She was anxious to have a private word with him. With Stephen’s sharp ears close by, it was not possible to talk now. She would have to wait and seek him out later.
Catherine could feel William’s anger as he sat stiffly beside her at supper. He barely spoke, and not a word to her.
Fine. She was angry, too. Her disappointment in him dragged her spirits down as much as his hostility.
Thank heaven the musicians were here to provide a diversion. She sincerely regretted her decision to delay the surprise until the end of supper.
She waited until the last course of stewed fruits, sugared nuts, tarts, and cakes was brought to the table. At her nod, two servants posted at the entrance swung open the massive doors. The troubadours swept into the hall in a burst of song to the music harp and flute.
The hall erupted in cheers and clapping.
As she hoped, the musicians provided the household a welcome respite from the tedium of waiting for the next major confrontation with the rebels. Even William seemed to put aside his ill humor and enjoy the music for a time.
That was short-lived, however.
Robert stood to give the final ballad and waited until the room fell into a hushed silence.
“I sing this song for the fairest lady of the Marches.” Robert bowed low in her direction and gave her that wicked smile of his.
She could have throttled him.
He settled back onto his stool and took up his harp. The moment he began to sing, she forgot her annoyance with him.
From the first note to the last, no one made a sound to interrupt the soaring voice that filled the room. They hung on every word as he sang. It was a well-known ballad, a sad tale of a young man’s undying love for a beautiful maid. As she listened to the familiar words, Catherine closed her eyes and let the music take her into the story.
Her eyes flew open as the words of the final verse came to her. In horror, she listened to Robert sing of the maid being forced to wed another. His voice filled the hall with the young man’s lament: He must meet his love in secret, and his child will have another man’s name.
William clenched his fist around his eating knife so tightly his knuckles were white. She did not dare steal a glance at his face. His rage was so palpable that it made her skin prickle.
The sudden, jubilant applause brought her attention abruptly back to the musicians. As Robert took his bow, he caught her eye and gave her another devilish grin. Could the fool not see William was ready to take him by the throat?
She left the table before the applause died. In the corridor just outside the hall, she found the musicians chatting and putting away their instruments.
“A wonderful performance!” she said. “Cook has supper waiting for you in the kitchens.”
She grabbed Robert’s arm as he attempted to file out behind the others. When he put his hand over hers, she snatched it back.
“Must you embarrass me?” she said in a harsh whisper.
Robert threw his head back and laughed. “Most women are flattered when I sing a love song to them. It’s your annoyance that makes it so irresistible.”
“You had best find a way to resist, or my new husband may murder you! How is it that no husband has killed you yet?”
“I usually take care not to look at the married women when I sing love songs—if their husbands are present.” He winked at her. “But tonight I could not help myself.”
“I tire of your jokes, Robert.” Chastising him was useless, and she wanted to talk of other matters. She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Tell me, what news have you?”
All humor left his face. “A French army is expected to land on the southwest coast of Wales, at Milford Haven, within the week.”
“What!” The French had taken so long in meeting their promise to Glyndwr that she had ceased to believe they would come at all. “How many men do they bring?”
“I cannot say for certain, but it is a large force. Perhaps as many as twenty-five hundred men.”
Catherine was so dismayed that Robert put his hand on her shoulder to soothe her. “From what I hear of FitzAlan, you can trust him to defend Ross Castle. Praise God, you no longer have that worthless scum Rayburn for a husband.”
“I am forever grateful to you for taking my messages to the prince.” With less warmth, she added, “You know the extent of my gratitude, for you take great advantage of it.”
“I mean no harm.” His smile was gentle this time.
“I know,” she said, touching his hand where it rested on her shoulder. She knew that beneath his flirting and joking, he felt a genuine friendship for her.
“There is more,” he said, lowering his voice again. “The French do not come just to help Glyndwr take the castles in South Wales. They intend to march into England itself.”
“No.” Catherine put her hand to her chest. “They would not dare!”
“We shall see,” Robert said, giving his characteristic shrug. “I have only heard a whisper of it.”
A whisper in bed, no doubt.
Robert’s gaze shifted from her face to fix on something behind her. She whirled around, alarmed that someone may have overheard their conversation.
She was relieved to see it was only William. When she turned back to Robert to make the introductions, Robert was several paces away and heading for the door.
“I shall find that supper now, Lady FitzAlan,” he called out just before the door banged closed.
Robert had experience with hasty exits.
William was almost blind with rage. He let the troubadour go. For now. Fists clenched at his sides, he stepped forward to confront his wife. He stopped just inches from her, not daring to touch her for fear of what he might do.
“Is he Jamie’s father?” he demanded. “The man you would have me believe is dead?”
She looked up at him with eyes as blue and innocent as periwinkles. He was torn between wanting to shake her until her teeth rattled and howling out in pain.
“What?” she said, as if she had not heard him. “Jamie’s father? I did not even know Robert then.”
Her response did nothing to calm him.
“So Jamie’s father was not your only lover?” He thought his head would explode from the pressure. Enunciating each word distinctly, he said, “How many have there been, Catherine? I want their names.”
He could see she was frightened now, but she stood her ground.
“I took no lover, save for the one I told you about,” she said, looking him in the eye. “And only the one time.”
The thought nagged at him that she would not have been so inexperienced if the two had been lovers. He sincerely doubted there would be much left to teach a woman after she’d been with the troubadour.
“Swear to God,” he demanded. “Swear to God you have not lain with him.”
She became calmer, as if she saw a means of escape.
She grasped the cross at her neck and said in an unwavering voice, “I swear before God and all that is holy, I have not lain with him.”
He did not know what to believe. While the bard had been singing, William pictured the two of them together, naked and entwined. Any doubts he had were swept away when he saw them, touching and whispering, alone in the dark corridor.
But, she swore before God. Either Catherine was telling the truth or she did not fear even God’s wrath.
“If you speak the truth,” he said, “then what reason could you have for whispering in secret with him?”
“I—”
“Now that you know a man can give you pleasure, you want to try another. Is that it? Confess, you were planning a tryst with him!”
“I would not! Robert behaves that way to tease me, truly. ’Tis a game to him.”
“A game to seduce my wife?” he shouted. “I swear, I shall tear him limb from limb.”
He brushed past her, charging for the door, but she grabbed his arm and clung to him.
“Do not touch him, William,” she pleaded. “He is
innocent.”
“Innocent, you say?” he said, incredulous. “There is not a man alive who would believe that troubadour is innocent.”
In a quieter voice, he asked, “But what of you, wife? Am I to believe you are innocent? What explanation can you give for what I saw here?”
“That is what I must tell you, if you will but listen,” she said. “Robert gave me news of the French. We must send word to the king at once.”
“You would have me believe your tête-à-tête was of politics?”
He pushed her away in disgust, and she dropped to the floor.
Standing over her, he said in a low growl, “I will get the truth from this troubadour of yours. I will put him on the rack if I have to.”
She rose to her knees and grabbed his leg. “Please, William, do not hurt him!”
He watched her groveling on the floor, begging for her lover, and felt a crushing pain in his chest.
“Did what passed between us mean nothing to you?” he asked. He heard the plaintive note in his voice and hated himself for his weakness.
He turned his back on her and went out the door. The rush of cold night air could not cool his burning skin. Not since his mother sent him away as a child of six had he felt such an aching, overpowering sense of desolation. For the second time in his life, his world crashed down around him.
He loved her. Only now did he realize it. The girl he met in the stables years before touched his imagination and filled his dreams. But it was the woman, his most reluctant wife, who stole his heart. And she did it without his even knowing it.
He was used to deciding what he wanted and setting a course to get it. But he could not begin to think what he should do about Catherine and his feelings for her.
Tonight, however, he would find this too-handsome troubadour and send him packing.
Catherine sent her maid away and barred the door. Not that it would keep William out if he was determined to come in. She paced the floor, waiting for him to pound on her door and demand to know where Robert was hiding. Thank God she had shown Robert the secret tunnel and hidden boat long ago. With luck, he would be well down the river by now.
William did not come. Exhausted from the ordeal, she pushed the heavy chest in front of the door and went to bed. She slept fitfully and awoke in the morning feeling bone-tired.
“The men have left the hall, m’lady,” her maid called through the door. “Shall I help you dress now?”
Catherine heaved the trunk aside and let Mary in.
“I shall rest a while longer,” she said, sitting down on the trunk. “My stomach is a touch uneasy.”
“I shall bring you sop, m’lady,” Mary said. “There is nothing like bread soaked in warm milk and a touch of honey for belly trouble.”
Though Catherine felt well again before the midday meal, she sent word down that she was ill and would take her dinner in her rooms. She was not ready to see William. Also, she needed time to figure out how to get the news of the French invasion to Harry. Clearly, William would not do it for her.
Could she be sure enough of Robert’s information to risk sending word to Harry? She did not like sending him a message of such import until she heard it from two sources. She was always cautious; it would hurt the prince’s standing with the king and his council if the information later proved false.
Prince Harry and the king were on the Northern border. With the royal armies so distant from Wales, it was all the more urgent to get news to them of the imminent arrival of the French. If only she could be sure! Even if she could confirm it, how would she get a message to Harry?
She heard a light knock, and an auburn head popped around the door. In spite of her troubles, Catherine gave Stephen a warm smile.
“How do you fare?” the boy asked, drawing his dark brows together. “I heard you were not well.”
“I am better, thank you,” she replied, feeling guilty her deception had caused him concern.
“A message arrived for you from the abbey,” he said, handing her a sealed parchment.
Leaving Stephen to fidget behind her, she stepped inside the doorway of her bedchamber. With her back to the open door, she broke the seal. She found two letters, one rolled inside the other. She read the hidden one quickly, with a rising sense of urgency.
The abbess, too, had received word of the imminent arrival of a French army.
God was with her. No sooner had she slipped the secret missive through the slit in her gown and into the small pouch she wore underneath than William burst into the solar.
She held the other letter in her hand as she went to join him. It gave her a good deal of satisfaction to see he did not look as if he’d slept any better than she had.
“Edmund told me you received a message,” he said without greeting her. He held out his hand for it.
“ ’Tis from Abbess Talcott,” she said coolly, and dropped it into his hand.
If he was surprised to see it was, indeed, from the abbess, he did not show it.
“As you can see, m’lord husband, the abbess hopes I may come see her soon. It has been some time since…” She faltered for just a moment. “Since I visited.”
“Perhaps you would benefit from spending time on your knees with holy women,” William said in a hard voice. He narrowed his eyes and jabbed his finger against her chest. “But you shall not go outside these castle walls without me or Edmund Forrester. I will not have my wife sneaking off for some tryst.”
Before she knew it, Stephen was between them.
“You shall not say such vile things to her!” Stephen shouted.
William’s harsh words hurt and humiliated her, but it was Stephen’s futile gallantry that pushed her to the edge of tears.
“Stephen, I am sending your escort home today,” William said in a cold voice. “Go or stay, as you will.”
With that, he turned and stomped out of the room.
Stephen’s fair skin had gone blotchy, and his deep brown eyes showed confusion and hurt.
“William does want you here,” Catherine said, touching his arm. “He is just angry now.”
Stephen shrugged and hung his head.
She took his face in her hands and looked him in the eyes. “You have a home at Ross Castle as long as I am here,” she said. “I want you here, and so does Jamie.”
“I would rather face William’s wrath than my mother’s disappointment,” Stephen said, attempting a smile. “She is not a woman to cross.”
Catherine smiled back. “Whatever the reason, I am glad you will stay.”
“Edmund told me why William is so vexed with you,” he said, looking away and blushing faintly. “My brother is a fool, and I shall tell him so.”
It should not surprise her that Stephen knew more than he should.
“So you would slay dragons for me, Sir Stephen?” she said, touched by the boy’s blind faith in her. “You are good to offer, but I don’t think you can help me with your brother.”
“Surely there is something I can do for you? I would do anything you asked.”
She narrowed her eyes, considering.
“Aye, Stephen, there is something.”
An hour later, the men of Stephen’s escort rode out of the castle, headed for the North. Unbeknownst to William, they carried a message from Catherine to the prince. When Prince Harry brought it to the king, the king snatched the parchment from his hands and tore it to bits in his face.
“You expect me to move my armies across the length of England,” he fumed, “based on a woman’s gossip?”
Within days, the king would sorely regret that he had not.
Chapter Seventeen
Catherine did not show her face at table for three days. William knew their rift was the talk of the castle. From the looks the servants gave him when they thought he was not looking, it was evident they thought him the vilest of criminals. His men, on the other hand, were embarrassed for him. Even Edmund would not meet his eyes.
Stephen was firmly in the
servants’ camp and vocal in his recriminations. How could William fault the lad for being a fool for Catherine? Even after discovering her cavorting in the dark with the troubadour, William’s desire for her was unabated. He lay awake at night, wanting her past bearing. He swore he could almost hear her breathing.
Even in the daytime, he caught himself imagining her trailing kisses down his body or remembering how her breath caught when he entered her. He would soon go mad with frustration.
He told himself he would be justified in taking her to bed again. She was his wife. He had a right. A duty. A man needed an heir. And a godly man must avoid the sin of adultery. Unless he wanted a life of celibacy, he must bed his wife.
If he was honest with himself, it was not only bedding her that he missed. He felt her absence beside him at table and longed to hear her laugh at Jamie’s antics or Stephen’s jokes. Sadness settled over him when he thought of the long rides they used to take.
He missed it all.
In the end, it was pure desire that drove him to stand beside her bed in the middle of the night. Though she lay perfectly still, he knew damned well she was awake.
“You can refuse me,” he said, his voice hard and clear in the darkness. The tension hummed through his naked body, every muscle drawn taut, as he waited for her response. Her silence was answer enough for him.
When he lifted the bedclothes to crawl in beside her, she did not cry out in protest. He felt her move on the bed, then heard the soft swoosh of her tunic hitting the floor. He turned toward her and, at long last, felt her naked body next to his.
In an instant, he had her in his arms, every part of her pressed against him. His hands moved over her as he kissed her hair, her face, her throat. Rolling her onto her back, he buried his face between her breasts and breathed in her scent. He sucked her breasts, first one and then the other, until her breath came in sharp gasps.
He tried to fill the yawning emptiness inside him with his passion, the feel of her smooth skin, the smell of her hair, the sensation of her body responding to his. Driven to possess her in every way, he lowered himself until his head was between her legs.
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