My Lady Imposter

by Sara Bennett - My Lady Imposter

  Wenna took her away after the meal. To rest, she told the others, “We don’t want them to look too closely,” she told Kathryn. But Kathryn sat staring from the window, dreaming of her triumph. When evening came at last, there was more food, and the hall glowed with candlelight and laughter. There was a brightly colored bird—a parrot—in a jeweled cage. There was a minstrel from London, and she listened to his sweet, sad voice with wonder, her great eyes full of tears.

  “My lady,” a young man, hardly begun to shave, bowed before her. “Will you dance?”

  She rose. Wenna watched, Ralf watched... It seemed to her that everyone watched. She curtseyed, the young man bowed. She gave him her hand.

  After a moment, she realized she was enjoying it. Her feet moved lightly, her heart skipped gaily, her body moved with easy grace. She laughed at the boy’s tentative witticism, her dark eyes sparkling, teasing. The boy flushed, and squeezed her fingers. She was sorry when the dance ended. But another partner soon filled his place, and another.

  “You are a convent girl. Remember it!” Wenna hissed in her ear. But she could not be demure, when her soul was so happy, so triumphant. And even convent girls must be gay, sometimes? Besides, Ralf seemed to be amused by her and even danced with her himself, towering over her in all his glory.

  “You do well enough,” he said. “But remember, Kathryn, these are but small fish. Sir Piers is the one we must net.”

  “But surely he would welcome a grandchild?” she retorted.

  He frowned, “Mayhap. But will his men-at-arms?”

  She worried over this a moment, but politics were still confusing to her, and she soon dismissed it for the gaiety of the dance.

  It was late when Wenna drew her aside to straighten her veil. When they returned, the music had ceased. Men were clustered about the huge fireplace, and Wenna went forward with a frown, her shoes gliding over the floor.

  Ralf turned at her inquiry, and the man beside him drew aside also. There were more men, strangers, by the hearth. Men in heavy cloaks, still flushed from the hard, cold ride to Pristine, men with steaming breath. A squire was kneeling, his uniform blue and gold, removing the spurs from the boots of the man in the fireside chair. A man Kathryn knew.

  Fair, tousled hair and keen blue eyes in a tanned, handsome face. He turned as she stopped, and seeing her frowned. His eyes skimmed over her in the time it might take to set arrow to bow and release it. And then, rising, he pushed the squire aside and strode towards her.

  “My Lady de Brusac!”

  His hand was cold, despite the roaring fire, and his lips were hard against her palm. She stared down at the thick, fair hair made untidy from the ride, at the broad shoulders and straight line of back, and wondered why her heart had suddenly begun to beat so hard. Wenna, over his shoulder, was frowning at her. She must speak. She must be cool and proud. She must play the princess now, more than ever. She hated him. She must remember just how much she hated him.

  “Sir Richard,” she said, disdainful though polite. “Are you tired after your journey?”

  He straightened, but retained her hand, and his eyes mocked her while his mouth laughed. She wished he would not stare so long; he made her as nervous as a bird, caged in a room full of cats.

  “I have ridden from London in two days, my lady. Other than that, I am not tired.”

  She turned away, and spied the young man who had first danced with her. He came to her like a hound to his master’s hand. The minstrel was singing again; she reached out her fingers to the boy as if to commence to dance.

  And as suddenly, Richard had taken them back and was smiling coolly down into her eyes. “I beg you will dance with me, Kathryn,” he said, gently chiding. “We have so much to talk of.”

  She longed to refuse him, to jerk away from him and scream like a hoyden. But she dared not. They were watching, and Tier life depended upon control. He saw her thoughts, however, and his fingers tightened:

  “So the lady doesn’t go so deep? Beneath it, you’re still a peasant.”

  “You must not so say,” she breathed, glancing around. But the few persons interested in observing them were not close enough to hear. He laughed softly.

  “And you’ve learned caution! Fear, as well, I think. You do right, Kathryn, to feel both. But they will think little of my importuning you— they are used to such things at Court.”

  She stared at his feet, not quite knowing how to answer, as they began to dance. Coming together, drawing apart, as the music progressed. Wenna swished past, and laughed, flirting, into Richard’s face. But Kathryn ignored her, her lip stuck out sulkily.

  “Do you know what that pretty pout of yours makes me long to do?”

  She looked up, startled. His eyes were sparkling, but whether with mockery or anger she was not sure. “Sir Richard?”

  “Ah, and it is ‘Sir’ Richard now. I prefer the other, but I would not have you struck for my preference. You did not ask me how my father did. No matter,” at her quick glance. “He is dead, and if I am not mourning for him I am at least a little sorry we did not get on as we might. Still, we made a sort of peace with each other, before the end. It is over.”

  They had reached the further end of the hall. She looked around in surprise, realizing that somehow they had drawn some distance away from the main cluster of guests. Here, in the shadows, she felt like a ghost, viewing the colorful proceedings from behind her winding sheets. “Richard?” she said, stammering a little, the poise slipping. He looked down at her up-tilted face, a curious expression sliding over his features.

  “My father did not linger,” he said. “In death, as in everything else, he was over-hasty. But even so, I begrudged him the days, the weeks. And begrudged his damned lawyers their dusty, slow work. I even begrudged the King his charters and tempers, and the lovely Queen her sweet poetry and sweeter smile.”

  “You did not enjoy your stay then, my lord?” she breathed, her heart bumping unpleasantly.

  His laugh was both harsh and abrupt. He glanced about him and, seeing they were unobserved, brushed aside the curtain close by and bundled her into the dark silence of another chamber before she could made a sound to the contrary.

  The music and laughter were muted now. She heard her own breathing more clearly; a swift, shallow sound. She could hear her heart pounding. His arms came around her in the darkness, and suddenly she was pressed up against him. Hard chest and soft tunic, the smells of sweat and dust and horse, reminding her of Will, a little. And yet it wasn’t the same as Will. This man wasn’t humble or foolish or uncertain.

  “That’s better,” he breathed, stirring her long hair. She tried to push herself away.

  “Please, sir. I... I know not what you’re about, but...”

  “Hush, girl.”

  “But what is it you mean by this!”

  She looked up, her voice breaking, and encountered his mouth, seeking hers. It brushed her brow, her cheek. And suddenly fear struck her a blow like an axe, and she began to struggle in earnest. Kathryn, Lady de Brusac would not be treated like this! Only Kathryn, the serf of Pristine would expect to be tumbled by this arrogant, hateful man. All her weeks of hard work and suffering meant nothing to him, nor her fear of being locked up. He was going to ruin everything in one sweep, for the satisfaction of his own cruel lust. “I shall not make those lies they told Snuff and Grisel truth!” she told herself angrily. “I shall not!”

  “Be still, girl,” he muttered, and held her fast, as she squirmed. “You wanted to know what 1 felt like doing, when you pout so.” His mouth found hers at last, and he sighed, bringing her closer still. “I prefer rose water to peasant dirt,” he murmured, “but after two days in the saddle I’m not so particular.”

  The words stung her like a lash. She struggled violently and brought her foot down on his, hurting them both. He swore, releasing her, and she jerked away, fanning her burning face. “You swine!”

  He laughed. “How so? Would you prefer I held out the illusion of your
greatness? I am not such a hypocrite!”

  “You don’t care!” she cried out, thinking: He doesn’t care if I fail in my task, and am whipped or locked up.

  He laughed again, softly, misreading her words. “Do I not indeed? Has Wenna been reading you romances? Does your little heart yearn for the knights and the ladies from the legends? Well I have not ridden two days to have you escape so lightly. Come here, Kathryn, and I will play Lancelot to your Guinevere.”

  She spluttered, speechless, and pushed by him to the curtain. The noise and lights of the hall dazed her a moment, dazzling her senses like a moth before a flame. How dare he? How dare he treat her like a common, cheap little trollop! How dare he speak so to the Lady de Brusac? How dare he make such fun of all her glorious pretensions?

  Tears pricked her eyes, and she bit her lip hard, to keep them at bay. And how dare he imagine for one moment she wanted him to paw her and kiss her and... and... she drew a sharp breath, and with a brief, frightened glance behind her, sped hastily into the crowd. He might find her again, and if he did... her mouth burned. Her entire body burned. He might have made fun of her, but he had held her like a woman. If she did not hate him so... she might have enjoyed it.

  Wenna did not come scolding her that evening. No doubt the other woman was occupied with Ralf, and Kathryn had the chamber to herself. She lay, eyes wide in the darkness, too excited to sleep. She had passed her test; she had done everything expected of her, and more. She had behaved like a noblewoman and been accepted as such! At least, accepted by everyone but one, and he did not count.

  She turned her face away from the window and closed her eyes determinedly. But a thought sprang into her mind, unbidden, making them jerk open again. “I have not ridden two days to reach you, to have you escape me so easily.” What did he mean, reach her? Was it all a cruel and terrible jest? Was it all fuel for his cruel humor, his savage mockery? Indeed, oh indeed, what else could it be?

  Chapter Five

  Kathryn stared into the distance, her face flushed a delicate pink by the cool air, and tried to ignore the ache in her back and legs. The mare was a gentle, placid animal, but she was still a horse, and horses were not something Kathryn enjoyed riding, though it was the first time she had been allowed out of the castle, alone, but for a page. Lord Ralf’s guests had gone. After several days and nights of their company, he had tired of them, and besides, the reason for their coming was achieved. Pristine was peaceful once more.

  Oxen teams were pulling the ploughs in the fields, while serfs—men and women and children—worked. Her mare picked its way delicately between the rows, towards the smoky clump of dwellings she had thought of as home for seventeen years.

  Now, it seemed incredibly small to her, incredibly dirty. The wind made her shiver again, and she pulled her cloak tighter about her head and shoulders, letting the mare dawdle and pause to crop grass. Behind her, the page also stopped, waiting upon her instruction.

  It had not been so very difficult, to give orders. She had a taste for it, and at first had enjoyed it immensely. Now, she did it without even thinking about it. Wenna mocked her sometimes, until her pride ached with anger and humiliation— Wenna never let her forget who or what she was—and when she had turned to Lord Ralf for help, he had only laughed.

  Of Richard Tremaine she saw little. He did not seek her out, and at meals his face was stern, his greetings brusque. It was as if the man of the darkness never existed. He had time, now, only for Ralf, and she refused to allow herself to dwell on him at all, except to hate him as he deserved. He was unimportant, she told herself with a shrug. She would not concern herself with him.

  She realized suddenly that she had wandered much closer to the village then she had meant. A tug at her foot brought her head down sharply, and she frowned at the ragged, dirty little man gazing up at her. The frown turned to amazement, as she met Snuff’s pale eyes.

  “My lady,” he said. “My lady, may it please you, my lady. I’m a poor man, and my wife’s with child. Our fifth child. Could you spare us something, your ladyship?”

  She gazed down in shocked wonder. He looked back at her, and yet not at her. He did not know her. She reached up to push aside her cloak, to pull away her veil, to cry out: “It is I, Kathryn!” But her hand was stilled even as it moved. She felt suddenly sick and afraid.

  “My lady,” he clung to her shoe. “Just a little something, I beg you. Just a little.”

  She tried to jerk the mare’s head up and around. “I... let me go.” But he clung, something of desperation in his eyes. “Just a little something, my lady.”

  The page boy had come forward, fumbling with the dagger at his side. Snuff clung on, his mouth thin and angry and determined. She knew that mulish look; it meant he would have his way. And then, behind her, she heard the clatter of hooves, and twisting about saw a fair head and blue tunic... and heard a voice she knew.

  “My lady?”

  Snuff stumbled and fell, half dragging her with him. Richard reached them then, and seeing the ragged man, growled and raised his sword. Kathryn caught her breath in a cry: “Richard, no!”

  They froze into a tableau. The page held his dagger uncertainly. The mare snorted and whinnied. Snuff, sheltering his head, crouched upon the ground and peeped up through his fingers. And Richard, the sword still raised, looked at her, pale with surprise. “Kathryn?”

  “No,” she said. “No, Sir Richard. He meant no harm. He...” She felt the tears coming and said, “Give him some coins. ‘Twas all he wanted. Give him his money!” Her mare jerked around, sidling beneath her desperate hands as she tried to turn. Her cloak came loose, blown out like wings behind her. The page hurried to her side. Behind them, Richard stared after her, while the ragged man’s pale eyes flickered from him to her with the rapidity of lightning.

  Kathryn spurred the mare into a canter, and then a gallop. Back towards the drawbridge. Inside, she flung the reins to one of the men-at-arms, slid down and ran. The garden welcomed her, sweet and serene, and she sank down into a bower by the roses and sobbed until her heart felt as if it must drown in sorrow.

  Why she wept, she wasn’t quite certain. Perhaps because she had realized suddenly how isolated she felt, how alone. She was not a lady, and yet no longer a peasant. She was caught in the door between two worlds. Quite, quite alone.

  “What are you blubbering about?”

  She stiffened and began to sob all the harder. He had found her. Why couldn’t he leave her be?

  The scabbard of his sword rang as it struck the stone seat. “Kathryn? You ran off like some hoyden. Come now, it’s not so bad, surely? I paid the man, and more than he deserved. He was a half-wit, I think. He gaped at me all the while and said not a word. Kathryn?”

  She turned her face away, her shoulders trembling.

  “Did he insult you, is that it?”

  The sword rasped up the scabbard.

  “Would you like me to run him through?”

  She turned in sheer amazement, eyes wide and swimming with tears. He had the sword out, testing the edge, his eyes fierce and bright under the fair fringe of hair. A sob made her hiccup; she covered her mouth. “Run him through?” she repeated in her precisely learned speech.

  “Yes, damn you. Because I will, if you want me to, if he insulted you.”

  She looked away, her breath coming painfully. A magical wand had touched her heart and she could hardly see for fresh tears.

  “No one,” he went on, “should be allowed to insult the Lady de Brusac without retribution.”

  The wonder faltered and died. He was only keeping up the pretence. He didn’t really care about her, about Kathryn. She didn’t reply, and after a moment the sword was returned to its sheath. A bird alighted on the grass, hopping and pecking. She watched it a moment, letting the tears dry on her cheeks.

  “We are to go to de Brusac,” he said at last. “To Sir Piers.”

  She stiffened but did not reply.

  “Lord Ralf has sent a message t
hat we are coming, and why. It will be dangerous. The roads are not safe.”

  “I hope you do not come with us,” she said coldly, and stuck out her lip.

  “Do you not?” he said, after a moment, in a cool, uninterested voice. “Then you will be disappointed. I am coming.”

  She flicked him a glance under sooty lashes. He was frowning, but at her glance he reached out and brushed her mouth gently with his forefinger. “Remember what I said about pouting.”

  She opened her mouth to insult him, but he had risen and was standing looking down at her, the sun at his back blinding her eyes. He seemed immensely tall and overpowering. She gazed up in silence.

  “Do you wish to see your family before we depart? You may not have the chance to do so again.”

  “No,” she said breathlessly, and turned her face away. “I never want to see them again. Never.” She had made her bed—or it had been made for her—and she must lie in it. She was not one of them now, they did not know her and would not welcome her. It was better to break away completely.

  “You would have left them anyway,” he said harshly. “If Lord Ralf had not chosen you for this... plan. You would have left them anyway.”

  “How so?” she whispered bitterly. “I had no such opportunity.”

  His hand came up, his fingers tracing the neckline of her gown, and her color rose up under his touch. “Indeed, I speak the truth,” he said softly. “You are not the sort to be chained down, girl. Even with your dirt, I could see that.”

  She drew away from him, her heart thudding. “You insulted me!”

  His laughter came out of the glare of the sun. No matter how she squinted her eyes, she could see no more than his dark silhouette against its brightness. “I meant to warn you, no more.”

  “Against Lord Ralf?” she whispered, drawn further and further into the maze of his words.

  “And myself.”

  “Yourself?”

  “I would you had remained a simple peasant, Kathryn. It would have been so much the better for you. There would have been no danger, no intrigues. You would have thought it a great honor I did you, and come without the warring emotions and thoughts Wenna has fed into you. Now it is too late. You have lost your simplicity.”