her sister and her husband. As warm and intimate as a caress, it was a message of loving appreciation from Braesford to Isabel for her care of him and his guest.
Such a small thing, yet Cate felt painful anger rise up from deep inside her. She should be doing things of a like nature for her own husband, as chatelaine of his keep. She should be ordering her servants while tending the needs of his villagers, his guests and his friends. She should be working beside him to make the place he had been given livable, comfortable, a home. She should be receiving his smiles, yes, and his caresses.
But no, she was denied these, her rightful tasks, and her due as a wife. She was a charge upon her sister and her husband, as if she had never married. Cate was forced to fill her days with spinning and embroidery, and the occasional task Isabel was too large or clumsy to complete.
It was ridiculous.
It was not to be borne. She would bear it no longer.
Cate was forced to hold her peace through the remainder of the day and another night, however. She had need of Braesford’s aid if she was to leave his hall, and he had no time to attend to her request while a guest was with them.
Early on the morning after Peverell finally left, Cate went in search of her brother-in-law. He was not in the great hall, but neither had he ridden out that day, according to his seneschal. She thought he might be in the solar, the fine chamber he shared with Isabel, and where she sat embroidering before the fire when not about other tasks.
Neither of them was there. Cate turned away, thinking the chamber was empty. At the last second, her attention was caught by a small movement near the window that overlooked the courtyard. It was Marguerite who stood there, her attention so concentrated on whatever was taking place below that she was oblivious of all else.
“Have you seen Braesford?” Cate asked as she walked closer, curious to see what held her sister’s attention.
/>
Marguerite jumped a little, and then waved toward the window. Cate, stepping to her side, leaned to peer through the distortion of the glass.
Two men were sparring with sword and shield in the court below. One was Braesford, she saw, while the other was a stripling whose blond hair shone silver-gold in the spring sunshine.
“But that’s…” she began.
“David, yes,” Marguerite finished in strained distress.
Cate turned back to watch Braesford and his young squire have at each other as if mortal enemies, with blades that clanged and chimed and dripped sparks as they scraped edge to edge. The men had stripped to shirts, braises and hose, and the fabric clung to heavy musculature that was usually concealed by the fullness of doublets and tunics or swinging capes. Raw power was manifest in every hard stroke that squealed against metal or thundered upon the shields on their left arms, in every swift advance and controlled retreat. The combatants gave no quarter and asked none as they slashed and grunted, attacked and parried, cursed and defended.
Braesford was magnificent, Cate had to admit, a marvelous figure of a man and an excellent swordsman. David was holding his own against him, however, an indication of how much he had progressed since becoming Rand’s squire. His shoulders had broadened, and hard muscle encased his arms, outlined by his damp linen. He would be a formidable man one day.
She glanced at her sister, wondering at her rigidity. Marguerite’s gaze was fastened upon the squire. Her face was pale, her breathing uneven, and a fine dew of perspiration shone on her upper lip.
“Marguerite?” Cate touched her arm as concern burgeoned inside her.
Despair shadowed the dark brown of her sister’s eyes. “He’ll kill him. I know he will.”
“You must not worry so. I’m sure Braesford is more than a match—”
“Must he maim David in order to make a knight of him?”
Marguerite’s concern was for the squire. He had been injured: Cate saw it now, though she had not noticed the patch of red on his arm until that moment. It was not a fatal cut by any means, yet such things were always dangerous. Blood poisoning carried off more men after a feat of arms than ever fell in battle.
“It’s the way of these things,” she said with a helpless gesture. “How else is he to learn to use a sword? He must grow so accustomed to the cut and thrust of it that it becomes second nature. As you saw with Ross, when we were set up at the ford, there is no time to think when you are attacked.”
“I know, but it’s terrible to watch.” Marguerite’s face was set in lines of tragedy.
“Come away then.” When she didn’t move or even appear to hear, Cate gave her a speculative look. “You fear that much for him?”
“Who would not?” Her sister finally glanced away. “At this rate, he’ll die before he can win his spurs.”
“Is that what he wants, to be a knight?”
“It’s all he’s ever dreamed of. He’s so serious about it, thinks of little else. He was a foundling, you know, brought up in a convent after being left at the gate.”
“It happens all too often.”
“Now he has this grand plan to win a fortune and great renown in the tournaments of Europe, and nothing can be allowed to stand in his way.”
“An admirable goal, surely?”
“Not if that’s all there is for him.”
It was unlike Marguerite to notice such things. Or was that unfair? Her younger sister had always been quiet, ethereal, preferring to keep to herself. They had grown used to leaving her alone, she and Isabel and most everyone else. How could they know what might occupy her thoughts?
It seemed she thought a great deal about Braesford’s young squire. It was something to keep in mind.
The contest below came to an end as Braesford, with abrupt power, disarmed David. He bent to pick up the squire’s sword as it clanged and slid, coming to rest against his boot toe. Holding both that weapon and his own in his hand, he slung an arm over David’s shoulders, shook him a little and said something that made the young man laugh. The two of them turned and walked away in the direction of the stables.
“At least it’s over for now,” Cate said in encouragement.
Marguerite sighed. “Yes, for now.”
Her hope of speaking to Braesford was over, as well, at least for the moment. He and David would require a bath, by which time the main meal of the day would be ready. Afterward, the master of the hall usually rode out from the keep, galloping away in the direction of the sea to make certain all was well on his lands. She would be lucky if she saw him again before dark.
In the event, it was the next morning before she was able to capture his attention. She came upon him as he started down the stairs to the hall.
“Sir Rand!” she called out, running the last few steps to catch up with him.
“Lady Catherine,” he said with a polite bow, though wariness slid across his features as he turned to face her. “How may I serve you?”
“I would ask if you had thought of paying a visit to the property Ross received from the king.”
Irony rose in the gray of his eyes for that artful suggestion. “Nay, milady, not without invitation.”
“But have you no curiosity to see what he’s done with Grimes Hall?”
“Very little. And you?”
“Much,” she said succinctly. “I wondered if I might prevail upon you to act as my escort, should I decide to inspect it.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “It appears to me you have already decided.”
“And if I have?”
“I regret that I am unable to accommodate you. Isabel must be my first consideration just now. I could not risk being away when the babe is born. Above that, I am pledged to stand ready to warn of any invasion. It would be worth my head if Henry should be surprised by an enemy landing while I was absent from my post.”
Both points were valid; still, she hated to admit defeat. “The distance isn’t that great, only a day’s ride if we don’t dawdle.”
“Also a night there and another day for the return. My deepest regrets, Lady Catherine, but I dare not.”
He would dare without a backward glance, she thought with a certain cynicism, if the need was his or even Isabel’s. “Given the short distance, a few men-at-arms should be sufficient protection. Could you not so order them, with mayhap the added guard of your squire?”
He tilted his head, his features unreadable. “David, is it?”
“I noticed just yesterday that he has gained considerable skill with a sword.”
“His talent is God-given. What he has gained is the power to use it.”
She smiled, seeing he had added to her argument. “Without a doubt.”
“Nevertheless, the danger is great. Bands of men are everywhere, gathering for York, for Lancaster or for their own gain.”
“I feel sure David is competent enough to see me there and back again in safety.”
Rand watched her while swift consideration darkened his eyes. “You do intend to return then?” he asked finally.
“Unless my presence is required permanently.”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “If Dunbar had required your presence, he would have sent for you. Meanwhile, I am entrusted with your security. I am persuaded your husband would not be pleased if I sent you to him without his leave.”
Annoyance flashed over her, particularly as she had thought he was softening. “I could grow old and gray waiting for that!”
He lifted a velvet clad shoulder. “I would not come to blows with my brother-in-law and nearest neighbor because I allowed you to overrule my doubts and his wishes. This is between you and Dunbar.”
“And he is a stubborn Scotsman too stiff-necked to admit I am more useful there than here! I appreciate your concern, sir, and am grateful for your care, but cannot permit myself to be governed by your fears for me.”
“Can you not?” he inquired, the words edged in steel.
Apprehension slid d
own Cate’s backbone. How did her sister deal with this man? He was as immovable as the stone steps nearby, almost as immovable as her husband. “I must go,” she said in desperation. “The longer I stay away, the harder it will be to…to take him as my husband again.”
“Never fear, milady,” Rand, Baron Braesford, said with the ghost of a smile. “I misdoubt Dunbar will have any difficulty whatever taking you to wife.”
If that observation was meant to reassure her, it missed its mark. She was not reassured at all.
Since Braesford refused to escort her or direct David to undertake the duty, then she would have to make other arrangements. All she had to do was put her mind to the problem.
Difficulties abounded, however, as she discovered after discreet inquiries here and there. No man-at-arms would dare take her in charge without an order from Braesford; the mere idea was enough to make them blanch. Not a single stable hand would choose a mount for her, much less saddle it. With the current unrest, the gates were opened only at need, and a watch patrolled the battlements day and night.
If she had not spoken to Braesford, she might have convinced him of a sudden desire to go hawking, now that the weather had turned warmer and a green haze lay over the land. She could have ridden out with a groom and a pair or two of men-at-arms, and then persuaded them to accompany her by swearing to take full blame. As it was, she had little hope that her brother-in-law would be fooled, was certain her escort would be given strict orders to keep her close.
It was surely possible for her to saddle a mount without aid, lead it from the stables and let herself out of the keep through the postern gate. She would first have to slip past the hands who slept in the stable, however, and then elude the watch. Those men would all be punished if she managed it, a burden for her conscience. More than that, she was far from certain of the wisdom of going alone. Much of the way would be through open country. A woman riding through it without escort would stand out like a pimple on a courtesan’s nose. That she would become instant prey for any outlaw or errant soldier who saw her was a given. To be caught and held for ransom was the very least of what she could expect.
By Grace Possessed Page 22