Instead, he remained mostly silent, making Cait wonder at the effect of her words—and deeds—until he gave her one of his simple, intense looks of desire, which told her all she needed to know.
The men rode both ahead and behind them, leaving none to overhear their conversation. Torches from all around the abbey lit the sky ahead, a beautiful sight. Whitlock Abbey had once been a monastery. According to Conrad, it had been built more than five hundred years ago, and the Reverend Mother had been a friend to Licheford since before she served the Church.
“Sister Antonia will be told we are related. And that your chaperone took ill.”
Cait covered her mouth in mock horror.
“You intend to lie to a woman of God? For shame, my lord.”
Conrad scowled at her, or so she imagined. The waning moon offered little light to guide them. If not for the abbey, they’d have stopped long ago.
“Aye, and so will you. I’ll not have her looking at you as the countess did. You have nothing to be ashamed of, but as you say, judgements will be made despite it.”
“And yet, you can keep a mistress”—she’d been wanting to mention this before but had not found an appropriate time—“and none consider it shameful.”
This time, Conrad had no retort.
This time, they both knew she was no longer jesting.
“’Twas the way of it, aye,” he said finally. “Though I did tell her before I left.”
They slowed, approaching the arched stone gateway of the abbey.
“What did you tell her?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
Conrad slowed to a stop.
When the men behind them caught up, Conrad nodded for them to ride ahead. He did not speak until the sound of their horses’ hooves died down, leaving only the sounds of their horses’ breathing and her own heartbeat.
“I thought you had remained behind,” he finally said.
Not precisely an answer.
“What did you tell her?” she repeated.
He’d told her their relationship was over. That he would marry another.
Even then, Conrad had intended to make this Scotswoman his wife. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he’d meant to forgive her, to embrace her, before learning the truth of why she’d pushed him away.
“Lord Licheford,” one of the men called from the gates.
He would explain later.
Now, he needed to explain their situation to Sister Antonia to ensure they had beds for the night. Kicking his mount forward, Conrad joined the others, surprised to see the Reverend Mother herself standing at the door of the west range. He’d expected a cellarer to greet them at this hour. And she was not alone. A man had stepped up beside her.
Bishop Salerno?
Conrad didn’t hide his surprise. Dismounting, he quickly walked to Cait and assisted her down, noting her narrow-eyed look of displeasure.
As their horses were led to the stables, Conrad approached the abbey and greeted them both, Cait beside him.
“Your Grace. Reverend Mother,” he said with a bow, then stood. “Do you oft greet visitors here?” he asked, knowing the answer already.
He’d been here many times in the past with his father, so he knew the usual way of things.
“Only ones such as yourself.”
But how could she have known they were coming?
“I jest, Licheford,” she said with a small smile. “We were just walking the cloister when your men approached.”
She glanced at Cait then, and Conrad introduced her as his cousin. If either she or the bishop found it odd that Cait should be traveling with him, sans a chaperone, neither said a word.
“It seems you’ve embroiled yourself quite deeply in the king’s affairs?” the Reverend Mother asked.
Conrad was about to respond when the bishop interjected.
“While your guest settles for the evening,” he said to Conrad, “I would speak with you privately.” He pointed to the covered walkway, which was lined at intervals with several glowing lanterns. The cost of keeping them lit, likely every eve, must be staggering.
Conrad nodded, trying not to smile at Cait’s foiled plans. For an innocent, she was surprisingly bold, and though he very much enjoyed every moment they were together, he feared each night may be the one he dishonored her. Conrad had thought the bond of friendship he’d forged with Terric, Lance, and Guy to be stronger than any other.
He loved those men above all others.
Until Cait.
He wanted to know her. All of her. The idea of it consumed his every waking thought, even in the midst of his present mission. Even now, as one of the most powerful men in the Church was asking to speak with him.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
He took one final glance at Cait, confident she would be taken care of, and fell in step with one of the most important supporters of their cause.
“I am surprised to find you here,” Conrad said, glancing at his companion in the dim light.
“Are you?”
An intelligent man, one whose history with the king was as long and storied as his own, shoved his hands together beneath the long sleeves of his robes.
“So close to London,” he speculated. “And so far from St. Christopher’s.”
“’Tis not an accident, Licheford.”
“I was once Conrad to you.”
Bishop Salerno stopped, and Conrad did the same.
“You are no young knight any longer. Nor are you just the son of a well-respected man. You are the leader of a rebellion against the Crown, an earl in your own right, and so Lord Licheford will do nicely, I believe. As such, you must also excuse the bluntness of what I am about to say.”
This man had given the order enough coin to send a mercenary army back to France. One that could have, would have, fought for the king. Without him, their cause would have been lost last year.
So aye, Conrad would hold his gaze and listen to him with as much respect as he would have given his own father.
“I came to the same conclusion as you, which is why I am here, in the south. We’ve few enough resources to overcome John’s supporters one by one. But if you take London peaceably, showing him popular support is with us, I believe he will be forced to negotiate.”
So far, his words were not cause for concern. It was the very conclusion they had reached at Licheford, and the reason he was on his current mission. But the bishop knew all of that already. He was the kind of man who knew things before they happened.
“Aye,” he agreed.
“If you fail in London, the rebellion is over.”
“Perhaps. Taking London would certainly be preferable. Though we lost the support of Lennox with the earl’s death, Lindemere is sending men instead.”
Understandably, Bishop Salerno’s eyes widened.
“With his connection to France, the possibility of Louis’s support . . . we should be in good standing. All twenty barons remain at the ready, thanks to Kennaugh’s victory at Dromsley. He has sent men to London, along with Stanton and Noreham.”
“I do not doubt you have the men necessary to claim victory.”
John had no mercenary armies, and he’d lost crucial support from his barons over the winter months. Even now, he continued to increase taxes, something that angered men on both sides of the divide. Aye, it would be easier to bring about negotiations with John’s treasured London under their control, but if that failed . . .
“You asked for my help once.”
Conrad was well aware of it.
“And you gave it. For that, we are grateful.”
“And why, exactly, did you come to me?”
He was confused. “We had not the funds to bribe Bande de Valeur to return to France. To convince them not to fight for John.”
“Think on it, Licheford. You came to me because . . .”
“The Church has more money, more influence, than even the king himself.”
He knew something. Salerno kn
ew something Conrad did not.
“Guala Bicchieri is in England.”
Conrad startled. “The pope’s nuncio?”
“Aye, and his papal legate as well.”
A chill crept up his back, and suddenly it felt like the inky darkness of night was closing in on them, even cloistered as they were in their well-lit pathway. This did not bode well.
“He moves quickly in the king’s interest on behalf of the pope.”
Conrad nearly cursed, catching himself at the last moment.
The pope only supported King John because he’d pledged himself to crusade. He manipulated Rome as surely as he did his own people.
“Already word spreads. It’s said he intends to punish English clerics who support the rebellion, to remove them from their positions.”
This was not welcome news. Conrad did not need to be told what would happen if Bicchieri were successful. Threatened in such a way, they would lose support from the Church.
“A few of us will stand against him still, but most”—Salerno frowned—“will not.”
Conrad could feel his face getting warm, his hands forming fists at his sides. This would undo everything they had fought for. It might very well end the rebellion.
Taking a deep breath, reminding himself of how little his anger would accomplish, Conrad released his fingers from their firm grasp. He thought of the men likely already camped outside the city’s walls. Of each of the pieces they’d put in place. And of their cause itself.
It was right. And just. And must prevail.
“It appears, Your Grace, that we must take London,” he said, repeating Salerno’s words. “And soon.”
The bishop nodded. “May God be with you.”
Conrad hoped he was, for luck certainly did not appear to be.
Chapter 23
Cait had planned to seek Conrad out, abbey or not, but by the time she was shown to her small stone bedchamber, she was eager to sit. To rest. She would undress, brush her hair, and prepare properly for bed. But first, just a wee rest.
When she awoke, it was to knocking at her door. The chamber she’d been given had neither a hearth nor windows, so when she saw Conrad there, it took her a moment to realize he was prepared for the day.
“What hour is it?” she asked, her backside still sore, a yawn escaping.
“Nearly sunrise.”
It could not be.
“I . . . slept through the night?”
His eyes traveled up and down her person, giving Cait very unholy thoughts. A bell rang out just then, for vigils most likely.
“You did, my lady.”
He seemed amused.
“And your wicked plans were foiled.”
“Wicked?” She pretended to gasp. “I am the innocent here, if you will remember.”
Though what he’d done to her the other night was anything but innocent. A wicked vision popped into her thoughts of Conrad’s eyes looking up at her from between her legs.
“Do not”—Conrad backed away as if she were a fire and he were afraid of a wee burn—“look at me that way. Not now.”
Two of his men appeared just behind Conrad. “’Twill be easy for you to ready yourself,” Conrad teased, gesturing to the clothes she’d slept in. “We shall meet below when you are ready. The horses have already been prepared.”
That surprised her. “We will not break our fast here?”
It was then she noticed—Conrad looked worried.
“Something is amiss?”
Rather than answer her, Conrad bowed and backed away, joining his men. “I will explain on the road.”
And then he was gone.
Cait stood at the door, willing him to come back. Even in her sleep she’d missed the familiar warmth of him. Already, she’d grown to rely on it. He had quickly become a part of her life Cait could not imagine living without.
As she prepared, Cait remembered the emptiness, the intense loneliness she’d felt after deciding not to continue their correspondence. After deciding she should free Conrad from his obligation to write her. If her mother had not pressed her to marry Colin, she’d not be here now.
Rushing outside to join him, Cait watched as he bid farewell to the bishop who had pulled him away last eve. He must be the cause of Conrad’s concern. What had he told him? And where was the abbess? At vigils, most likely.
“Until we meet again, my lady.”
Though she’d hardly spoken to the man, Bishop Salerno looked at her as if he knew her, as if he could see all the way down into her soul. Cait tried not to squirm under his scrutiny.
“You should marry,” he said to her then.
So, Conrad had told him the truth?
“I . . .” Cait hardly knew what to say.
“Your Grace?”
The bishop gave Conrad his attention.
“’Tis unseemly to travel with an unmarried maid.” Despite his words, the bishop did not sound judgmental. It was a statement of fact, and one they all knew to be true.
“Who are you?” he asked her.
Cait’s pulse raced, but when Conrad nodded, she relaxed. The thought of directly lying to a man of God . . .
“I am Cait Kennaugh, sister to the chief of Clan Kennaugh and Earl of Dromsley.”
If he was surprised, the bishop did not show it.
“How did you come to be with these men on such a dangerous mission?”
Again, Conrad nodded.
Her face beginning to flush, Cait searched for words that would not incriminate her. Failing to find any explanation save the truth, she said, “I’ve known the earl for many years through Terric. When he set out for London, I followed him. To convince him that we should marry.”
Even that did not manage to shock the bishop.
“I could perform such a ceremony here. This morn.”
“Aye!”
“Nay.”
She and Conrad spoke at once. His objection, however, was even more adamant than her assent. Both she and the bishop turned toward him.
“We have no time, as well you know. Rest assured, Cait Kennaugh will become my wife, but not without her brother’s permission. But I thank you for praying for both of our souls and for the assistance you’ve given our cause.” His voice firm, Conrad left no opening for either her or the bishop to argue.
Perhaps he really did not wish to marry her. He claimed he’d forgiven her, but Conrad’s actions indicated otherwise. As he shook hands with the bishop, who gave her a polite nod in parting, Conrad had an expression she’d seen on Terric’s face all too often.
His decision had been made, and he would not be swayed.
She mounted with Conrad’s assistance but said nothing as they rode out of the abbey’s courtyard. In fact, she said nothing for some time.
Cait could feel Conrad’s gaze, though she refused to look at him to confirm it.
“The pope’s nuncio is here in England to quash our rebellion.”
She kept her gaze straight ahead.
“Bishop Salerno believes if we are not successful in London, we will have lost our chance to bring the king to heel. And I concur. Taking the city, showing John we have the majority’s support, is our last move.”
Cait knew she was being silly.
Of course they should not marry without speaking to Terric first. Besides which, Conrad had plenty of other issues on his mind. He was the leader of a rebellion against a king—one that was very much underway.
And yet she was still angry.
“Cait?”
She intended to tell him it was nothing, that she was merely tired, yet the angry part of her insisted otherwise. “You keep dismissing me out of hand. First in front of the countess, and again with the bishop.”
“I am trying to protect you. To preserve your honor.”
Cait made a sound that was distinctly unladylike. “Well, well. I thank you, my lord, for your steadfast support of my honor.”
If she were being unreasonable, then so be it. She had no wish to discu
ss the matter with him further. Conrad must have realized it since he stopped attempting to get her to speak to him.
It was the longest morning yet. A steep incline coupled with gray skies that eventually opened just enough to dampen them, the weather making Cait’s foul mood even worse. By the time they stopped for a midday meal, she was already sore, wet, and confused. Yesterday, she’d spent the day attempting to break down Conrad’s final barriers. Today, she was more interested in sulking.
When Ansel produced bread, presumably from the abbey, she accepted it only because Cait knew she needed to eat. Even though the loaf had been freshly baked, it tasted like ash in her mouth.
It helped not at all that Conrad appeared completely unaffected by the current circumstances. Sitting as tall and proud as ever, the silver threads of his surcoat gleaming, he sat across from her on a flat rock, speaking to the men and not even glancing her way.
Which was just as well. She did not care if he failed to notice her. It was what she
wanted, was it not? He had more important matters to attend to than her, so let him do it. She would sit here content to eat her bread in soggy silence.
Chapter 24
By the time they arrived at the Hart and Hound Inn, Conrad’s mood was more foul than the innkeeper’s breath. The drizzle that had begun the moment they’d ridden out that morn had yet to stop, as long-lasting as Cait’s silence, and he could not shake the thought that the others had all likely arrived in London. He wanted nothing more than dry clothes, a mug of ale, and a meal.
Perhaps there was one thing he wanted more, but she was presently still ignoring him. He’d tried twice since that morn to engage her, but Cait seemed content to speak to every one of his men except him.
Married.
Did she really think Terric would allow him to live if they arrived in London as husband and wife? Guy may have found his bride at one abbey and wed her at the next, but Conrad could not do the same. Not when his bride’s brother was the man who’d once knocked down so many men in a melee he’d been declared “the Scot,” as if he were the only one that counted at the tournament.
The Earl: Order of the Broken Blade: Book 4 Page 11