Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

Yet another thing to consider – when my cat years were up, would the cat part of me die, and the woman part carry on, free of its feline burden? Hope flared. The spell may very well wear off at the point where the cat should die.

  I had to ask Herleva. I had to know, one way or the other. There was a risk she would lie to me, and I would be none the wiser, but I had to ask nevertheless.

  I did not want to slink back to her on all fours and suffer the indignity of her watching me squirm and writhe in pain. I wanted to return as a woman. Would the magic work without her to command it?

  I crept out from the undergrowth and found a patch relatively clear of brambles and low-growing shrubs, for there would be enough to put up with without becoming a woman and finding myself in the middle of a briar patch. Sitting on my haunches, I waited expectantly for something to happen.

  And waited.

  Nothing.

  Not even a twinge to tell me the change was coming.

  Herleva said I needed to practice transforming from one to the other, which must mean I had the ability to do so on my own, without a command from her. I waited some more, trying to ignore the sounds and smells all around.

  A squirrel chattered high above, and the sharp aroma of mouse wafted on the breeze, too far away to bother stalking.

  Concentrate, Caitlyn.

  The shrill call of a hunting eagle raised the hairs on my back, an instinctive reaction to another predator. Cat claws and teeth were no match for a bird of its size. It would literally eat me for supper. I crouched low, flattening myself against the ground, not daring to breathe. It was unlikely he could see me through the canopy, but instinct proved to be more powerful than common sense, and I remained motionless for a long time after his calls faded into the distance.

  And still I waited, sending thoughts deep into myself.

  I want to be a woman, I want to be a woman. I visualised myself with hands and feet, with smooth skin, standing on two legs not four. I pretended my shape was changing, elongating and growing, so desperate to be me again that it hurt.

  Ah, the hurt was real. The change was coming, finally. For the first time I rejoiced in it, even as the agony burned me with brimstone and hellfire. The caterpillar would become a butterfly once more.

  The squeal was so loud and so close, I shot at least three feet into the air, twisting violently to land facing the other direction, coming down hard on hands and knees. The cat was gone and in its place was Caitlyn, with sore knees and a thumping heart.

  I had not heard the sow approach, and my reaction had been purely cat. How could that be? The change had been complete when the pig startled me. Could I have brought some of cat into Caitlyn, or was the feline a part of me now, never to be separated?

  The sow snuffled and grunted, nosing through the dead leaves, and rooting through the earth with her snout. She peered at me out of one little piggy eye, paying me no more heed than a lone woman on her hands and knees in the dirt warranted. We ignored each other, and after much noise she moved off.

  Well done, missy. Herleva’s satisfied chuckle vibrated through the clearing.

  Damn and blast, could I not escape this woman even for one moment! It galled me that she had viewed something I wished to keep private. I looked around, expecting to see her eyes.

  She was gone.

  When I stomped into the kitchen, Herleva was standing at the slab of wood she called a butcher’s block, chopping wild garlic.

  ‘Ask your question,’ she said.

  ‘I have many,’ I replied, hands on hips and chin thrust out in a show of annoyance.

  ‘No, you don’t. There is only one question which really matters to you.’

  She was right.

  ‘Will I age as a woman, or as a cat? Can I expect to die in seven years, or thirty-seven?’ I asked.

  ‘Neither,’ she said, wiping her hands on a rag. The aroma of garlic filled the air. ‘You will not age, in either form.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘You will not grow old. Ever. You will never change, but will remain as you are for the rest of time.’

  Chapter 23

  Herleva’s words were shocking. What did she mean, “you will not grow old”? Of course, I will grow old – everyone does. Unless they died before they reached old age from illness, or accident, or murder.

  ‘I do not understand,’ I repeated.

  Herleva shook her head at my stupidity. ‘The spell holds you exactly as you are. It is as if time itself is halted. You will not age, you will not change in any way, you will not get with child. As you are now, so you will always be.’

  ‘I am barren,’ I said, focusing on the only words to register. The old hurt of being forever childless rose up to pinch my heart with nasty, hard fingers.

  ‘I am aware of that, but even if you were not, the spell will not allow you to breed,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ My thoughts could not move past the emptiness of never being a mother. I had thought those feelings were deeply buried – clearly not. What a time for them to rise to the surface, when I had larger problems to face.

  Herleva shrugged. ‘What would you give birth to – a baby or kittens? Maybe they would be half cat and half human. I would pay good money to see such a thing. Imagine the power such a being would hold.’

  Oh! Ugh. The thought filled me with horror. Babies with fur and tails, a cat’s body with a child’s head, a babe with paws for arms and legs?

  I prayed she was not seriously considering finding a way to make it happen.

  My shudder of revulsion was followed by a more palatable thought – if I do not age whilst under the spell, when the enchantment was finally broken I would still be only twenty-three and could carry on with my life. All I had to do was to wait for Herleva to die, however long it took. If she lived another thirty years, it would make little difference to me at the end of it. I would still be a young woman. I would not be wasting my life away as a cat.

  I doubted she would last ten years, let alone thirty. She was old and I recalled her pallor, the chills, and the hand she pressed to her side. She was ill, I surmised, and may not have long. I prayed she did not. The less time I spent under her spell, the happier I would be.

  Arlette slammed open the door, and I jumped, my mind still filled with dark images, an uncertain future, and the hope of Herleva’s early demise.

  She skipped in and planted a kiss on Herleva’s pale cheek. Was it my imagination or did the skin on the older woman’s face look more drawn and pallid than a week ago? Herleva nodded at her apprentice. She did not let on, but I could tell she was pleased with the show of affection

  ‘The Duke’s standard is flying,’ Arlette said with a wide smile. ‘He has arrived at Falaise.’

  She did a twirl, her skirts billowing out around her legs, clapping her hands with excitement. Sometimes I forgot she was still a girl, barely fifteen. She had a woman’s body, plump, and firm, and rounded, but the mind it housed was still young and unsullied by the cares of adulthood. Childbearing and marriage had yet to take its toll, and despite all her knowledge of the black arts, she still saw life as being full of colour and possibility.

  Once Herleva had planted the Robert-seed in the younger woman’s mind, it soon took hold and was now growing with all the vigour and enthusiasm of a bramble. Arlette had been unable to speak of anything else; Duke Robert this, Duke Robert that, and she had yet to set eyes on the man, let alone meet him. How did she intend to put a love hex on him, anyway? Did he have to drink one of Herleva’s disgusting magic potions, or would the pair of them dance naked around the old yew tree in the graveyard under the light of the full moon? Or would another innocent have to die to bring a spell to life?

  ‘Good,’ Herleva said. ‘We can begin. Let me consult my books and I will call you when I have found just the right enchantment.’

  We watched Herleva leave. It might be my wishful thinking, but I could have sworn she was more stooped than previously. One hand clutched the shawl to her bony
chest, the other was hidden underneath the wool. I crossed my fingers in the vain hope she had it pressed into her side to ease a pain or two. Whatever troubled her, I was certain it was not her knee.

  ‘He is so handsome,’ Arlette said, pulling out a chair and dropping into it with a dreamy sigh.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ She may have caught a glimpse as he rode through the town to his castle. I was curious, too.

  ‘No, but everyone says he is.’

  ‘I bet he has a hunchback and a crooked nose.’ I was only half-teasing. ‘Will you still want him then?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was emphatic. ‘It is his crown I want, not him, though if he is as handsome as they say he is, I will not be disappointed. I would prefer a good-looking man to a gargoyle, but I care not what he looks like as long as he can give me what I crave.’

  ‘A crown.’

  She nodded. Her ambition impressed me. This girl thought nothing was beyond her, no climb up the social ladder too high, no position beyond her reach. With Herleva’s dark arts behind her and her own growing abilities, she might well be right. But it was one thing bespelling one man, quite another to bespell everyone around him. She might impress many with her beauty and feminine ways, but she could not possibly hope to enchant them all.

  ‘You will face the same objections regarding a marriage to him as you would to a marriage to Edward,’ I said. ‘More probably, for the Duke already has a throne and Edward does not. His advisors, earls, and barons will not accept a common tanner’s daughter and Alfred’s cast-off to boot.’

  My words were harsh but true, and she needed to hear them, however much she scowled.

  ‘I am still intact,’ she said, with a raised chin and a haughty tone. ‘The Duke’s men will have no cause to spurn me in that regard. I am not so stupid as to spread my thighs before the marriage vows are sworn. Though I did enjoy the teasing.’

  She blushed with remembered pleasure. She might still be a virgin, but I was certain she knew most of the joys of the bedchamber.

  ‘Where are the English princes?’ I asked

  She shrugged. ‘I know not.’

  And she cared not, that was plain, now she had her eyes firmly fixed on another target.

  ‘Will Alfred not pine for you? You took the trouble to ensorcel him, and now his love is unrequited.’ I felt quite sorry for the prince. He had done nothing to deserve such a one as Arlette.

  ‘He will fall out of love with me once the spell wears off,’ she said, examining the tips of her long tresses. ‘I will ask Herleva to snip off the ends of my hair. It is becoming unruly. Just an inch to thicken it.’

  ‘It is not permanent?’

  ‘The love spell? Good grief, no. It has to be renewed at every full moon. How do you think a witch puts food on the table?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Most lesser witches sell spells, incantations, love potions, and the like. A girl buys a potion, sees it works when the object of her desire returns her love, then as the spell’s power diminishes and his attention wanders, so she returns to the witch to purchase another, and another, and so on, until she makes him say his vows in church and she has a babe in her belly. Once she has caught him, she has no more use for the spell, for what has love got to do with wedlock?’ She sent me a coy look from under her lashes. ‘I intend to keep Lord Robert in love with me forever.’

  How cynical for one so young, but Arlette had the advantage of being able to bespell the duke for ever and a day, if she so wished. Her union with him would go so much better for her if he continued to love her throughout it, and I did not envisage her tolerating any roaming eye on his part.

  But first she had to snare him.

  ‘How did you ensorcel Alfred?’ I asked. Maybe the same method would work on the duke?

  ‘Easily. He likes women too much for his own good, that one does. Was always in town looking for a willing bit of skirt.’

  ‘And he found you?’

  ‘I found him. Though I was only willing enough to let him kiss me and slip his hand inside my bodice, whilst I sliced a lock of hair from his head. That is all it took.’

  ‘A lock of hair?’

  ‘Any part will do: hair, nail clippings, blood. A man’s seed is the most potent. If that can be obtained, any spell it contains will be twice as powerful. That is what I need you to do.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Surely I misheard her.

  ‘I need the Duke of Normandy’s seed.’

  ‘And you want me to get it? How?’

  ‘You have feminine wiles – use them.’

  Chapter 24

  Easier said than done, Arlette. The only way to obtain a man’s seed was to bed him, and then what? I could hardly ask him to wait at the crucial moment whilst I aimed his excitement into a bowl. Besides, the likelihood was that his manhood would be planted firmly inside me at the moment of release. Did Arlette intend to suck out what he deposited, with a pair of bellows? Then there was the little matter of persuading the Duke of Normandy to rut with one such as me.

  Though I was far from ugly, I was no great beauty to inflame his lust the moment he set eyes on me. Arlette was more suited to that particular method, though I could see her point of not opening her legs until she possessed a husband. Why would Lord Robert want to buy the cow if he could get the milk for free?

  These thoughts, and many more, trundled in circles around my head like a donkey working the grinding stone, treading the same path until I was weary to the bone, and I had yet to set foot in the castle.

  The massive square keep was not in the centre of the curtain wall, as Wulfstan’s had been, but was built on the furthest edge of the bluff, at the steepest point. From the L’Ante River it rose hundreds of feet into the air, blending into the rock so it was impossible to tell which was natural and which was man-built. The river had carved a channel around the bluff, the stone too hard to wear down, leaving a swollen knuckle of earth protruding into the air. It was on this highest part that the keep had been constructed, the curtain walls fanning out from either side like the wings of a massive cormorant. I would have to ford the L’Ante and wend my way through the town to reach the wooden bridge and the gatehouse it guarded.

  I sat on the river bank, watching the various comings and goings, pondering my task. The gates would prove easy enough. They might be guarded but there was no restriction to people entering or leaving. I had witnessed an occasional man being stopped and questioned, but most folk were allowed free access. It might be a different tale in time of war, but Normandy was holding an uneasy peace with her neighbours, and trade was essential.

  With a sigh, I got to my feet. Delay would not make this any easier. I may as well get on with it.

  It was mid-morning and the castle was busier than a hive of bees, with merchants and servants to-ing and fro-ing. I had never seen it so alive, and put it down to the return of its master. The Duke’s pennant fluttered from the highest turret, a red background with two golden lions, one above the other. I caught a whiff of the excitement of the townsfolk. Having the Duke himself in residence could only be good for business. Not one to waste an opportunity, Fulbert had hurried off to the shed where the finished hides hung, no doubt hoping his leather would be in demand for new boots, belts, bridles, and so forth. He had muttered something about boiled leather jerkins as he sped out the door. Only the very rich could afford to wear metal plate about their persons, and the common soldiers the Duke had brought with him would need their own protection from swords and arrow-tips.

  Craning my neck to see the top of the gatehouse, I almost toppled backwards.

  ‘Watch it!’ a man hefting a basket of vegetables on his shoulder shouted, as I elbowed him in the chest, striving to keep my balance.

  ‘Beg pardon,’ I said.

  ‘The kitchens are over there.’ He pointed to the left as the flow of people carried us through the archway and spat us out on the other side.

  He had taken me for a scullery maid or some such servant. I ignored him, more
interested in what lay ahead. The keep itself, with only the uppermost reaches visible above the rooftops of the many buildings inside the curtain wall, was my goal. But first I had to negotiate the bailey. The inside of the fortress proved to be larger than the whole of the town of Falaise itself. A self-sufficient citadel, it housed a church, grander than any I had ever seen, its bells silent for the present in their pointed spire, a smithy, stables, bakery (the smell of loaves baking set my mouth to watering), what I could only surmise to be the great hall from the size of it, a brewery, and numerous other buildings, whose purposes I could only guess at.

  No one stopped me, no one questioned my right to be inside those walls, nor my reason for being there. My progress was not halted until I reached the keep itself. This was going to be harder than I had hoped. The keep was not inside the main curtain wall. It could only be reached by traversing a narrow causeway which led to another gatehouse, and another wooden bridge over a deep fissure in the bluff and yet a third gatehouse.

  ‘You’ll not get to the donjon, love. Not unless you’re wearing the duke’s colours.’

  I turned to look at the woman who had spoken. Dressed in coarse wool, much like my own clothes, she was about my age, with an infant on the one hip and a covered basket on the other.

  ‘We’d all like to catch a glimpse of him, hen,’ she continued. ‘If you wait, he might show himself on the battlements. He likes to inspect them of a morning.’ She glanced up at the sun. ‘It might be a bit late now, though. I’m usually earlier myself, only this one,’ she jiggled the babe, ‘was poorly.’

  ‘Donjon?’ I asked, unfamiliar with the word.

  She pointed at the tower. ‘The stronghold, the keep. Not from these parts, are you?’ She gave me a suspicious look.

  ‘I am from Wales, Pays de Galles,’ I added, giving my country its French name.

  ‘Ah, oui. I have heard of it. For a moment I thought you were English.’

  Like the Welsh, the Normans had little love for the folk across the sea.

  ‘The duke seems to like them,’ I said, as she put her basket on the floor to check the infant’s clouts.