By Grace Possessed

by Jennifer Blake

  Braesford was more than a match for him. His skill was so lethal, in fact, that Ross’s heart pounded against his breastbone in high exhilaration every second that they strove together. He fought with scant thought, advancing, retreating, attacking, parrying by instinct alone. Isabel’s husband had a few tricks he’d not met with before, while he himself had a handful culled from an Italian who had wintered at his father’s table and taught them in return for the hospitality. They exchanged these in mutual respect, circling, attacking, defending, while their muscles burned and sweat ran into their eyes and dripped from the ends of their hair. Their swords clanged like a pair of blacksmiths hammering at their anvils. They scraped and slithered, singing, clanking, glittering in the sunlight.

  A crowd gathered to cheer them on, among them Braesford’s squire, David, who stood with his hands on his hips and a frown on his handsome young face. Around him, the others placed bets, yelled encouragement. Insults were also exchanged as Braesford’s men ranged themselves on the side of their champion and Ross’s did the same.

  It was David who put a stop to it. He said not a word, but only stepped close and then jerked his thumb toward the battlements that rose above them.

  Braesford followed his gaze with a fraction of his attention. Ross, catching his brother-in-law’s blade on a cross made of dirk and sword, did the same.

  Lady Isabel stood there, with Cate on one side holding her sister’s newborn babe, and Marguerite on the other. Their veils blew around them in the late spring wind, and their skirts flew back behind them. The sun poured its pale gold light over them until they seemed to glow with it. Though they were too far away for the men to see their expressions, their very stillness, the set of their heads and stiffness of their shoulders, told its own tale. The ladies, unlike some, were not entertained by the prospect of imminent bloodshed, nor were they amused by the air of joyous mayhem.

  A strong shudder ran down the back of Ross’s neck. In that moment, he would have sworn the three females on the battlements had a touch of the divine about them, some sublime protection beyond the kin of mortal men. He’d have accepted without question that a curse had them in its keeping.

  He slewed his head around to stare at his opponent, half fearful of a fatal blow coming at him during that instant of distraction. Braesford seemed as shaken as he, however.

  They pushed away from each other with a single hard shove, downed their swords, whipped a salute and stepped back. Turning together, they walked in the direction of the tower that sheltered their wives.

  “If you had killed Braesford,” Cate said some time later, speaking in conversational tones as she sat beside him at the evening meal, “Isabel would have spitted you herself, I do believe, and served your gizzard to you as a delicacy.”

  Ross slanted a glance at his wife, watching her between his lashes. “And you, my sweeting, what would you have done if he had dispatched me?”

  “Applauded.”

  He had asked for it, yet the answer pained him more than he expected. “I might have guessed.”

  She looked away an instant, and then back again. “No, but truly, it was not well done by either of you when Isabel has just risen from childbed. Isn’t it enough to fear you’ll fall on the field of battle without having you try to annihilate each other?”

  “It was because of the coming battle,” Ross said shortly.

  “Deliver me from the logic of men. It was bad enough watching David and Braesford hack at each other, though at least one of them had the sense to end it. You and Braesford seemed ready to carry it to the death.”

  Her cheeks were pink with her fury, her eyes like twin blue flames, and her breasts heaved in a way that hardened him to a state not unlike his sword blade. His lips twisted for an instant before he spoke. “Why such outrage, as you care so little?”

  “A fine question,” she answered, taking him up at once, “and here’s another of like nature. Why such fervor in returning to my bed when you could not be bothered to send for me to join you?”

  “That’s a sore spot, is it?”

  “I am your wife, so chatelaine of whatever keep you are pleased to call your base. It’s my duty and privilege to set it to rights.”

  He shook his head. “Not this one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was a shambles, Cate. The walls were falling down, the bailey one huge dung heap and the great hall a den for wild animals. There was not a tapestry that was not rotted or ripped to tatters, or a bed mattress that had not been pissed upon, if not worse. I could not ask you to live there.”

  She stared at him for a long moment while the heat died out of her eyes. “You lived in it.”

  “Only after I had made a fire in the bailey and thrown everything in it that would burn. Cate…”

  She gave a small shake of her head. “It was a bad bargain then.”

  “Nay. The land is there, grand open stretches of it, as are the villages and the people. The wall has been mended, cottages repaired, the bailey and keep made wholesome again. The rest can be replaced in time.”

  “I can do that,” she said, her eyes darkly blue as they rested upon him. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Nay, that won’t be necessary,” he said with finality.

  “I have the means, and it will be my home, too.”

  He could feel his anger like a hot coal in his chest. “I’ll not be dipping into your money chest, heavy though it may be.”

  “Why not? Every other man in Christendom would feel it his right.”

  “Call me a stiff-necked Scot, but I’d rather place every stone with my bare hands than be beholden for so much as a bread crust.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Beholden to me, you mean.”

  “Aye.”

  “Pride is an excellent thing, but meanwhile I’m to have no part of it, no say in how things are to be arranged. You will decide all, while I remain here upon the charity of my sister and her husband.”

  Put like that, it did sound more than a little overbearing. That could not be helped. “Mayhap Isabel and Braesford will take your coin, but I can’t. I won’t.”

  “I can be your bedmate, possibly even the mother of your child, but not a helpmate.”

  His heart stopped. “You think you may be with child?” he asked, the words coming out in abrupt demand.

  She shook her head so her veil shifted around her shoulders. “No, but continue as we are and—”

  “Aye,” he interrupted, more aware than he wanted to be of the bleak disappointment inside him. The thought of Cate carrying his babe had been with him since he caught sight of her on the battlement with Isabel’s little one in her arms. It had seemed so natural, so right. He had wanted, with desperation more painful than a sword slice, to know she had his get under her heart when the call to war came.

  It wasn’t too late.

  Heat rose inside him along with a fierce, stinging pressure that coalesced, throbbing, between his legs. He drank down his wine, set the glass back on the high table with a thump. “Mayhap we should.”

  “Should what?”

  She met his gaze with a look of inquiry in her eyes, yet soft, wild rose color slowly tinted her cheeks. Something in his face must have given him away, for she knew, oh yes, she knew.

  “Continue,” he said around the knot in his throat. Pushing back his chair, he stood and held out his hand. Never had he been so glad of his plaid and sporran, which hid his rampant state.

  The hot color in her face deepened. She sent a quick glance around the hall, as if to see if anyone paid attention to them. Then the smallest of smiles tipped her mouth. She gave him her hand.

  It felt like a victory. Ross drew a breath so deep it hurt the back of his throat. Turning, he led her carefully from the hall.

  17

  Henry’s call to arms came on a morning of sublime beauty, when the sun spread its mellow light upon the land, the tender green of new grass clover and bracken lay like velvet upon the hills,
and birds swooped in delirious flight, singing on the wind. The herald lingered only long enough to present his message and wolf down bread, beef and ale. Then he raced away to the next keep.

  At least the village women had sense enough to dread the news, Cate thought in despair. The young men seemed to view it as a holiday from labor, swaggering and boasting as they gathered under the command of their leaders. Ross and Braesford, by contrast, were methodical and grimly accepting. They also seemed to be everywhere, checking supplies and the carts that would transport them, assigning weapons, sending messengers here and there, deciding the order of placement between green recruits and veteran men-at-arms, and a thousand other details.

  Soon, too soon, the line of march was ready. Mothers hugged their sons and men kissed their wives goodbye. Orders were shouted, and the column of soldiers levied by the king began to move. Dogs barked, running back and forth. Young boys trotted alongside the marching men. The villagers gathered along the road, calling, waving, while some few wiped their eyes or clasped their hands in prayer. The first rank began to gain distance along the road, tramping away to reach the king, who was at Kenilworth, where he had been joined by the queen and his mother.

  They were going, and Ross had not said goodbye. Cate had lain abed while he dressed, watching as he pleated his plaid around him, strapped on his sporran and slapped his bonnet on his head, pulling it down on one side to make it snug. To distract herself from what he meant to do, she had wondered if he would ever fully adopt English dress, and thought it would be a loss if he did. She liked the view of his sun-bronzed knees she caught now and then, and the hard muscles of his calves.

  She also liked the ease with which he could take her when the mood struck him, without any awkward fumbling with hose and points. It was a benefit she had discovered in these past days since he had returned.

  He had kissed her, a brief brush of the lips, before he strapped on his sword and whirled out of the room. Pausing at the door, he had thrown her a tight smile, then was gone. She had not known it was for the last time before he went to war. She had thought surely he would come to her once more before he left.

  Or was it possible he was waiting for her to come to him? From the battlement where she stood she could see a few horsemen pacing along with the marching men, but Ross was not among them, nor was Braesford or his squire, David. She could not see into the court directly below, in front of the pele tower, though she thought she heard restless hooves on the cobblestones. Mayhap these leaders lingered there for their goodbyes.

  Turning in a swirl of skirts, Cate ran down the stone steps, one hand against the rough wall for balance, then raced along the corridors. The door of Isabel’s solar stood open as she passed. She glimpsed her sister inside, held fast in the arms of her husband, along with their new babe and young Madeleine, as he bent to her lips. Cate did not pause.

  She did break stride in the great hall. Marguerite sat there on a bench. David was on one knee before her. He held her hand in his while he bowed, pressing it to his forehead in reverent intensity. Marguerite, a look of stunned bemusement on her face, used her free hand to touch his well-shaped, golden head with gentle fingers.

  It was a farewell too private to be interrupted or even witnessed. Cate turned away, running a few steps again as she made toward the tower stairs that gave onto the court. Then she stopped, dragging breath into her burning lungs.

  Ross was emerging from the shadowed staircase. He was coming toward her.

  He reached her in a few strides, bringing with him the scents of fresh air and leather, warm wool, heather and horse. His eyes burned darkly blue, and his face was hard with determination. His gaze rested on her mouth as he caught her shoulders in his hands.

  “Ah, Cate,” he said, his voice rough, “I’d not go if I need not.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  He stared down at her as if memorizing her face. His hands caressed her arms. Then his lips tightened. Abruptly, he bent and scooped her up in his arms. His strides long and swift, he carried her to the stairs, mounting them without pause. At their chamber, he strode inside and kicked the door shut, then stepped to place her on the side of the bed.

  “Forgive me, sweet, but I must…”

  “Yes,” she said in breathless haste, reaching for his belt.

  He caught her hands, stilling them, and then leaned to take the hem of her skirts and flip them into her lap. Pressing her back onto the mattress, he spread her legs and lifted his plaid.

  He took her then in fast, hard possession, with a look on his face that was like pain. And Cate took him, as well, wrapping her legs around him as he pressed into her again and again as if trying to reach her very core. It was a furious joining, a mating both animalistic and divine. It was an affirmation of life, the defiance of fate and of death. And in the midst of it, as she felt the sweet internal shift, the sudden giving of her being at the apogee of desire, she knew she loved him, had loved him for weeks. She would love him forever, even if he never returned.

  “Ross,” she whispered.

  “Ah, my Cate,” he said, his breath warm in her hair.

  Then it was over. He stepped back, adjusted his plaid, caught her to him for a last hard, deep kiss. He turned toward the door.

  “Stay safe!” she called, the words almost strangled in the tears that clogged her throat.

  He made no answer. Mayhap he did not hear.

  In the space of a drawn breath, he was gone.

  And it seemed to Cate, in that moment of aching loss, that now must be when the curse would finally strike, now when she could least bear it. Henry’s battles in defense of his crown would be the instrument that must take Ross from her. What could be more likely? What, indeed?

  The days crept past, spring moved forward into early summer, the year turned with its cycle of plowing and planting, herding and shearing, carding, spinning and weaving. Flowers bloomed in the blowing grass, birds nested and berries ripened. All was as it should be, and yet nothing was right.

  Isabel, as Braesford’s wife, had been left in command of the keep. She was slow in regaining her strength after the early childbirth, however. As a result, much of the responsibility came to rest on Cate’s shoulders. She formed the habit of riding out as Braesford had done, surveying the coast, overseeing the workers that remained to till the fields, and hearing the complaints of the villagers. The difference, of course, was that she never rode alone, had always a quartet or more of men-at-arms at her back, part of the complement left on guard duty.

  It was while returning from one such circuit that her guard suddenly spurred forward to surround her. The captain, a grizzled, one-eyed veteran of tournaments and sundry wars on the Continent, flung out his arm as he drew even, pointing southward.

  “Horsemen, milady,” he said in his gruff way. “There, coming fast.”

  So it was, a mounted troop small with distance, riding beneath a drifting pall of dust. The sunlight glinted on mail, helmets and the tips of lances. It was possible they were friends, but were just as likely to be foes.

  Braesford Hall stood on its prominence, a bastion of safety. The gates were open, however, allowing villagers to pass in and out. Cate stared from it to the approaching troop while her heart jarred against her lungs with a sudden hard beat, leaving her breathless.

  “Ride!” she called out in a firm order, and set heel to her palfrey, leaning forward over its neck as she turned Rosie’s head toward home.

  The race was headlong, thunderous with the dull thudding of hooves, deafening with the rush of the wind. Sheep fled from their path. Clods were thrown high behind them. A cowherd’s dog ran after them, snapping at their heels. Ahead of them, the guards at watch on the battlement gathered, pointing away behind them. As they drew near the keep, Cate saw men running to man the gate, to don armor, to snatch up weapons. Women flew after their children, bundling them out of harm’s way, while dogs leaped, barking in excitement, and pigs ran squealing for cover.

  Then Cat
e and her guard were sweeping over the drawbridge, under the portcullis and through the gate, rattling to a halt in the courtyard. The heavy barrier slammed shut behind them and the portcullis rumbled down, its teeth clanging into place. The babble and cries that greeted them died away, and all was quiet within Braesford’s walls.

  Hoofbeats pounded closer outside. They slowed to a halt. A shout rang out.

  “Hallo the keep! Lord Trilborn begs leave to enter. He would hold converse with Lady Catherine and her sisters, the Three Graces of Graydon!”

  Trilborn.

  Cate heard the name with disbelief. Trilborn here, while Braesford and Ross were away.

  “What does he want?”

  It was Isabel who asked, coming from the tower door as Cate stepped off her palfrey at the mounting block. Her sister’s features were set in lines of distaste. Trilborn had never been a favorite of hers, and hearing from Cate of how he had attempted to force marriage upon her had made him even less so.

  “I’ve no idea,” Cate answered. “He should be with the king’s forces.”

  Isabel’s face lost even more color. Her voice was tight as she spoke. “Do you suppose he has news?”

  It was a pertinent question. Anything could have taken place since the men of Braesford and Grimes Hall had departed: an accident on the road, an attack by stray York forces, even a pitched battle. The only way they would learn of it was if someone sent to let them know.

  “Hallo the keep!”

  At this second call, Cate spun from where she stood and ran to the open stone staircase that led to the top of the keep’s curtain wall. Her foot was on the first tread when she realized Isabel was behind her. Retreating, she allowed her sister to go first, not only because she was true chatelaine at Braesford, but also to make certain Isabel did not grow dizzy and fall. Before they reached the top, Marguerite came running from the tower entrance and pounded up behind them. Together, the three of them followed the walk, passing behind the men-at-arms who stood armed and ready, and stopped above the milling horsemen beyond the drawbridge.