‘He committed high treason. The sentence for that is death. It’s the law.’
His mouth sat in a bitter line. Fear struck her for what would come next, a fear so profound that she became as cold as death. ‘I see. What happened?’
‘He was hanged.’
Catherine’s heart stopped for a ghastly moment. The words hung in the air between them. Paralysed by his revelation, she felt the blood drain from her face. ‘I see. That is indeed terrible. On whose orders?’
‘Mine,’ he said, raising his voice to such a high pitch that Catherine stepped away. ‘I issued the order—me—and others.’ He smiled, a grim, humourless smile. ‘Thomas Stratton got what he deserved.’
In a blinding flash Catherine understood that her father’s monstrous pride would wreak unspeakable revenge on Thomas for his crime against him, that of taking his wife—the charge of treason was all the excuse he needed. There was a pain inside her, writhing and living and ugly.
‘How could you do that? Yes, he and Blanche were lovers, but did it not occur to you that he was also my husband? Or didn’t it matter? Didn’t I matter?’
‘Thomas was executed for crimes against the country. It was the law.’
Catherine searched that hard face for some sign that he felt something for her, anything, but there was nothing. Bile rose in her throat as she realised that she didn’t know her father at all. He was not one for regrets or introspection, and he felt entirely justified for his actions where Thomas was concerned.
‘You should have told me. How could you keep this from me? How could you? I had a right to know how my husband died.’ Unable to stay and look at the man who was the instigator of all her misery, she turned from him. At the door she paused and looked back. ‘Tell me one thing. Did John know about Thomas?’
‘John? Yes, he was there.’
For the rest of her life Catherine would remember that moment when the bottom dropped out of her world. Desperately hurt and angry at this final betrayal, she left him and returned to her own room. She felt hot, blazingly, ragingly hot and physically sick as she thought about what her father had told her. Each of his words had been like a blow to her head. Thomas’s death and leaving Carlton Bray had meant a fresh start and no reminders of the past—if the past could ever be forgotten, for did it not always lie dormant, like a sleeping wild and hostile beast, waiting to spring up and sink its teeth into a defenceless heart?
The walls of her castle had proved to be made of paper. She had felt the first cold draughts blowing through them when Blanche had told her to ask her father about Thomas’s death and she had felt the walls tremble and the wind howl strong when her father had told her the truth. Then they had collapsed around her feet.
Existing in the wreckage of her dream for a better life, she realised, beneath everything she had learned, just how much she actually loved John, but now the security that she had found with him was gone. Deep down she was furious at the injustice done to her—first her father for forcing her into a loveless marriage, then Thomas for discarding her as if she were something offensive, and now John. How could she trust him after this? It had been a mistake to trust him in the first place. The biggest mistake of all was that she had allowed him—wanted him—to make love to her and that was the most painful part.
Why did everyone she had ever known have to let her down? Her large eyes were wide with an effort to hold back the tears of angry despair. All that had been beautiful and exciting when John had left her that morning now lay in a heap of ashes at her feet.
Chapter Nine
After four days had passed and nothing was heard of Blanche, Catherine became so concerned that something might have happened to her that, with no one to turn to for advice, she decided to travel to Windsor to see John. Knowing what she did and unable to forgive him for the part he had played in Thomas’s death, she would have preferred not to, but there was no one else she could turn to.
Leaving early and taking the coach in which she had travelled from Carlton Bray, with one of the grooms up front, she was relieved when she eventually saw the ramparts and turrets of Windsor Castle. It was being used not only as a Parliamentary garrison, but also as a prison, holding many Royalists. The majestic pile towered over the great park and meadows, the town stretching along the hill on which the castle was built.
After passing through the Castle Gate and undergoing the inspection of the guards, they entered the castle grounds. It was like a bustling town within the massive walls, with a patchwork of half-timbered houses and buildings in the Lower Ward. It lacked the uniformity of the Upper Ward of the castle, which housed the royal apartments used by kings and queens through the ages, but, with a diversity of buildings around it, the dazzling, magnificent St George’s Chapel, the final resting place of monarchs and knights of England past, dominated the enclosure.
As she stepped down from the coach a soldier approached her and asked who she was looking for.
‘I wish to see Colonel Stratton. I believe he is here.’
He nodded. ‘Wait here. I’ll see if I can find him.’
She waited, watching everyone go about their business, glad that she didn’t draw attention to herself. And then John appeared. Ever since their night together she had not been able to put him out of her thoughts. Her mind was filled with images of him as he had been when they had parted after their search for James. Seeing him now, she cast them away, turning her thoughts back to her present predicament, and cringed inside at the thought of the outcome. He looked relaxed. He was laughing, calling something over his shoulder to a gentleman he passed. When he saw her he stopped. Their eyes met and locked for a moment, John’s opening wider and wider, experiencing astonishment and incredulity and finally pleasure, before brusquely recollecting himself.
‘Catherine! What are you doing here? Have you ridden here unaccompanied?’
‘No. I travelled in the coach.’
‘It’s good to see you, but what brings you to Windsor? Come. We can’t talk here.’
He led her to a room occupied by several gentlemen. Her arrival created a stir and a few ribald comments.
John cast a baleful eye over them and they made their excuses and left. They were alone at last.
‘Well? Why are you here?’
‘Two reasons.’ Her voice was calm, much too calm and carefully modulated.
‘Has something happened? Is it Edward?’
‘No.’
‘Why do you look at me like that?’
‘My compliments, John,’ she emphasised contemptuously, going straight to the attack, ‘on your duplicity and your deceit.’ When his face hardened she nodded. ‘It would appear our relationship began on a lie. Yes, John. I accuse you of having deceived me, of telling me that Thomas had died from wounds sustained at some time or other, when all the time he had been charged with treason, sentenced to death and hanged.’
Completely taken off guard by her attack, John stared at her, speechless. ‘Who told you of this?’
‘My father. And please don’t deny that you know about it because you were there, apparently. You had no right to keep the truth from me. There was no love between us, but I had a right to know how my husband died. Why did you keep a matter of such magnitude from me? Why did you lie to me?’ she demanded.
‘I did not lie. You did not ask and I thought you would be better off not knowing. It was not an honourable way to die. I was trying to protect you.’
‘I would like to have been the one to decide that—and I did not need protecting.’
‘It was not by my hand that Thomas was executed. You cannot put the blame on my shoulders for events that happened that day.’
‘No? You were there. You could have tried to stop it happening. You could have told me. I wanted the truth.’
As indignant as she was, John’s entire body tensed and his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle
began to throb in his cheek. His look was cold and dispassionate, and completely in control. ‘I can see my concern for your welfare has displeased you, Catherine. It was not my intention. Understandably you are distraught.’
‘Your deception over the matter distressed and angered me almost beyond bearing—justifiably so. When we went to see Thomas’s lawyer, I remember you having a private word with him before proceedings began. What did you say to him, John? Did you ask him not to mention the manner of Thomas’s death lest it upset me?’ The cold, silent look he gave her confirmed what she had suspected. ‘How dare you do that? How could you? How precious little I have known. I feel as if I’ve struggled through a battlefield of lies and evasions. You and my father are as bad as each other. You were there, you saw what my father was doing, yet you did nothing to prevent it.’
‘I couldn’t.’ His voice was chilling, with all the deadly calm of approaching peril. He moved closer, his eyes hard and compelling, holding hers so that she was unable to look away. ‘With so little knowledge about what happened, you are too quick to judge. Neither I nor your father are the monsters you imagine us to be. Thomas was a spy, Catherine. He carried letters to and from the King on the Isle of Wight, to the young Charles in the Netherlands, or to France and over the border to the Scots—such was his loyalty to the cause. He was captured in Newcastle when he crossed over the border from Scotland. There is a death sentence for spying.’
‘I didn’t know he was a spy. I suppose I should have known there was more to it when he didn’t come home. And of course my father couldn’t wait to carry out the death sentence. He made good of the opportunity. Knowing what he did, I have no doubt he would have been happy to put the noose around his neck himself in order to exact his vengeance for his affair with Blanche and to be rid of him.’
‘What is this, Catherine? Can’t you bring yourself to admit that Thomas’s actions were indefensible?’
‘It affected me deeply when I discovered the truth about him—and the manner of his death. I do not condone his actions and, despite the fact that he preferred life on the battlefield to that of domesticity with his wife, I do not disapprove of them either since he was doing what he thought was right, what he went to war for.’
‘He was a traitor.’
‘So he deserved to hang?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘It was war, Catherine, in all its brutality. It was about setting an example.’
‘Yes, the country was at war. It was up to each man’s conscience to decide whether take up arms for the King or Parliament, but I would not have wished him to die at the end of a rope. Thomas and I had our differences, you know that, but his loyalty to the King was never in doubt. Whatever happened the King must win. When it came to his own life it mattered very little. He was sincere and true—a Royalist—a peer of the realm,’ she said vehemently, ‘and no matter what crime he was guilty of he should have been brought to London to stand trial. If found guilty, then he should have been beheaded like a peer, not hanged. He should at the very least have died with dignity.’
‘I deeply regret that I concealed the manner of Thomas’s death, but I saw no reason to divulge it. I am sorry—’
‘For what? Being party to Thomas’s execution? Breaking my trust in you?’
‘I should have told you. I realise that now. But Thomas is dead and bears no relevance to the future.’
‘Have you told Blanche that? If not, then perhaps you should.’
‘Blanche knows what happened to Thomas.’
‘And their son? That child will find out one day about his father. And you—you were there.’
‘To my everlasting regret I—’
‘Please, John, spare me your excuses.’
John’s eyes became locked on hers. ‘I give no excuses. I deeply regret what happened to Thomas,’ he said, his voice clipped, harsh, hiding the amazing depth of hurt that assailed his heart.
‘Unlike my father. Were you influenced by my father, allowing your respect for him to cloud your mind to the true nature of his character, to the wickedness he carried in his heart for Thomas?’
‘And you judge me with nothing more than this?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she answered in defiance of his challenge.
‘Then I am sorry to disappoint you. Your accusations are unfounded. I had nothing whatsoever to do with Thomas’s execution. You must take my word for that. It is clear to me that a seed that has been planted in your mind has blown out of all proportion. Your mind is made up. You clearly have little regard for my feelings towards you and you are more likely to listen to other people’s words than mine.’
Catherine was shocked and full of bitterness and anger at his reaction, the sudden fury in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw and the lash of harshness in his words.
‘But hear this,’ he went on. ‘I am not guilty of deceit. I simply did not tell you about Thomas because it was not for me to do so.’
She continued to look at him coldly. ‘The implications of what I have learned about my father and your involvement in Thomas’s terrible death I cannot begin to contemplate at this moment, or what it will mean to my future. Neither of you has anything to be proud of where Thomas was concerned. And now you must excuse me. I have other important matters to attend to.’
* * *
In stunned silence John watched her go. He stared at the doorway through which she had disappeared. The room was suddenly larger, somehow emptier. Recollecting himself, he strode after her. He couldn’t let her go like this.
‘Catherine, wait.’
Hearing his voice, she stopped, turned and waited for him to reach her.
The force of personality that burned in her eyes gave John an insight into the woman who had defended Carlton Bray Castle against Parliamentary patrols. She must have looked as she did now, with her solid will and defiance in every line of her body. She looked magnificent and a flood of admiration he was unable to prevent washed over him. But what she had said smote his heart and he turned his head away, unable to meet her direct gaze, to look upon the hatred she possessed for her father mirrored in their depths. He understood completely the reason for her anger. Not only did she feel abandoned by Thomas, she also felt betrayed by her father and himself.
She had come to London not knowing what to expect from her father. She had been young and naive enough, a willing victim ready to fall prey to the attention he might lavish on her after years of neglect. Yet deep inside her heart she had always known the truth, but had refused to acknowledge it, knowing that, on doing so, the pain would be intolerable. Catherine was completely justified to feel as she did.
‘You said there were two things that had brought you to Windsor. What was the other?’
‘Yes—I forgot. It’s Blanche. She left several days ago with James and his nurse. I’m concerned about them. She took the coach and intended to send it back when she was settled. I’ve heard nothing and I’m worried about her. I wondered if you might be able to throw some light on where she might have gone.’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I can. She came to me for help. She told me Edward had turned her out. Her and James. I sent her to Sussex—to stay with my mother.’
Catherine stared at him, incredulous. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘The child is a Stratton. As head of the family I have a duty of care to Thomas’s son.’
‘After being party to his death?’ Shaking her head in anger and dismay, she turned from him. ‘And no one thought to tell me where they were.’
‘My time has been taken up with military matters, Catherine. Blanche told me she would inform you of her plans. Catherine, I—’
She turned back to him, a fierce light in her eyes. ‘No,’ she said, holding out her hand to keep him at bay. ‘Leave it, John. I’m in no mood for further conversation. Whatever was betw
een us is over. It should never have happened. You’ve spoilt everything. I valued your friendship above all others, but when friends become lovers that friendship suffers—as ours has done. I cannot forgive you your betrayal. I believe you are to go down to Sussex in a day or so. What can I say except that I hope you all have a happy Christmas?’
John watched her go in silence, his warrior instincts stirred by the depth of his passion for her, his desire to possess and protect her now stronger than ever. For the moment he must accept temporary defeat. But later he would find a way to make her listen. He watched her stalk back to her coach, defiance clear in the erect spine and the proud head held high. He would have gone after her and argued with her, but his short experience with Catherine Stratton had taught him to recognise intractable stubbornness when he saw it. By the time she reached Oakdene, hopefully she would have calmed down. He would make a point of going to see her before the day was out. It was imperative that she heard the truth about what had happened to Thomas. Sadly, she had a twisted view of the truth and for him to be absolved from blame and her own sanity she had to know what had occurred.
* * *
John didn’t get the chance to go to Oakdene that day. No sooner had Catherine left him than word reached him at Windsor that the King had been removed from the Isle of Wight and was on his way to London. He had been summoned to join the large escort.
* * *
Travelling away from Windsor, Catherine felt dead inside and she wondered if the pain in her heart would ever go away. Her mind ranged through the evocative memories left over from the days she had spent with John. Though sorely lacking experience in the realm of desire, instinct assured her the wanton yearnings gnawing at the pit of her being were nothing less than cravings that John had elicited with his mere presence. The night they had spent making love, he had known full well what he was doing to her and that he was capable of annihilating her will, her mind and her soul, and now she would hunger for ever for that same devastating ecstasy. But she would not allow herself to become caught up in a romantic dream. Her emotions were torn asunder and she could find no solace in the depths of her thoughts.
Resisting Her Enemy Lord Page 17