Still shivering, she pushed herself to her feet and moved to the narrow cot against the far wall. The blanket was thin but big enough to cover her, and she draped it around herself as a cloak. Bare toes curled up from the chill of the stone floor, and she thought of her fine-woven hose and soft slippers, left by the banks of the stream beyond the hedgerows. What would they think when they found them? When they received the Scotsman’s demands?
It was easy to imagine her father’s fury, her mother’s tight-lipped acceptance, even her brothers’ vows of retribution. More difficult was imagining the earl’s acquiescence to any proposal from the enemy. He hated the Scottish with a passion that bordered on insanity, in her opinion. Usually her mother sent her from the table when he began one of his diatribes against the savages to the north, but not before she’d gleaned enough to know how he felt about them.
As the uncontrollable shivering eased, weariness seeped into her limbs. She sagged into the hard mattress and buried her face in her open palms. Why was she now so exhausted? Despite her fear and the cold chamber she occupied, she had slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep the night before. She had not wanted to wake. If not for the cheerless servant named Mairi, she would have pulled the rough wool blankets up over her head and stayed in the narrow cot all day.
But Mairi had forced her to rise before the sky was more than a pale gray, to wash her face with cold water from a cracked pitcher and bowl, then eat a morning meal of oat pottage. Surprisingly, she had found it tasty, though she was reminded of her brother’s wry assertion that Scots ate more oats than did all the horses in the entire kingdom.
Now the long day stretched endlessly ahead of her like the promise of eternity. Catherine willed herself to motion. She could not lie abed all day. It was not her nature to be idle. Always, she found something to do, whether sneaking dusty volumes of ancient books from her father’s library, or simply talking in the kitchen with Cook, she could not be inactive. Was she now doomed to stare at four walls all day, with nothing to do but dwell on her hopeless situation?
Her chamber was unadorned by any tapestries to ward off drafts. The narrow cot was the only furniture other than a table and a three-legged stool. A scattering of rushes were strewn about the floor, and a meager supply of wood was stacked beside a shallow hearth. Only embers glowed to lend warmth to the chamber, and wind whistled through chinks between the stones. Clearly not a prized chamber.
She rose from the cot and studied the rough hemp sheet stretched over the thin mattress. It would be rough against her skin, but better than remaining naked beneath the wool blanket over her shoulders, and she set about fashioning a crude garment. It took ingenuity but at last she had ample covering, save for her feet. Her toes bent up from the cold stones as she moved to the window ledge set deep into one wall. It was narrow and recessed, a portal to the world that allowed in little more than a hazy glow. Peering out, she could see only thin slices of life below, and hear only faint, muffled sounds of people going about their daily duties. A loud creaking of winch chains cut through the murmur of voices as the drawbridge was lowered, and she thought then of her brother Nicholas, and how that sound had often meant a sweet homecoming.
Ah, sweet Mother of Mercy, what would he say when he knew she had been abducted? Would he mourn for her? Would he be angry? And more importantly—would he come for her?
Almost desperately, Catherine held to that hope. Even if the earl would not come for her, Nicholas would. He would not allow her to languish in an alien land, at the mercy of men like this Scottish brigand who had so rudely snatched her from her own lands. Yea, Nicholas would come for her.
Catherine leaned her cheek against the rough stone of the wall. She would wait patiently. She had little choice but to do so. Waiting might teach her patience, a virtue she had always lacked. Many were the times Father de Crecy admonished her for impatience. Now she would learn to cultivate it, to embrace it.
Yet as time wore on, Catherine found herself pacing the confines of the bedchamber relentlessly. She had counted the stones in the wall time and again. There were eight hundred forty-two between the cot and the far wall. Was it her imagination, or were the walls closing in around her?
By the time Main returned, she was even glad to see the dour-faced woman, and greeted her with barely restrained impatience. “I thought you would never come back.”
“Aye, and ’tis no’ like I wanted tae, ye know.” Main squinted slightly at her, her thin lips pursed in dislike. “But the laird expects it of me, so here I am, coddling ye like ye were a bairn. Here is yer evening meal. Dinna waste it.”
“Wait—” Catherine put out a hand then quickly withdrew it when Main glared fiercely at her. “What manner of food have you brought?”
“Wha’ does it matter tae ye? ’Tis food. Eat it. Twill put some meat on your skinny bones.”
Catherine peered at the contents of the tray Main had brought, and frowned slightly. “Is that my bread?”
“Aye, wha’ else d’ye think it is?”
“’Tis brown bread instead of manchet—”
“Aye, manchet and pandemain is for the laird o’ the keep, no’ a prisoner.” Mairi bristled when Catherine’s eyes narrowed at her tone. “And ye dinna need tae be looking at me like tha’, either. Ye are no more than a captive, so dinna be putting on airs tha’ ye be better than me.”
“No, I was not putting on airs, as you so provincially refer to it. ’Tis just that I am not accustomed to eating brown bread.”
Her cool reply earned another glare from the older woman. “Then ye ha’ best get used tae it, for ’tis all ye will get from me, your ladyship.”
With effort, Catherine refrained from a reply that would only make matters worse. She had not expected such animosity from this quarter. From her captor, yes, but not from this stout older woman who reminded her of Old Nurse, who had cared for her until she was ten.
The wooden platter was slammed to the table with unnecessary force. Catherine turned away and moved to the window to gaze out, too near tears of frustration and despair to risk another confrontation with the servant. She stood there until she heard the door slam behind Main, followed by the grating of a key in the lock. Then her shoulders slumped and she pressed her cheek against the cold stone window facing.
Had it been only the day before she had wished for an escape from her forthcoming nuptials to Ronald of Bothwick? Not in her wildest dreams had she thought an answer to that prayer would come so quickly, or take such a deadly direction.
A wry smile twisted her mouth. Never would she allow her Scots captor to know just how much he frightened her. To show weakness to an enemy—and he was by his own words an enemy—would be fatal. It seemed he waited and watched for her to err, to reveal a chink in the armor she tried so hard to keep intact. The strain was excruciating.
Summoning her courage, she picked at the unappetizing food on the tray. Cold meat graced the hard trencher of brown bread, and a hunk of cheese nestled in the midst of dried peas that looked flavorless. Catherine gazed glumly at her evening meal. If this was the best fare her captors could offer, ’twas no wonder they coveted English lands. How could people survive on such meager repast?
Yet, to refuse sustenance would render her weak, and she could not risk that. So she picked gingerly at her food, grimacing a little at the tough, stringy meat that was near unrecognizable. Mutton? Pork? Or beef from a scrawny cow? It could be rat for all she knew, but she managed to swallow several bites, followed by a hard crust of the bread and a bite or two of cheese. Watery ale in a small earthenware jug washed it down, and Catherine thought longingly of Cook and the delicious meals brought to Warfield’s hall.
Closing her eyes, she envisioned a recent feast at her father’s table, conjuring up images of roast pigeons, chickens, quail, oxen, and duck, visualized even the steam rising from hot venison pies and baked tarts. Her stomach rumbled at the enticing memories of savory preserves of nuts, fruits, and spices, and she opened her eyes. Twas sheer to
rture to think on what was not available, nor likely to be. Pottage seemed her more likely fare in this dismal stone keep so far from civilized food and friendly faces.
Gamely, she finished every bite of food. If she was to keep up her strength, she must force herself to eat despite how unappealing she found the victuals. After the unsatisfying meal, there was little left to occupy her time, save feeding the last piece of wood to the fire and dreamless sleep.
Dusk had come to plunge the room into near darkness before she heard the sound of a key in the lock again. Sitting upright on the edge of the cot, Catherine lifted her head to stare toward the door. Not even a fire dispelled the gloom of the chamber, now lit by only a weak ray of light from the narrow window slit. She blinked against the bright ellipse of candle glow as Mairi shuffled into the chamber.
“Here be light fer ye,” came the gruff comment, followed by the clatter of a wooden candlestick atop the table. The candle flickered, then steadied to cast a rosy pool of light. A rustling sound of cloth accompanied Main’s terse explanation that the laird had sent up warm clothing and more blankets. “No’ tha’ ye ha’ need of ’em, tucked away as ye are in a room out of the wind.”
Catherine did not reply. She was far too grateful, and far too stubborn to show it. She sat still until the surly maidservant shot her a sullen look and left with an echoing slam of the door. When she heard the metallic click of key and lock, she rose stiffly to her feet.
With cold, shaking hands, she lifted a length of warm wool. It was a simple gown such as peasants wore, with no overgarment or decoration, only a leather girdle to lace beneath her breasts. As the gown fell around her shoulders and settled over her hips, comforting warmth enveloped her. Wool stockings and a pair of shapeless shoes were quickly donned, covering skin prickled with cold. Tremors of chill eased as she plucked a pair of wool gloves from the pile and tugged them over her slender fingers. They were rough and scratchy, nothing at all like the soft gloves she usually wore, but that mattered little now. Her priorities were confined to survival.
She held tightly to that determination in the following days when hours stretched into an endless blur of defiance occasionally broken by moments of stark despair. The Scotsman did not come to her tower room again, and dour Mairi was her only link with the world outside her small round chamber.
She felt herself diminishing, becoming as colorless and blank as the stones that formed the walls, and had the fanciful notion that if her captor did return, he would not be able to see her. She would be invisible to him, just one of the gray stones that were indistinguishable one from the other—like a spirit trapped in the trunk of an oak, a timeless face peering out at the world and slowly fading into time before memory … soon, no one would remember her.
5
Storm clouds bunched over Warfield keep in ominous shades of gray and black. A brisk wind blew over the bailey and the two men standing alone in the muddy center. Nicholas Worth, Lord Devlin and heir to the earldom of Warfield, swore harshly at the crumpled parchment he held in one fist.
“Damn that Scottish bastard!” He looked up to meet his father’s steely eyes. “We can stop scouring villages and fields for Catherine. Alex Fraser, laird of Castle Rock, has taken her. He offers an exchange of hostages—one for two. His brother and de Brus for Catherine.”
“Does he. How vexing.” Lord Warfield did not flinch from his son’s suddenly narrowed gaze, but stared back calmly. “I cannot do that, of course. He will have to offer different terms.”
Nicholas held up a shorn curl of coppery hair. The silky strands wound around his fingers as if seeking comfort, so soft and satiny smooth, reminding him of all the times he had affectionately ruffled his sister’s hair. “This time it is a lock of hair. Next time, it may be her head.”
“Do not be so dramatic. Do you think even an ignorant Scot would so quickly harm a valuable hostage? He will not.”
“Dare we risk it?” Nicholas’s hand closed on the lock of hair. “He has her. Even if he does not kill her, there are worse fates for a maid in the enemy’s camp.”
Lord Warfield blew out a heavy breath of irritation. “We must be discreet. Curse her, she has managed to jeopardize her betrothal to Ronald of Bothwick with this trick.”
“Is that all you care about?” Nicholas stared at his father with rising anger and disgust. “She is your daughter, for Christ’s holy sake! Can you not spare a bit of honest concern for her?”
“Aye, I could if she had not been so foolish as to leave the castle unguarded. She is no longer a child, yet behaves as the most foolish infant. Now she has endangered a merger with Bothwick, from a fit of pique and absurd notions of chivalry and romantic love.” The earl snorted. “’Tis the very reason I forbade her access to the library and discouraged her ability to read, yet she defied me on that score as well. Nay, my concern lies now with how it will be explained to Bothwick. His envoy will not long be fobbed off with that ridiculous tale of maidenly modesty and a pilgrimage to a nunnery as the reason she has not appeared. We must be prudent.”
Drawing in a deep breath to curb the vicious words he wanted to fling at his father, Nicholas said only, “I wish to reply in person to this bastard Scot. Perhaps I can persuade him that he has chosen the wrong way to gain the freedom of his brother and countryman.”
“There will be no freedom for de Brus or the boy. They will be sent to King Edward when he desires it, and he will decide their fate. I have already sent a messenger to inform him of their capture.”
“And Catherine?”
“If her capture is kept secret, I will offer a hefty ransom—but only if she is yet undefiled. I can hardly wed her to Bothwick if she has been well used by Scottish vermin.” He stroked his chin with a thoughtful gesture, then shrugged. “Though perhaps it might be done if she is wise enough to pretend intact virtue.”
Bile rose in Nicholas’s throat. There were moments he hated his father, despised him as a coldhearted bastard, but this was not the time to bring up old resentments. Stiffly, Nicholas persisted: “I will go to Castle Rock and offer whatever it will take to free her.”
“Not yet. Wait until I have consulted—”
“No!” The single word burst out so furiously that Lord Warfield halted and stared at his eldest son with narrowed eyes. Nicholas struggled for composure. “She is my sister. I am overly fond of her, and will not risk her life or her virtue any longer than is necessary. To protect her I will keep her situation quiet, but I go to Scotland for her, whether you will it or no.”
“’Tis not too late to name Robert my heir instead of you,” the earl replied softly. “He is more malleable, and able to see sense.”
“And also a lazy coward, too fond of soft ways to bestir himself to battle or stewardship. His estates are in ruin, and he has had them less than a year. Yea, name Robert heir if that is what you wish, and all that you hold dear will no doubt be speaking Gaelic as their native tongue before you are dead a year.”
Nicholas’s retort silenced the earl’s objections, but it was plain that his father was not pleased.
“Oft, ’tis better to lose the hand than the entire arm, Nicholas. You might well remember that.”
“Yea, so I will, but if the hand can be saved, then it should be done.”
“Go then, but do not attempt to take de Brus or the Scots brat with you. They stay. Stall Fraser if you can. Tell him that you must see Catherine to ascertain that ’tis truly my daughter he has … your brothers will accompany you, and while you barter with the Scot, they can peruse Castle Rock to determine its strength and weakness.”
“I prefer to go alone. Robert and Geoffrey will only be in the way.”
“Yea, go alone and you may linger alone. Take a show of force with you, or you may end your days in a Scottish sty. You will do as I tell you. You are worth much more as a hostage than is your sister.”
It was the best he could hope for, and as Nicholas made plans for the journey north, he wondered grimly how such a man could be hi
s sire. Harshness in war was one thing. To care so little for the fate of his own child was another. Perhaps that was why Nicholas had grown so fond of Catherine, recognizing in his sister a spirit of fire and rebellion that he had oft felt as a boy. His defiance had been curbed with harsh beatings and rigid discipline, but Catherine’s spirit was being slowly stifled beneath the weight of indifference. Both methods were equally lethal.
“Miles.” He beckoned his captain of the guards to him. “Mount a troop. We ride north before the day is done.”
Looking startled, Miles nodded. “Yea, m’lord. Do we take just Devlin men, or do the earl’s soldiers go with us?”
Nicholas thought of his father’s soldiers, well armed and trained, but loyal only to the earl, and shook his head. “Nay, we take only our own this time, Miles.”
He would not risk Catherine with more duplicity. She would need all the loyalty he could muster to save her from a cruel fate. Tucking the lock of her hair into his sherte, he moved swiftly across the muddy bailey toward the stables. There was yet much to be done.
Catherine heard him coming down the corridor. She knew it was not Main, for the footsteps were heavy and assured, not the shuffling gait of the older woman. Tensing, she folded her hands in front of her and turned to face the door, keeping the window behind her so that her expression would be shadowed.
A key turned loudly in the lock and the door swung open with a harsh creaking of hinges. The Scot ducked slightly to enter, his height greater than the doorway. He surveyed her coolly with his light eyes, his expression unreadable. Her heart lurched, and a thousand thoughts streaked through her mind, a thousand different fears.
To her surprise, he bowed slightly, a gesture of courtesy she did not expect, and said, “Good morn, milady.”
Cautiously, she inclined her head in the barest of acknowledgments. “Good morn, sir.”
The Scotsman Page 6