by Lily Baldwin
“I have a slight headache,” she said in answer to Stephen’s questioning gaze.
“Well, it is no wonder when you have been cooped up for the past two days.” He plunked down in the chair beside her. “Ride with me today.”
She smiled at Stephen’s enthusiasm. As the third son, Stephen lacked the responsibility Henry shouldered and the entitlement that—as second son—drove Rupert’s jealously and ambition. Her eyes darted sidelong at Henry for a moment before she replied, “A ride is not included in today’s schedule.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “I would not be at all surprised if he started scheduling your visits to the garderobe.”
Catarina choked on her smile. “Do not let him hear you or else he might.”
Stephen’s laughter rang out just as two castle guards entered the hall from the courtyard, followed by a large cloaked figure with a black hood pulled low over his shadowed brow.
Stephen leaned close and whispered, “A Benedictine monk. Father Kenneth will be no doubt be pleased.”
Catarina hid her smile behind her hand. Father Kenneth possessed a pleasant enough countenance, but after nearly forty years of service to Ravensworth Castle, he found the daily rigors of priesthood overly tasking, which he never let anyone forget. The short, rather stout priest availed himself unduly of Catarina’s time with complaints about his various aches and illnesses. She did her best to hear of each new condition with a compassionate heart, but when he lamented an itchy elbow as if he were riddled with smallpox, she struggled to remain sympathetic. In truth, for a man of nearly sixty years of age, Father Kenneth celebrated excellent health.
Catarina studied the monk’s approach. His black hooded cloak stretched across wide shoulders, the breadth of which were greater than those of either guard flanking him. She straightened in her seat when, suddenly, he raised his head just enough to lock eyes with her. Black eyes, deep-set and knowing, bore into hers.
“He is staring at you,” Stephen whispered.
She blushed and lowered her eyes to break the connection, but still she could feel the intensity of his gaze.
“My lord, I present Brother Augustine of Glenrose Abbey,” one of the guards said.
She looked sidelong at Henry. He motioned for the monk to come forward. “You may speak, Brother.”
She tried to resist looking at him again, but curiosity got the better of her. Brother Augustine stood before Henry with his head still humbly bowed. “My Lord Ravensworth, I ask for yer charity, a modest place to rest and simple fare to ensure I might continue our Lord’s good work.”
His voice was deep. She dipped her head in an attempt to glimpse his face.
“Where is Glenrose Abbey?” her husband said.
“Near Dunshire.”
Henry sat back in his seat. “You will sleep here in the hall and take your meals here as well. Father Kenneth will require your assistance in the chapel for the duration of your stay.”
Brother Augustine bowed to Henry and then turned, once more meeting Catarina’s gaze. “Lady Ravensworth?”
She nodded and extended her hand. Large, warm fingers enclosed hers. She watched with what she hoped was concealed fascination as his full lips pressed against the back of her hand. She looked sidelong at Henry to see if he had noticed the monk’s lingering kiss, but he had turned his back to her and was engaged now in conversation with Stephen. She shifted her gaze, locking eyes once more with Brother Augustine. “The Lord above reminds us of something,” he said.
She tugged her hand free. “And what is that?” she said, growing increasingly uncomfortable every second those steady black eyes held hers.
He stepped closer. “The lamp of the wicked will be put out.” He dropped her hand and backed away. A smile curved his full lips the instant before he spun on his heel and left the hall.
She fought to keep her mask of indifference in place. The monk’s searing eyes and threatening words had unnerved her to her core, but she did not want Henry to know. She had learned long ago—the less Henry knew the better. She took a sip of wine to wet her dry lips. The lamp of the wicked will be put out. What could he have meant? Had he glimpsed wickedness in her? Or did he reveal a flaw in his own character? Either way, she would not soon forget Brother Augustine.
Chapter Three
Quinn stood in the rear of the chapel, seemingly in quiet reflection when, in truth, he awaited the arrival of Lady Catarina. He had learned from Father Kenneth—right before the good father put himself to bed with a stomach complaint—that following the evening meal and entertainment in the great hall, the lady always went to the chapel to pray before retiring to her chambers for the night.
The chapel doors swung open. Candlelight illuminated Lady Catarina’s profile. Her olive skin stood out in contrast to the stark white of her wimple and headdress. Eyes solemnly downcast, her thick lashes shadowed her cheeks. Behind her, equally as solemn, trailed two maids, followed by two castle guards. Quinn cursed under his breath as he stepped further into shadow. Catching Lady Catarina alone was going to be no small feat.
Quinn silently shuffled to the left to have a better view of the lady, who was now hidden behind her entourage. Her rich tunic trailed behind her, dragging across the stone floor until she reached the altar. Kneeling with head bowed, she made the sign of the cross. After several quiet moments, she stood and turned around. The guards and ladies bowed to her and then stepped to the side. With her company following at her heels, she unknowingly walked past Quinn, her head still piously bowed.
The chapel doors closed behind them. “God’s bones,” Quinn muttered before remembering where he was. Every day blasphemy was one thing—God may have made man in his image, but man’s tongue was all too human. However, blasphemy in His house—that was a different matter entirely. Quinn crossed himself, muttering a quick prayer before he hurried outside, his long stride easily overtaking hers.
“Forgive me, my lady, I would beg an audience.”
She did not slow her pace as she turned to meet his gaze. Even in the dim light of dusk and torch, her eyes shone a vibrant amber. Their lightness stood out against the backdrop of her perfectly arched black brows.
“You may speak, Brother Augustine,” she said, her eyes narrowing.
Quinn smiled. “Ye remembered.”
She nodded but offered no more pleasantries.
He looked at her full lips and watchful eyes. She was beautiful. There was no denying that. In fact, she could have been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His eyes shifted from her lips to the rich, dark skin of her cheeks, then lower to the full curve of her chest, which even her wimple could not hide. She had the body of a woman, rounded and sensual. Her trim waist flared out to full hips. His thoughts strayed to what it might feel like to stroke that curve.
“Brother Augustine, you wanted to tell me something.”
Her words rushed over Quinn like a bucket of cold water. He shook his head, banishing his wandering thoughts. He glanced at the guards standing just behind her. Then in a low voice he said, “My lady, could we speak in private?”
Her eyes grew wide, but before she could utter the refusal Quinn instinctively knew was on the tip of her tongue, he leaned close. “Yer sister, Bella, has sent me. The matter is urgent. Meet me after dark upon the battlements.” He turned away, heading back toward the chapel, confident he had said all that was needed for her ladyship to risk a secret rendezvous.
*
Catarina slowly rounded her way up the narrow stone staircase, which led from the east wing to the battlements. She had waited until her brief nightly visit with her newborn son was over and her ladies were asleep in their chamber before setting out. Given the late hour, she treaded the steps with some confidence that she would not encounter anyone else. Her one fear of discovery was that Henry might come to her room looking to appease his masculine hunger. Thankfully his visits were infrequent, not to mention perfunctory. On the rare occasion he did come to her, he opened her door and crossed th
e room to stand by her bedside. With a dip of his head in greeting, he would pull back her bed coverings and ask her to lift her nightdress. Then without ceremony, gentle word, or soft caress, he would penetrate her. She, in turn, always closed her eyes, gripped the headboard and prayed he finished quickly. After he climbed off of her, she would jerk her nightdress down and, with relief, watch her husband leave her room without so much as a backward glance. During three years of marriage, he had only kissed her once and that had been in the chapel by order of Father Kenneth to seal their marriage vows.
She shook her head, chasing away her complaints. Indeed, she did not know the feel of a tender kiss, but she also did not know the lash or the back of a hand. Henry may not have been doting, but he never sought to hurt her with word or deed. Given the terrible stories she had heard at court of husbands with biting tongues and fists, she knew to count her blessings. She was satisfied at Ravensworth, and that had to be enough.
Stepping out onto the ramparts, she ducked below the first opening to avoid being seen from the courtyard below and took refuge behind the adjacent stone merlon. Henry did not place permanent guards on the inner wall. They were reserved for the outer wall alone, their watchful eyes turned ever outward. Her heart started to pound as she scanned the battlements set aglow with torch fire. Then someone grabbed her arm from behind. She jumped. A hand covered her mouth, smothering her scream.
“Hush, my lady. ‘Tis only I,” came a whisper in her ear. Slowly, the hand dropped from her lips. She turned around and stared up into black eyes. Brother Augustine was close, very close, also seeking concealment behind the same merlon. His nearness made her instinctively step away, but he gently clasped her hand, pulling her back.
“At this late hour the courtyard should remain empty,” he said. “Still, we must be cautious. The castle guard could always pass through.”
She nodded, staring up into his deep-set, black eyes, fringed with thick, black lashes. Her gaze dropped to his full lips and strong jaw and then to the large wooden cross hanging from his neck. What business did a monk have being so large and formidable, not to mention handsome? Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. “Brother Augustine, against my better judgment, I have come. Deliver the message from my sister at once.”
A smile, slight but not unkind, curved his lips. “Ye do not resemble Bella overly in appearance, but the way ye just gave that order tells me ye truly are sisters.”
Catarina did not return his smile. “Do not toy with me. Neither one of us will benefit from being found together. Speak your message.”
Brows drawn, he gently placed his hand on hers. “Ye need not be afraid, Catarina. ‘Tis why I’ve come. That tyrant cannot hurt ye now. I’m going to take ye away.”
She snatched her hand back. “What are you talking about? What tyrant? And how dare you address me as your familiar.”
“Forgive me, my lady. I meant no insult. I’ve had the privilege of becoming acquainted with yer family. I realize though that ye and I still are strangers.”
Catarina narrowed her eyes. She was growing increasingly suspicious of Brother Augustine. There was something very unholy in his black eyes. “You have one final chance to say your piece, after which I fully intend to return to my chambers.”
He nodded. “As ye wish, my lady. Yer father and sister bade me come to save ye from yer husband.”
She lifted her chin. “I love my sister dearly, but she has always judged Henry falsely. I assure you my husband is no tyrant.”
“Is he not?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I spoke plainly enough.”
Brother Augustine lifted a skeptical brow. “Then yer father and sister are wrong and yer husband is a kind man?”
She faltered. Henry was certainly not a kind man. He did not care for her with tenderness nor did he value her company, but he was not a bad man. She straightened her spine and lifted her head and said as much. “My husband is not a bad man.”
His skeptical brow stayed aloft. “Then yer husband is a good man?”
A good man? Her father was a good man, but Henry was nothing like her father. Catarina resisted the urge to shrug. “He is good enough for me.”
Quinn drew closer. “Do not sell yerself short, my lady.”
She thrust her hand between them, ensuring he kept what little distance the narrow merlon permitted. “Why are you here?” she demanded.
The monk scratched at his forehead. Then he threw his hands up in a frustrated gesture. “There’s no good way to tell ye this, so I’m just going to say it.” He looked at her squarely. “Yer father committed an act of treason. He and yer sister were forced to flee Berwick for their lives. Before leaving, Bella made me swear I would come here, to Ravensworth, and take ye away. She feared yer husband would punish ye for yer father’s disgrace. He might shame ye or hurt ye or, worse yet, give ye over to King Edward himself.”
Catarina stumbled into the open, her mind reeling. She felt a strong hand grip her waist and pull her back out of sight. Her father was guilty of treason. He and Bella were in danger. She grabbed the monk’s robe. “Where are they now? Are they hurt?”
Brother Augustine shook his head, his expression grave. “I cannot say, my lady. I’m sorry. I left yer family’s home in Berwick even before they did in my haste to reach ye as quickly as possible. I do not know where they are or how they fair. But I can assure ye, at least, that they are not alone. My brother, Jack, is with them. He will protect both yer father and yer sister with his life if necessary.”
She unclenched her fists, her hands dropping to her side. “I…I do not know what to think.”
He grabbed her hand once more. “My lady, we’ve little time. We must leave, this very minute in fact.”
She tensed. “But why must I flee? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“That is true, but King Edward’s men will still come here, looking for yer father and sister. How will yer husband react to that? The man I met this morning was as cold as a winter frost. He’ll not look kindly to being thrust on the King’s unfavorable side.”
She straightened her spine and tilted her chin higher, refusing to accept her family’s grim prediction. “He is my husband, our vows taken before God. Even the king cannot change that.”
Brother Augustine’s black eyes glinted in the torch light. “Ye must come with me. I’ve made a promise to yer sister and to yer father. I will steal ye if I must.”
She thrust out her chin. “I will not leave my husband or my home, not for any reason.”
He grabbed her forearms. “I can force ye.”
“I can scream.” Her heart pounded.
A flash of anger crossed his face before he turned away. From behind she watched his fists clench. Then he expelled a long sigh and turned back. “There are worst ways to punish ye then to send ye from Ravensworth. Search yer heart. Do ye truly believe he’ll not make ye pay for the actions of yer father?”
She thought of Henry’s neat, perfect world. If what the brother said was true, her father would be stripped of his wealth and title. If caught, he would be put to death. Being unmarried, her sister also stood to lose everything. Her heart ached for her loved ones, but she had to think of her son. His place was at Ravensworth as Henry’s heir. And despite what Henry might believe, her place was with her son. She took a deep breath. “Henry has shown a forgiving heart in the past. You have said that you’ve become close to my family. Then you must know that my mother was not of noble birth. She was the daughter of a Sicilian merchant. Lord Ravensworth married me despite the inferiority of her birth.”
Brother Augustine nodded. “Bella spoke of yer mother.” He paused. Then, at length, he said, “I am so sorry for yer loss.”
Catarina’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath. “As am I.” It still hurt to speak of her mother who had been killed five years earlier along with thousands of others when King Edward marched on the Scottish city of Berwick. After three days of merciless slaughter, King Edward claimed t
he decimated city for England.
“What did my father do?” she asked.
“He called King Edward to task on the role he played in yer mother’s death. In short, yer father denounced him.”
Catarina pressed her lips together, fighting to keep her emotions at bay. “My father was not wrong. The massacre at Berwick is a bloody stain on my king’s soul.” She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, steeling her courage. “But he is still my king.” She lifted her chin. “And my husband is my lord.”
Despite her brave words, her legs started to shake. She felt Brother Augustine’s large hand gently grip her arm as he helped her find her balance. Still, her head spun. She leaned forward only vaguely aware of resting her head against the monk’s chest. When her world stopped spinning, she raised her eyes and met his dark gaze.
“Forgive me for bringing such ill news,” he said softly.
Remembering who she was, she squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. “I am Lady Ravensworth. You have delivered your message. Now you must leave the castle grounds immediately.” She turned and ducked beneath the gap in the wall and started back down the stairs.
“I cannot do that,” Brother Augustine said, following behind her.
“My orders were clear,” she snapped without looking back. “Leave Ravensworth at once.”
“I cannot do that,” he said again.
She took another step down and turned, scowling up at him. “How dare you defy me?”
“With all due respect, my lady, I came here to steal ye away. Yer lucky yer not at this moment slung over my shoulder.”