Another gust of wind snapped the hem of her cloak, a loud popping sound like the crack of a whip. The heavy wool and fur slipped from one shoulder, and she had to grab for it swiftly before the capricious wind sent it sailing over the edge of the parapet into the turbid waters of the moat below.
Rain began to fall harder, pelting her upturned face with stinging droplets. Tiny cold rivers streamed over her brow onto her cheeks, chilling her. Wet lashes closed over her eyes, blotting out the gray sky and bare tree limbs. There had to be another future for her. She did not want to wed a man she did not know just to align two powerful houses, and could not bear the thought of spending the rest of her life as her mother spent her days, quaking at an unkind word from her husband, always so anxious to please, so afraid of his displeasure—
Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, Catherine opened her eyes again and stared across the rolling land stretching away from the keep. Thunder? No, the escalating sound of hooves against solid turf, a low, steady pounding that could be heard above the sobbing moan of the wind. She blinked away rain, and in a moment could make out the shadowy forms of mounted troops approaching along the muddy track that snaked over the hills and through the towering trees. The line of horsemen briefly disappeared from view into a shallow ravine that harbored a winding stream, then appeared again, much closer now. Warfield’s banner flew before them, a red lion against a white field, and to her relief, she saw Nicholas, his uncovered head dark and glistening with rain beneath the unfurled standard of the earl.
Relief flared, dispelling her gloom and anxiety. Even at such a distance, she knew her brother. His cocky demeanor set him apart from the other muddy riders, a laughing rogue who had his way with far too many village maidens, charming them into haystacks and corn cribs or wherever he fancied. Nicholas—older by six years—her brother, her confidant, her only refuge, and now he was back at last.
Turning, Catherine flew across the slippery gray stones of the battlement and ducked into the musty shadows inside the turret. Blinking at the abrupt absence of proper light, she made her way down steep, winding stairs only dimly lit by sputtering torches stuck into iron holders on the newel walls. The smell of burning pitch was acrid in the close air. Darkness yawned beyond the hazy, wavering pools of light as she descended the narrow steps into the great hall, then hurried through the vestibule and out a heavy door onto the open staircase guarded from the bailey by a massive stone forework. Smoke stung her eyes, and the ordure in the moat seemed heavier than usual. No one tried to stop her as she scurried across the bailey toward the gatehouse.
Was she too late? No, there was the groaning rattle of the portcullis being lifted, the shriek of the winch chains and the inner drawbridge being lowered to admit the earl and his sons, home from Scotland.
Heart pounding, delight drowning her turmoil, Catherine dodged a woodsman with a heavy load of faggots atop his bent back, and reached the gatehouse just as the first riders thundered over the wooden bridge. Nicholas saw her, as she’d known he would. It was a ritual. She always waited for him here, anticipating his return as she had done since she was small, and he watched for her. Now he bent slightly from his huge, snorting destrier to scoop her up beside him, ignoring their father’s disgruntled oath.
“It is raining, kitten, do you not know that?” Nicholas teased, laughing as he pulled her against his side.
Catherine held tightly to him, her fingers sliding over the rough metal links of his mail to grip the thick wool surcoat. He smelled of rain and mud, and other vague odors that she preferred to ignore. She leaned slightly away, her voice accusing to hide the choking relief that he had safely returned. “You are near a fortnight longer than you said you would be, you know.”
“Aye, so we are.” His arm tightened around her. “But the rebels were more troublesome than usual. Thick as fleas on a camp cur, and near as vicious.”
Catherine’s hand closed on a handful of wool and wet hair, and she pressed her mouth against her brother’s ear. “I must talk to you. Will you meet me later?”
‘Yes, kitten, so I will.” His voice was gruff and low, his squeeze quick before he reined in his great destrier and lowered her to the muddy ground by the forework. With a wink, he bade her go inside to ascertain their evening meal was hot. “I will eat no cold meat tonight, by God!”
Catherine made a face at him, keeping a wary eye on the agitated warhorse as it pranced in a tight, nervous circle. Those lethal hooves could bash a skull in quickly if one got too close. She backed away, skirts lifted in her hands to clear the muck of the bailey, and swept a brief glance toward her father. The earl ignored her. His attention was trained elsewhere, and she caught a glimpse of scarlet and blue against the anonymous drab of mud and mist.
Pausing, Catherine peered through the tangle of horses and men toward the flash of color. An angry curse rose into the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of a blow. At once, horses neighed and reared, and men began to shout. In the confusion, no one noticed as Catherine crept closer, her curiosity stronger than even dread of her father.
She was startled to see that one man was the source of all the chaos, and he was shackled with heavy chains about his wrists and ankles, standing in the midst of the heaving mass of shouting men with his garments awry. Oddly, he did not look at all afraid, but rather contemptuous of those around him. His hair was dark with mud and rain, but she could see that it was a lighter color, almost as pale and coppery as her own. He was forced to his knees, and she saw then that he was shackled to another prisoner, who was being dragged down into the muck beside him.
With a shock, Catherine realized the second captive was young, even younger than herself, and cuffed as brutally as the older man. Both were hauled roughly to their feet again. The boy glanced up, and she saw the youthful features twisted with ancient hatred. A thin trail of blood trickled down from his brow to his chin as he turned to regard the earl with contempt.
“Murderin’ Sassenach swine—”
One of the guards struck him, a backhanded blow of his mailed fist that caught the boy across the face and sent him staggering to one knee. More blows followed, raining down on both prisoners, and Catherine gasped with horror. Or perhaps she cried out, for her father turned toward her with his brows lowered over his colorless eyes in a scowl. His voice was low and tight:
“Go inside, Catherine.”
“But what have they done? If they are prisoners, should they not be treated more kindly?” The words were out before she knew it, and she realized at once that she had done the prisoners no favor by questioning her father in front of his men. It was all she could do not to turn and flee when she saw fires of rage leap in her father’s eyes. White lines bracketed his mouth with tension.
“This is none of your affair, daughter. Get inside with the other women, and do not dare speak of matters that do not concern a maiden.”
Rebellion flared in her, and might have spewed unwisely forth had Nicholas not intervened, leaning from his great mount to say in a soft voice, “They are my captives and I will see to them, kitten. Do not tweak our father’s nose for what you cannot change.”
“Very well, but only because you ask it of me.” With a fleeting glance at her father, she turned angrily on her heel and ascended the stairs of the forework.
Lady Warfield met her just inside the entrance to the great hall, and a glance at her expression made Catherine sigh inwardly. Were there never any secrets at Warfield?
Exasperation edged Lady Warfield’s cool rebuke: “Must you behave like the lowest scullery maid, Catherine? Look at you. Garbed in a filthy gown, hair uncovered, flying loose and as wet as cat’s fur—hardly the conduct of a lady.”
Catherine held her tongue and stared down at her ruined slippers. Sodden velvet toes peeped from beneath the frayed and muddy hem of her gown. The contrast between her appearance and her mother’s could not be more vivid—Lady Warfield was elegant in the gilt barbette atop her head and thinly woven gold threads of the crispinette
that held her hair, down to her small embroidered slippers encrusted with pearls and gilt. Her mother’s grandeur made her achingly aware of her own disheveled state. She focused on her feet while Lady Warfield delivered a scathing lecture, allowing the French language preferred by her parents to drift over her head until one particular remark captured her attention.
Catherine’s head snapped up with consternation as the countess finished, “… and hardly suitable should your betrothed witness your unbefitting demeanor. God grant, he is not yet arrived, but with the date so soon now—”
“Soon? What date do you mean, my lady?”
Lady Warfield’s elegant features remained stern and unlined. “It is unseemly to be so rude, Catherine. Must you interrupt me?”
“I crave your pardon, madam, but I do not know what you mean by the date being so soon.”
“No doubt. Nevertheless, you will go immediately to your chamber and allow Bess to ready appropriate garments for the morrow. Wear the blue velvet gown, as we expect important guests. You are required to behave with decorum and not as if you are no more than a rebellious serf. I am certain that you understand me.”
“Of course, madam, but I—”
“Your father will wish to see you in the solar right after Prime is rung in the morning. I insist that you heed the customs you have been taught, and act accordingly.”
Catherine stared after her mother as the countess turned to move away in a familiar, silent glide, as if her feet did not touch the floor. No one would listen to her. She was trapped, and her freedom was slipping further and further away.
2
Lord Warfield did nothing to lessen her apprehension the next morning when Catherine stood silently awaiting his attention in the solar. Her father pored over a parchment, goose quill in one hand and a pot of ink at the ready. The family seal and a carved box of sand waited at his elbow; when the document he studied had been signed, it would be sanded and sealed. After what seemed an eternity, the earl looked up at his daughter.
“Bothwick’s envoy arrives today to sign the nuptial agreement. You will make ready to move to Bothwick keep, and your wedding will take place on Saint John’s Eve.”
Catherine blanched. “But I do not wish to marry!”
“Do not be foolish, Catherine. You are female, and this is your purpose in life. Indeed, ’tis long past the time for it. What else is there for you to do.”
He made it sound like a statement instead of a question but she answered: “I could live on the estate my grandmother left to me. As it borders the Solway Firth, I—”
“What crackbrained notions do you entertain in that head of yours, girl?” His brows lowered, and despite his angry tone, a glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. “Do you intend to fish for your supper? Land is not free. It costs coin to hold property.”
Her chin came up. “I am not so foolish as to think I could live off fish, sir. But I could Uve off fishermen. Off merchant ships. There is a busy harbor in the village that belongs to the land, and I am well aware that tariffs must be paid by those ships that wish to dock there.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This is not a matter for female discussion. You are near past marriageable age—a veritable spinster. When the Earl of Moray defected to the Scots, it destroyed the nuptial negotiations we had long held with him, and made you more of a liability than an asset. It has taken time and delicate negotiations, but I have at last arranged an excellent match for you that will cement relationships with Bothwick as well as the king. They are distantly related, and that is a vital connection.”
“It is said that you already have the king’s ear. Why is Bothwick so important that you would sell your only daughter to him?”
Lord Warfield’s palm crashed down on the table with a thundering crack that made the ink pot quiver. “Enough! You are rebellious and insolent. You will wed Bothwick’s son, and there is no more to be said about the matter.”
“I do not wish to wed anyone, and especially not a man I do not know.” Dangerously close to tears, Catherine drew in a deep breath. “You care more about position and profit than you do about my desires, and I protest.”
“It is not your place to protest, but to do as you are told. Where is your mother?”
Rising from his chair behind the long table, the earl strode across the solar to the door and flung it open to bellow for his wife. Then he turned to Catherine. “You will go to your chamber and ready yourself. Bothwick’s envoy is due to arrive shortly.”
With her head held high and chin resolutely firm, Catherine strode silently past her father and out the door. But instead of going to the winding stairwell that led up to her chamber, she went to the doors that led to the bailey. Her mother was not yet in sight and luck was with her. No one spoke to her or otherwise delayed her as she descended the steep stairs of the forework, nor even commented as she crossed the wide, open area of the bailey to the postern door.
It creaked on oiled hinges as she slipped through it with a reassuring smile for the dubious guard. They knew her well, for she had oft used this door as a child. What must they think now? She was far too old to be going on such a lark, as if escaping her nurses as she had done so many times, usually in the company of her brothers when they were being tolerant of her presence. But that was a long time ago now, and one by one her brothers had departed Warfield to be trained in other keeps. As heir, Nicholas frequently returned from one of his other holdings to tender his knight’s service to the earl, who was, of course, his overlord. He was her only ally, yet even Nicholas saw nothing wrong with an advantageous marriage.
Catherine sighed and turned her face upward as she circled the keep and crossed the outer bridge that stretched over the moat. Sunlight danced over the meadow that clipped down and away from the keep. After the chill rain of the previous day, the unexpected warmth was enticing. A rare autumn day, indeed. Golden light shimmered, beckoning her to return to the places where she had played as a child. So long ago, or was it only a few years? But the blithe innocence of those days was gone forever.
Slipping a little on the still-damp grass, Catherine glanced behind her when she reached the meadow’s edge. Warfield’s turrets spiked into the sky, white banners snapping in the wind. From the bottom of the steep slope, the castle looked forbidding and impregnable, a reminder of how insulated she was from the world. Sorrow and fear for the future dogged her, and her steps grew slower as she neared a copse of hawthorn hedges bordering a swift-running brook that flowed into the Lyne River. These hedges were familiar, though much taller than she remembered.
She parted the branches cautiously so as not to prick her skin on the sharp thorns, and slipped through the hedge to walk along the bank. It was pleasant to recall the times she had come here, sailing crude boats of wood-chip down the cascading stream, or in summer, wading into the middle to wet her bare feet in the cooling waters.
Those had been carefree days, filled with idle dreams of the future—was her own special place still there, in the midst of the brook? It was distinctive, a large flat rock with springy moss to cushion it, a small island in the center of rushing water that had lured her as a child. Nicholas had always teased her, but nothing daunted her when she was upon her rock. It was her citadel, her refuge from the world, a place where she was solitary queen.
As she wandered idly, the day grew warmer. It was a mild October day festooned with brilliant-hued leaves that lent splashes of color to the air. Birds chattered briskly in the trees and hedgerows, busily searching for food. It soothed her to be free, even for this brief time, and she relished the too few moments while she could. Soon, she must return to Warfield, to the knowledge that she was to wed a man she did not know. Perhaps her mother was right when she scolded her for heeding the forbidden tales of romantic love—Lady Warfield had once remarked they were all foolish dreams with not a shred of truth to them. And ’twas also true that many of the tales ended with the lovers dying instead of being reunited … was she yearning for what w
ould never be?
Sighing, Catherine paused to pluck a violet from its nest of heart-shaped leaves. The delicate color was faded now, but would be bright against the winter snows that would soon blanket the land. She twirled the tiny blossom between her fingers and let her mind drift as she walked.
A bird cried out overhead, a strident cry that alerted a flock of nesting rooks, and she glanced up with a start as the sky was immediately dark with feathered flight. She waited, suddenly tense with apprehension at what may have frightened them, but when several moments passed without incident she relaxed again. Rooks were notoriously skittish, oft fleeing at the slightest noise, she told herself.
As the black-hued birds began to return to the hedges crying their dissonant annoyance, she resumed a meandering path along the bank. When she spotted a large flat rock in the center of the foaming water, she paused. Green moss was draped in an inviting pillow atop the gray stone. Her emerald island in the midst of the rushing currents.
Smiling as she yielded to temptation, Catherine bent to remove her shoes and stockings before wading out to the center of the stream. She gasped a little at the icy chill of the water rushing around her bare legs. It thoroughly wet the hem of her blue velvet gown even though she held her skirts nearly to her waist. The currents were much deeper than she recalled, and faster. When she reached the rock, she climbed up a bit clumsily, feeling a little foolish but delighted at revisiting her childhood. It seemed so short a while before, when in truth it had been ten years since she had been allowed to romp freely with her brothers.
Her velvet skirts were heavy with water now, and she wrung them out as best she could, then smoothed the folds around her to dry in the soft air. After a furtive glance around assured her that she was quite, quite alone, she tugged her skirts up to her knees to let the sunlight dry bare legs and blue velvet. It took only a moment to undo the pearl-encrusted crispinette that encased the heavy weight of her hair, freeing it to drape over her shoulders. Then she leaned back on her palms and reveled in the rare moment.
The Scotsman Page 2