William was tired of this conflict between the two of them. He left Edmund and marched to the keep, intent on having words with Catherine as well. When he reached the hall, one of the servants informed him that Lady FitzAlan was in Stephen’s chamber on the third floor.
Puzzled more than angry now, he went up the stairs to one of the previously unoccupied chambers next to Jamie’s. He found Stephen in bed and Catherine hovering over him, wiping his face with a damp cloth.
She looked up and saw him in the doorway. “He has the fever. That is what I came to the bailey to tell you.”
“Let one of the servants sit with Stephen tonight,” William urged Catherine when she came to bid him good night. “You must get some rest. You are exhausted.”
For the last three days and nights, Catherine had shared the watch with Alys. Even when it was Alys’s turn, William would wake to find Catherine had left their bed to check on him.
The lad was ill, indeed. When William looked in on him earlier, Stephen’s skin was so pale that the blue veins showed through it. He’d looked unbearably young lying on the bed.
“The fever should peak tonight, so it is the most dangerous time.” She gave him a tired smile. “Once the fever breaks, I will rest, and gladly.”
“I’ll come with you,” William said, throwing the bedclothes back.
“You will only be in the way,” she said, putting her hand out to stop him. Although her tone was teasing, he knew she meant it. She kissed him distractedly and left.
Hours later, he awoke to find her side of the bed still empty. He dressed quickly in the faint first light of dawn. The keep was eerily quiet as he made his way up the stairs to Stephen’s chamber.
The door was slightly ajar. He eased it open.
A surge of relief swamped him when he saw Stephen. The lad lay on the bed, wan but awake, with a slight smile on his face.
Lying beside him, fully dressed on top of the bedclothes, was Catherine. She was fast asleep and holding Stephen’s hand.
William walked softly to the side of the bed and put his hand on Stephen’s forehead.
“I see your fever has broken,” he said in a hushed voice.
Stephen nodded.
With a wry smile, William said, “Then perhaps I can have my wife back.”
They were quiet for a few moments; then Stephen said, “I can tell you what I want now.”
William raised his eyebrows. What was the boy talking about?
“In a bride. If you arrange a betrothal for me.”
William nodded, recalling the conversation.
Stephen cast a sideways look at Catherine sleeping soundly next to him on the bed.
“I want one like her—like your lady wife.”
Stephen’s grin was sheepish, but the sparkle in his eyes was anything but. And the boy was only twelve! William drew in a deep breath and shook his head. His wife was right. Stephen was the sort to get himself into trouble.
He made his decision.
“There is not another woman like Catherine, but I will do my best for you,” he promised. “I’ll send a message to your mother telling her you shall remain here at Ross Castle.”
Stephen’s smile grew wide at the news. William did not return the smile. It was time for the lessons to begin.
“Let this be the last time,” he said, tapping his finger against Stephen’s chest, “I find you in bed with another man’s wife.”
Chapter Fifteen
Stephen recovered his health quickly. He was a good-humored lad, and William enjoyed his company.
Truth be told, he felt more content with his new life with each passing day. He felt he had a family, with Catherine, Jamie, and Stephen. He was not sure how it happened, but he’d come to trust his wife.
He had even told her about Hotspur’s death at the Battle of Shrewsbury and what happened after. King Henry had had the grace—or perhaps the wisdom—not to ask William to fight against Hotspur that day. Instead, William was sent off to keep watch for the approach of Glyndwr’s forces. He returned in time to see Hotspur fighting his way through the melee. Hotspur killed two decoys dressed to look like the king and nearly reached the king himself before he was cut down.
Hotspur died a true warrior’s death.
William accepted that Hotspur should lose his life for taking up arms against the king. But he could not reconcile himself to what the king did after.
When the people refused to believe the famous warrior was dead, the king had Hotspur’s body dug up and drawn and quartered. On fast horses, the four parts were taken to be displayed in the four corners of the kingdom. The bloody head was delivered to Hotspur’s poor wife.
William did not change his allegiance, but he lost a large measure of respect for his king that day.
Hotspur never once spoke to him with warmth, never once acknowledged their blood tie. Yet, William had been plagued by guilt ever since Shrewsbury. Only after he spoke of the events with Catherine did those feelings ease. She seemed to understand both why he sided with the king and what the choice had cost him.
Catherine paced the solar, debating with herself. Now that she had badgered William into telling her all, she felt guilty for the one secret she kept from him. His fierce words to her at the abbey came back to her again and again.
I cannot abide deceit.
Though she had told him no lie, neither had she been fully honest with him. Was she wrong not to have faith in him? Not to believe he would understand? She rubbed her temples. She had a blazing headache.
She did not like to admit it, but there was another reason to tell William. Although she dismissed it at first, Edmund’s threat to discover her secrets nagged at her. What if someone had seen her that day? She did not think so, but it was possible one of the servants had been there in the hall. None of them would speak against her. But Edmund had already shown he could wheedle information out of them.
She jumped when the door opened.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
William’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “I like to visit my lady wife in the middle of the afternoon. I come often enough; I did not think to give you such a start.”
Catherine let out her breath and attempted to return his smile. “I am sorry. I was lost in my thoughts.”
“Then I hope your thoughts were the same as mine.”
He pulled her into his arms. It felt so good that she was sorely tempted to put off telling him once again. Her conscience got the better of her.
“William, I have something to tell you.”
His light mood was gone in an instant.
“All right,” he said, releasing her and stepping back.
She took his hand and led him to the window seat. Sensing his tension, she feared their new bond was too fragile for this revelation. She took a moment to get her courage up.
“Come, Catherine, it cannot be as bad as that,” he said, and patted her hand. “Tell me what worries you.”
The anxiety in his dark honey eyes belied his soft tone. Keeping him waiting would only cause him to think of darker and darker possibilities.
“You know Rayburn hurt me.” She fixed her eyes on William’s hand over hers as she began her tale; it still was not easy for her to talk about how Rayburn mistreated her. “He wanted an heir, but he had difficulty… performing the task.” She cleared her throat. “Sometimes he did manage it, but I did not conceive. He was becoming more and more violent.
“I was young and very frightened.” She gave William a furtive glance, hoping he understood how dire her situation was. “I thought it would not be long before he killed me.”
She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “There was a young man,” she said, barely above a whisper. “He saved me.”
“Saved you?” William said, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice. “Just how did he save you?”
“He took care of me when I was injured.”
She closed her eyes and remembered that day, more than four years a
go. Prince Harry had stopped overnight. Rayburn was leaving with him the next day to fight the rebels. Since Rayburn might be gone for weeks, he came to her that night for another attempt. He hurt her badly that time.
The next morning, she waited to go down to the hall until Rayburn and the other men were gone. She forgot about the young knight Harry left behind to carry a message to the king. The moment she entered the hall, the young man rushed to her side. When she refused to let him call anyone to help her, he carried her upstairs and took care of her injuries himself.
“He was very kind and courteous,” she said aloud.
She remembered how the young man’s face and even his ears turned red when he eased the hem of her gown up to wrap the linen strips around her injured ankle. His fingers were unexpectedly gentle.
“He wrapped my ankle for me,” she murmured. “He told me he learned his skills from the monks at a monastery near his home. He said he once hoped to join their order.”
William made an indecipherable sound. Still, she did not look at him.
“When he helped me to my bed, my sleeve fell back. He saw the bruises on my arm.”
After his careful treatment, she was startled when he held her wrist and pushed her sleeve up to her shoulder. She remembered how the dark purple and blue of the new bruises stood out against the fading yellow ones. The young man’s eyes were full of compassion when he looked into her face again.
“He saw that my injuries were not from a fall, as I had told him—and that this was not the first time,” she said. “He pressed me to tell him who was hurting me and why.”
It was the memory of the young knight who took her riding before her wedding that led her to trust in the kindness in this young man’s eyes. And that was what saved her.
“I told him everything. That there was no hope for me. That my husband could not get me with child and that he would not stop hurting me until I conceived.”
The young man put his arms around her and made shushing noises into her hair. She remembered leaning into the comfort of his embrace and weeping until she fell into an exhausted sleep. By the time she awoke, he had worked out a solution to her problem.
“He said that to save my life, I must let another man get me with child.” Her voice was so low that William leaned forward to hear her. “He said letting Rayburn murder me would be a greater sin than adultery.”
Catherine let the silence stretch. Nothing could have made her look at William now. She could feel him next to her, fairly vibrating with violent emotion.
Finally, she made herself say it: “I asked him to do that favor for me.”
“You what!”
“He refused at first,” she said. William was gripping her hand so hard now that it hurt. “He was offended that I might think he carried me upstairs with the intent of seducing me.”
“That is precisely what he intended!”
“He did not,” she protested, looking up. “It was not like that.”
“Just how was it, Catherine?” William’s amber eyes were hard and narrowed, and she saw the warning in them.
“In sooth, it was not easy to persuade him.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But there was no one else to ask, no one else I could trust.”
She felt herself blush, remembering how she pulled her gown off before she could lose her courage. The young man’s eyes traveled slowly down her naked body. In a breathy voice, he asked, “Are you very, very sure?”
She knew then she had won.
“Do not tell me how you convinced him,” William spat out, as if reading her thoughts. “I thought you never enjoyed having a man in your bed before me.”
“It was not like it is with us,” she said, surprised he might think so. “He did not hurt me, but it was nothing like what happens between us.”
The memory came back to her slowly. With a gentleness she could not have imagined, the young man kissed her cheek, her forehead, her throat. He caressed her with the softest touches, all the while murmuring soothing words to her. A great calmness settled over her.
She sensed a power held back to protect her, and she was grateful. Weak, barely able to move, she gave herself over to him. He seemed to understand she was hurt in spirit even more than in body and expected nothing from her.
The young knight gave her a glimpse that day of what her life could have been like with a different man, a kind man. It had been almost more than she could bear.
A jagged knife ripped through William’s heart as he watched her thinking of her lover.
He always hated thinking of her with Rayburn, but the man had been her husband. It helped to know she had felt neither lust nor affection for the man. But Catherine taking a lover was something altogether different.
A terrible coldness swept over him. He stood up. He had to get out of this room, to get away. He could not be here.
But there were things he had to know before he could allow himself to escape.
“This knight is Jamie’s father?”
She nodded.
“How long was he your lover?”
When Catherine’s answer was too slow, he demanded, “Is he your lover still?”
Her eyes went wide. “He is not! He could not be! One time was all—I swear it.”
“One time?” His voice was heavy with skepticism. “Quite the miracle.”
She had the nerve to say, “I’ve always thought so.”
He ground his teeth, trying to control the rage pounding through him. “Where is your lover now?”
He would track the man down and kill him.
“I learned he died of a fever,” she said, and the sadness in her voice wrenched him. “It was not long after…”
She had the sense not to say after what, but the vision of her writhing under the man burned across his mind.
“I can see you think I was wrong to do it,” she said, standing up and clenching her fists. “But I cannot regret it. I cannot! Rayburn would have killed me if I did not conceive. And you cannot ask me to wish Jamie had not been born.”
William had watched her face soften as she spoke of her lover. The man she had “persuaded” to take her to bed. He knew all he needed to know; he could stand no more.
“What I regret, William FitzAlan, is that I was foolish enough to tell you!” She was shouting at him now, tears streaking down her face. “I trusted that you would understand, that you would not think these hateful thoughts of me.”
He barely heard her.
The last thing he saw before he slammed the door was Catherine standing in the middle of the room with her hands over her face, weeping. Weeping for her dead lover.
What a fool he had been to trust her.
Edmund and Stephen jumped back as William stormed past them down the steps of the keep. William was in such a fury that he did not even seem to see them. But Stephen, who missed nothing, saw the slow smile on Edmund’s face. And he wondered why.
Chapter Sixteen
Catherine was too upset after her disastrous conversation with William to venture from their rooms. An hour before supper, Alys came to find her.
“M’lady,” Alys said, giving her a quick curtsy, “there is a group of minstrels at the gate. The guards want to know if they may let them in. As Lord FitzAlan has gone hunting, I told them I would ask you.”
“Do we know these troubadours?”
“Aye, we do! We’ve enjoyed their music many a time.” Alys frowned and tilted her head. “I believe the last time was not long before Lord FitzAlan came to us.”
Aye, Catherine knew them. One of them she knew very well, indeed.
“Do say yes, m’lady. It will help make up for not having musicians at your wedding feast.” With barely suppressed excitement, Alys added, “And they always bring news, traveling as they do.”
“That they do,” Catherine agreed. “I shall tell the guards to open the gates myself.”
As she and Alys crossed the bailey toward the main gate, she heard Stephen call her name. She turned to
see him running headlong down the steps from the castle’s outer wall.
“There are traveling musicians at the gate!” he said as he fell into step beside her.
“I swear, Stephen, you hear news faster than anyone in Ross Castle,” she said, shaking her head. “No secret could be kept from you for long.”
She looked at him sideways without slackening her pace. “How do you do it?”
She meant it as a rhetorical question, but Stephen answered.
“I make friends with the servants, fetch drinks for the guards.” He paused, then added, “And I listen.”
“Behind doors?”
Stephen would not lie to her, but he opened his eyes wide with feigned innocence.
“Have a care,” she scolded. “One day you may hear something you should not, and it could cost you dearly.”
When they reached the gate, she recognized the faces and colorful clothing of the band of troubadours. For longer than she could remember, this troupe had come to Ross Castle and received warm welcome here. She recalled how her mother loved the ballads, especially the “chansons d’amour.”
She signaled to the guards to raise the portcullis and stepped forward, calling, “Welcome! Welcome!” She greeted each man with a smile as they bowed to her in turn.
Robert Fass kissed her hand and gave her a rakish grin. The devil looked as handsome as ever with his sea-green eyes and unfashionably long blond hair.
Robert joined the troupe three years before. No one knew where he came from, nor would he say, but he could mimic any accent and spoke French, English, and Welsh equally well. And he had a voice to make the angels cry.
The female angels, at least.
She’d seen serving women trip over sleeping dogs, because they could not take their eyes off him. She sighed and shook her head. They would fight for his favors, and the hard feelings would cause her trouble for weeks to come.
From hints Robert gave, highborn ladies took him into their beds as often as the maids did. She suspected that was how he got his best information.
Knight of Desire Page 14