“What?” Aryn demanded, rising from his chair, taking Beth by the shoulders. “What?”
“Oh, Count Aryn, it is so…it couldn’t be!”
“What couldn’t be?” My God, the woman was going to make him insane!
“They were both Kate.”
“Both who, Beth? Speak to me, make sense of this now!”
She had stared at the flames, seeing nothing. Now suddenly, her eyes seemed to focus upon his. “Lord Gregory had a young Kate…and the Duke of Manning.”
“Beth, you’ve taken leave of your senses! She’s about to wed the Duke of Manning!”
“Not this Duke of Manning, my lord. He’s an upstart, as well you know. The title was given to his father when the last duke perished—with all his family—in a horrible fire. There’d been him, his wife, three children. The flames were so intense…there were, I believe, twelve corpses found, yet so horribly burned that…”
“Wait! Castle Manning has never burned—”
“Nay, it was another of the duke’s manor houses that burned to the ground. His summer home. There was talk at the time that perhaps the Rousseaus had managed to do something to the family since Rousseau was so quick to seek the title from the king—’twas King Henry II then—for services he had done him against the French king. Oh, my lord! The home that burned was quite near to the ancestral home of Lord Gregory! But they did spend most of their time at Castle Manning. In fact, the dear child was born there, brought up there!”
His eyes stared into hers, as fiercely wild as fire. “You think that—”
“Yes! One of the Duke of Manning’s children was a Kathryn, as well. A glorious little wee lass.”
“Kate,” he said. He glared at Beth. “By God, she does intend to marry him. She wants to do so. She is determined to get close to him. To kill him!”
“Sweet Jesu, what if she fails?” Beth asked.
* * *
She awoke to a great commotion in the courtyard below. When she came to the arrow slit to look out, she saw an older man down upon his knees, his head bowed.
Phillippe Rousseau was soundly beating him with the backside of his sword. “The beast shall have to be put down now because of your carelessness! The beast served me far better than you, my man. God! Begone from my sight before I forget I am a Christian lord and slit your throat!”
The old man tried to stagger up. He nearly made it to his feet, then he fell facedown into the dirt. A young girl, a beauty of perhaps fifteen, went hurrying to him.
Kate found herself watching Rousseau, watching his face. He smiled as he went to the girl, wrenching her up by her hair. “You haven’t the time, wench, to spill tears here!” His voice lowered, yet still carried up the castle walls. “You’ll serve me come this afternoon, or see him more wretchedly beaten. For now, you will see to the Lady Kate!”
He released her hair, all but throwing her back down.
The girl knelt by the old man. “Father, let me help you….”
Kate turned from the window, hurriedly washing and dressing. Within minutes she heard a knocking on her door. She opened it to find the lovely young blond girl. She bobbed to her quickly, dark eyes downcast. “My lady, I am May, here to serve as your woman.”
Kate caught her arm and drew her into the room. She immediately closed the door and stared at the girl, demanding, “Does that happen often?”
Startled, the girl stared at her. She lowered her head. “My lady, I don’t know what—”
“The duke nearly beat your father to death below and you do not know what I mean?”
When May stared back at her, her eyes were filled with tears. “I dare say naught against him—”
“You may say whatever you will here!” Kate assured her.
“It used to be worse!” May said suddenly. “When Phillippe’s father was alive. Then they both beat us. Now it is just Phillippe….”
“Don’t worry, I had occasion to meet the duke’s father, as well,” Kate told her. “I was delighted to hear he met a ghastly death.”
“On a boar hunt. He was skewered through.”
“His son was with him?”
“But I don’t think Phillippe suffered any from the experience,” May said. “In fact I think…”
“What?”
Tears again streamed down her face. “You’re to be his bride, his wife! What if you are but baiting me, seeking to bring to him all that I know and suspect?”
“May, May, poor creature! I would rather wed Satan himself, I swear it. Finish what you were saying.”
May wiped her face with the backs of her hands. “I think—I think that Phillippe somehow managed to see that his father was unhorsed and killed by the boar. He—he wanted the title and the riches for himself, you see. And he had learned all about cruelty from his father.”
“He learned it at a very young age,” Kate murmured. She inhaled deeply.
“If only God would…” May began.
“Aye?”
“See that Phillippe perished, as well.”
“Perhaps God needs earthly assistance.”
“You mean that you—”
“He is always surrounded by guards.”
“I know of a potion that can be slipped into his wine,” May said. “Oh, God, he would skin me alive….”
“Not you, me. You’ve only to bring me the potion.”
“Oh, God!”
“Will you do so?”
“Yes, yes! Oh, for the sake of Peter at the very least, yes!”
“Peter!” Kate exclaimed.
“Ah, my father, Peter, is head groom.”
Kate quickly looked down. Peter! The man to whom the Shadow had suggested she go.
“Will your father be all right?”
“Aye! Barely. Bruised black-and-blue about the whole of his body, he is! I’ll go now for the potion.”
On an impulse, Kate pulled off the ring the Shadow had given her. “Give this to your father for me. Tell him…tell him that he will not suffer long.”
* * *
Kate had the vial of poison in her pocket when she went to the chapel. She was down upon her knees, her hands folded in prayer.
She didn’t pray. She stared.
Thus far, the chapel had been used for but one burial, for those who had died previously had been interred in the crypts below.
But Jon Pierre Rousseau, father to Phillippe, lay within a glass coffin on the altar before her, his body gilded, forever in prayer.
The irony of her being here was such that she could not even ask God’s help in the murder she was about to commit. Not that she believed God would really help her commit murder, even against such a man as Rousseau. She knelt here because it gave her time.
Yet she suddenly knew she was not alone. Phillippe stood at the rear of the small nave, watching her. “Come, lady, cease your praying to dine with me.”
She rose on shaking knees, turned, smiled. “Aye, my lord. Do we dine alone?”
“In my rooms. Indeed, alone. We’ll pray together, if it’s your wish, that God grants us healthy sons.”
Stepping into his rooms swept her back in time. She could see her parents upon the huge, four-poster, elaborately draped bed. She could see her mother’s wildly flowing mane of hair, her soft white gown, her sweet smile when she welcomed her children to crawl into the massive bed and be hugged there. She could hear her father’s laughter, his rich voice resonating when he told them stories, spinning tales of faeries, goblins and the like.
“Wine, my dear?” Phillippe asked.
“Yes!” she gasped, then spun around. “Yes, definitely, my lord. Do let me serve you.”
She was almost blinded by tears as she reached the old oak table with its Middle Eastern decanters. She managed to place her back to him, slip the vial from her pocket, the poison into the wine.
She gave him his goblet.
“My lady!” he lifted his goblet to hers. “My bride!” he said. He took a sip of the wine, then set the goblet down, p
ulling her into his arms. His lips mashed down upon hers as he pressed her mercilessly close against him. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t seem to escape. His fingers were clawing into her bodice. At last she managed to wrench her mouth from his. “Tomorrow, my lord! Would you mar our marriage without the proper prayer before its consummation?”
“Tomorrow?” He swore angrily, releasing her. He picked up his goblet and she watched anxiously as he took a long swallow.
But then he paused, stared at the goblet, stared at her—and sent the goblet flying across the room to crash into the hearth. The fire burning there leapt with a hiss.
He turned on her. She backed away, her heart thundering. He stepped forward, digging his fingers into her hair, dragging her to him. “What are you doing, bitch?”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
He blinked, then blinked again. “I taste it, taste the poison! But I’ve not drunk enough, Kate, to die, and so you will rue your attempt at this murder!” His hand suddenly flew against her face with such force that she fell, almost numbed by the intensity of the pain. “Why?” he bellowed. He stepped on her hair, grinding it so that it pulled. He wrenched her to her feet, shaking her like a rag doll, then striking her again so that she fell.
She tasted her own blood. Dazed, she looked at him. “Because I am the Duchess of Manning, and you are a heinous murderer. Because I remember my mother’s screams. Because I had a sister and a brother.”
“What? What bloody trick is this? All perished within that fire—”
“Nay, Phillippe. You and your father plotted to kill and burn us all to cinders, but as she died, my mother thrust me from the house to the roof, and I rolled down to a hay cart. And lived. And when the hay caught fire, I ran. And so I have waited, all my life, to come close to you.”
He started to laugh. Then once again, he pulled her to her feet. “I should kill you right now. Throttle you with my bare hands. But that wouldn’t hurt you enough, would it? Nay, lady. You came to be my bride. You will be so.”
He threw open the door to his rooms, shouting for a servant. Sir Waylon, clanking down the hall, appeared.
“Bring the priest.”
“The priest?”
“The wedding will be now.”
“Now?”
“Are you deaf, old man? The wedding will be now. Here in this room! Bring the priest to me!”
He held Kate by an arm. “The wedding will take place and be consummated within ten minutes perhaps, Kate. Within half an hour, my sweet bride, I promise, you’ll wish that I had killed you.”
He wavered suddenly. His hold upon her barely loosened, but Kate knew she had very little hope. She surged the fullness of her weight against him and toppled him off-balance. He staggered and fell.
She ran.
She flew out the door and to the hallway, racing for the stairs.
By then he was up, bellowing to his servants. “Seize her! Seize the Lady Kate! She has tried to poison me!”
She started down the stairs. Armed men were already climbing up them. She cried out, turned and ran once more, tearing into the hallways of the castle.
Feet pounded behind her in pursuit.
CHAPTER NINE
There were men everywhere, she thought with dismay. Soon, they would corner her within one of the rooms.
Unseen, she ran into the second-floor solar and tore across it to the arrow slit. It appeared very narrow, she knew, but that was because of its length. She crawled into it, knowing there was a ledge that led to the parapets five feet below it.
There were voices in the room.
“Find her!”
“Seize her!”
She dropped down and crawled along the ledge. Soon she was able to drop to the parapet wall. Carefully, she crawled along it, until the walkway appeared below her. She shifted down to it, then cried out when she saw a man with sword in hand running up the wooden steps that led to the walkway. She turned to run again, certain that any second a sword would plunge into her back.
“Kate!”
She heard her name but didn’t pause.
“Kate!”
A gap, a break in the masonry, suddenly stretched before her. She stopped. It was that or plunge to her death. She looked back in fear.
A man was hurrying toward her. He was tall and dark, clad handsomely in maroon breeches, mail shirt and crimson tunic, the crest upon it a raging wolf with one paw raised.
“Oh, God!” she gasped.
“Kate, it’s all right. Come back to me.”
She flattened against the wall. She stared at the man.
“Aryn!” she cried.
“Aye. Come to me.”
She shook her head. “You may be one with them!” she whispered.
“Kate, it’s me!” he hissed. “The Shadow!”
“What? Oh, God, I don’t believe you—”
“Then stop, wait. My eyes, Kate! Look into my eyes. You told me once that you would know them anywhere! Trust me, Kate, I will protect you!”
She bit her lip, shaking. She turned, unable to do anything as he came toward her. A trembling filled her as he came nearer and nearer. And then she was looking into his eyes.
And she knew. Yes. She would have known those eyes anywhere. The eyes of the man she had come to love.
She gladly threw herself into his arms.
“How can you be here? They’ll kill you, they’ll—”
“I knew, Kate. Beth figured it out. And when I arrived, Peter had my ring.”
“They’ll still kill you, they’ll—”
“My men are here, as well. And we’ve a secret weapon.”
“It’s my word against his and he holds the place—”
“I tell you—”
Kate screamed as a sword suddenly slammed against the stonework. She slid, falling against the wall, shrieking as she grabbed for some hold.
Aryn saw her fall….
And saw the sword coming his way again. Phillippe, in a rage. He barely had time to raise his own weapon in defense, parrying the blow. They fought upon dangerous ground, narrow, crumbling masonry. He struck back, desperately searching for Kate as he did so.
“She’ll be my wife, she will, and you, bastard, traitor, will die!” Phillippe raged.
He raised his sword.
Aryn parried with a blow that sent Phillippe’s weapon flying. In the seconds it took Phillippe to retrieve it, Aryn made a desperate dive, catching Kate’s hands just when her fingers were losing their grip upon the stonework. He pulled her up, throwing her behind him.
“Stay there!” he commanded.
Even then, Phillippe was bellowing and racing upon them with his sword raised again. He missed Aryn with his deadly, shuddering blow, but caused the collapse of more of the stonework. Kate shrieked as she realized all of the wall was about to go.
Phillippe struggled to dig his sword from the masonry. He did so, turned and grinned. His macabre grin. The one he had given Kate as her house had burned.
He let out a roar and raised his sword high.
Yet he never lowered it. This time, Aryn’s sword found its mark within his enemy’s chest.
Phillippe Rousseau, still grinning, clutched his bloodied middle, fingers winding around the hilt of Aryn’s sword.
Then he pitched forward, tumbled over and over, falling to the ground….
He landed hard. Dust spewed up from the earth.
He died grinning his evil grin.
By then many men in armor had come running to the far section of the courtyard. The wall had crumbled all around Kate and Aryn. She clutched his hand, tears suddenly streaming down her face. “Oh, my God, you can’t understand how badly I wanted him dead…I was willing to die, but now I’ve dragged you into this, now you’ll die, as well….”
“Hush.” He squeezed her hand in return, then turned to her suddenly, kissing her lips. So tenderly.
“They’re watching us! You’ll have no chance, they’ll think us worse than murderers….�
��
“Trust me.”
“But—”
“You must trust me.”
“I—”
“You must!”
“I give you my word,” she whispered.
He smiled. She was able to study his face. Really study his face. With trembling fingers she touched it. Fine broad forehead and cheeks, firm chin. Those eyes she knew so well. Those full, firm, sometimes so very sensual lips…
“I trust you!” she whispered again.
“Then come down with me.”
“How?”
“Joshua!” he called.
She was startled to see one of the huge figures in armor coming forward.
“We need a ladder.”
Kate looked at him incredulously. In a matter of minutes, a ladder was against the wall. Aryn helped Kate down until Joshua lifted her from the bottom and soon they both stood in the courtyard. Kate stared around swiftly, uncertainly, afraid that at any second some knight was going to step forward and skewer them for Phillippe’s death.
She was stunned when Sir Waylon himself came forward and knelt before her. “My lady!”
“But—”
“No buts!” came a melodic, amused voice. “Sir Waylon has been made aware—as have we all—that you are the rightful Duchess of Manning.”
She would have fallen if Aryn hadn’t been behind her to hold her as the woman came forward.
She was tall, very straight and certainly old. But there was a beauty about her. Tremendous pride. She moved as gracefully as a girl. Her face was long and narrow and handsomely sculpted.
Kate inhaled.
“Eleanor?” she breathed.
“Aye, the queen. Dowager queen, to be exact, since poor Henry has quite expired,” the woman said, extending her hand. “Ah, but I’m still a woman with some power, since boys will be boys, and while mine who is king pays the price of his battles far away, the one who would be king tests his own strength here! Though I know that Johnny will be sad to hear that Phillippe has departed this earth—they did quite enjoy the same type of debauchery and games—he will be aware that justice has been served here today. My dear, the title that was so cruelly stolen from your family is hereby returned.”
“But—”
“I do believe I said no buts. Didn’t I, Count Aryn?”
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