‘Why had I not been informed sooner?’ she demanded.
‘Because Herleva did not want you to be.’
‘You should have told me anyway.’
‘Have you forgotten?’ I held my sarcasm in check with the greatest of difficulty. ‘What Herleva commands I am obliged to do. She did not want you to know.’
‘Why?’ It came out a forlorn wail. ‘I thought she cared for me.’
‘I can still hear.’ Herleva’s voice was barely audible. I was surprised to hear it at all. I thought she had spoken her last when she instructed me to send for Arlette.
‘Come closer,’ she mouthed.
Arlette glanced at me, as if seeking permission. I nodded and she stepped to Herleva’s bedside with a strange reluctance. For someone who used to play an active part in the last service for the dead – the wealthy dead, those whose families could afford the embalmer’s fee – Arlette was oddly fearful.
As was I, if truth be told. I suspected Herleva’s demise to be more than a last rattling sigh and the light fading from her eyes. Would the devil himself come to claim one of his own?
‘I saw it,’ Herleva said, so low I had to strain to hear.
‘Saw what, Mother?’
The old woman’s rheumy eyes filled with tears. ‘You have not often called me Mother.’
Arlette took her bony hand. ‘Then I was remiss. I should have. You have been as much a mother to me as the one who birthed me. More, perhaps.’
‘You felt like my own child. We are so alike you and I, and I did not want to worry you. I saw my death in the waters of the skull many years ago and nothing you could have done or not done, changed my fate.’
Herleva’s bosom heaved with each hard-fought breath. Tight lines around her mouth betrayed her pain. I had offered her a sleeping-draught earlier, but she had refused, wanting to be conscious to the very end. I had made willow bark tea instead, under her instruction. I do not think it took even the slightest edge off her agony.
Pity, hard and sharp, ripped me with an unexpected claw. Just over a year ago Herleva had been a strong and vibrant woman. Now she was nothing more than a pile of skin and bones under the bedclothes, waiting to die. Death was a fine leveller of men and women alike, and it was never pretty.
I will give her some due, though – she faced her death with dignity and calm acceptance, no railing at the unfairness of it, no fear at what lay beyond. I would not put it past her if she already knew. My guess was Satan and Hell, and I thought she might go to her dark lord with joy in her heart.
Sadness lay under my pity, like water under oil. Watching someone die is never pleasant. I thought back to Idris; even his death, caused by my own hand and so well-deserved, had been tinged with sorrow. Sorrow that events had led me to kill him, sorrow that he had betrayed his lord, sorrow that in another life I might have come to love him.
My sorrow for Herleva was twisted and bent, stunted like a wind-blasted tree, for beneath the sadness and pity, lay a thick sediment of hope. Only her death would free me, and it could not come quick enough.
Tears coursed down Arlette’s pale cheeks, and I looked away, not wanting to get drawn into her grief.
‘What will I do without you?’ she whispered.
‘You will prosper and flourish. I have seen it.’
‘But I do not want it without you!’
‘Hush, child. You have no choice.’ Herleva’s other hand lifted an inch off the coverlet, as if she wanted to stroke her daughter’s cheek. ‘Nothing can change what is written. One life given, another snuffed out. It is the bargain I made.’
‘One life? What-?’ Arlette snatched her hand back. ‘You knew this would happen?’
‘I told you I foresaw it.’
‘Foreseeing is a far cry from making a bargain!’ Arlette’s fury sparked and caught fire. ‘You bargained your own life to give my son his?’
‘Not as such, no.’ It was becoming harder for Herleva to breathe, and as she gasped for air and strength, her words stuttered and slurred.
‘Then, what?’ Arlette demanded.
‘I was destined to die once your first-born entered the world.’
‘So you could have prevented it? Is that what you are saying? It is my fault?’
Trust Arlette to make this all about her. I knew it was grief talking, but still…
‘Not your fault, not my fault. No one’s fault, not even the cat’s.’ Herleva’s weak cackle boiled my blood; I remembered why I hated her, and why she deserved to die.
‘You have to take your chance when it is offered,’ Herleva said. ‘The gods do not offer again. I knew my fate when I helped you ensnare your duke. It had to be done, so I did it.’ She took a deep breath then let it out in a rush. ‘You will be the mother of kings. Rejoice in it. Your son will be great, and I helped make him. I am content.’
Herleva closed her eyes. I knew they would not open again on this side of the veil. We watched, Arlette on her knees beside the bed holding Herleva’s hand, me counting heartbeats, praying the next one would see the old woman draw her final breath.
I hardened my heart, binding it in iron bands of remembered hurts as we sat vigil, waiting for her to die, Arlette with fear, grief and trepidation; me with hope, and eagerness – the sooner the old witch died, the sooner I would be free. Shame pricked at me but self-preservation and hatred overrode conscience. I could almost taste my freedom. No more Cat, only Caitlyn.
My life and Herleva’s had been bound together for so long and so intricately, I found it difficult to recall a time when she had not been in it. The first hint of her existence had come when I knelt in the little chapel at Llandarog preparing the pieces of my husband for his burial. She said she had been aware of me before then. Had she watched me when I was in my cradle, waiting for the time to ripen to call to me? How had she found me?
So many questions, and no time left to ask them, and even if there had been, would the answers help, would they make any difference? I suspected not. There seemed to be an inevitability to it all, as if our fates were written long before any of us were born, and we had come together, the three of us, like some diabolical triumvirate, in order to make a king.
I hoped the little bastard duke-in-waiting would be worth the effort.
Herleva took another breath, and another. Her eyelids fluttered. Maybe she was dreaming, or maybe the nearness to the other side showed her things yet to pass. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Another breath.
Her chest settled and did not rise again.
Arlette let out a wail and set to sobbing, rubbing Herleva’s skeletal hand as if she could instil life back into it.
I stared and stared. Had she really gone? Was the witch dead? I would not put it past her to play a trick on me, for her own amusement and my torture. But maybe not – she would not let Arlette suffer.
Herleva really was dead.
I expected to feel different, somehow. I expected to feel the cat leaving me. I felt sure I would feel something, anything, to signify my altered state.
Arlette got slowly to her feet, swiping at the wetness on her cheeks. Her crying reduced to hiccupping sobs and she remembered who she was. Ignoring me, she strode to the door, with her head high, grief etched clearly on her beautiful face.
‘Father?’ she called.
Fulbert appeared, full of health and life, bringing with him the smell of the alehouse. We each mourn in our own way, I thought, sarcastically. He seemed to have found solace in the bottom of a tankard.
‘It is done. Your wife has breathed her last,’ Arlette announced.
‘Oh.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
Fulbert shook his head. ‘If I say anything else will it make her any less dead?’
I studied him. He appeared taller, more confident. Then I realised what it was – the fear had left him. I was not the only one who was free, it seemed.
‘She is to be buried in the castle church,’ Arlette said.
‘Will
Duke Robert allow it?’
‘He will.’ Her confidence astonished him – his eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. Even I knew that burial in that particular church was for the nobility, and not the wife of a tanner.
‘She must be embalmed, and I want her dressed in the gown I will provide,’ Arlette instructed.
‘You forget, she was the embalmer, not I.’
‘Send for another. Caen will surely have one. Use the excuse that you cannot bring yourself to work on your own wife’s body.’
Her assurance and confidence sealed the matter and Fulbert did not argue. Why would he? He had done remarkably well for himself since his daughter had become the duke’s mistress. He still had the tanning business, employing a man he trusted to run it, though the embalming side of things had ceased as soon as Arlette had jumped into the duke’s bed. Herleva, as the step-mother of the most influential woman in Normandy, was no longer prepared to have her arms elbow-deep inside a corpse, and Fulbert did not have the skills nor the inclination. The wealthy had been forced to send their dead elsewhere for the past year.
Fulbert shrugged and turned to leave. Not once had he set his gaze on his wife’s body.
‘Father.’
He stopped, his back to his daughter. I heard it too. The word reverberated around the room, filled with power and command.
Arlette was finding her feet, filling the old woman’s boots, trying them on for size and liking the fit.
When he turned to face her, Fulbert’s fear was back. He knew her for what she was, and it dismayed him. The witch is dead, long live the witch. He shot me a glance, as if I could be of any help. I could not and even if I could, I did not intend to. Soon I would be across the sea and back on Welsh soil where I belonged. I wished him joy of his daughter. Arlette was his problem now, not mine.
Damn, I had left it too late to sneak away whilst Arlette was in the throes of misery. She shifted her attention away from her father and onto me.
‘You will come to the castle,’ she said. ‘I charge you with the task of keeping my son safe. You will not leave his side, you will give your life and soul to protect him.’
What was she going to do, tell her guards to hold me? Maybe, but I knew too much. Was she prepared to take the risk I might talk? I hoped not. I should have made an excuse to leave the room the moment Herleva’s soul left her body.
‘I wish you and your son, especially your son for he has done nothing to deserve a mother such as you, the best. But now I am free, I will leave. I never want to see or hear you again.’
There, I had said it. I would have preferred to go without the confrontation, but I was not prepared to stay another minute under this roof. My bags were already packed and hidden in a safe place.
‘You don’t understand, do you?’ She sounded like a lover, her voice soft, caressing.
My turn to freeze, a sick dread creeping through my veins.
Her eyes. Those eyes – different but the same – shone out of her face. Old eyes, evil eyes. I thought for one awful moment Herleva was still alive, but it was definitely Arlette, though a different Arlette, grown in power and stature.
She gave me a gentle smile, one of sorrow and regret. She looked as though I was the bereaved one, not her. Sympathy and something else…Glee, that was it! Hidden below the pity was elation, and excitement, and triumph.
‘You belong to me now,’ she said.
Chapter 34
The ramparts held great appeal. The abyss below called, a siren song on the breeze. Fifty men standing one atop the other would only just reach from the rocky, riverside bottom to the smooth stone of the topmost block. A brief plummet, then oblivion.
The prospect was an intriguing one. Would the devil be waiting for me with open arms and a ready smile, or would it be the Virgin, with her delicate features and infinite sympathy? I hoped it was the latter. If the Church was to be believed, Hell was not the nicest place. Besides, I was certain Herleva was there, and I had no wish to spend eternity staring at her evil face. On the other side of the coin, eternity was a long time to seek my revenge on her if I was cast down into Hell. Her endless suffering at my hand had a certain attraction. Sitting there, curled on the sun-warmed block, watching the sunset, I envisioned many ways to make her suffer. Perhaps I would start at the bottom, pulling out her toenails, one by one. Then I would put a starving rat or two in a sack and tie it on her foot. They would soon work their hungry way to the bone. Then-
But first I had to end it. There was little point in imagining all the lovely, nasty things I would do to Herleva, with me on one side of eternity and her on the other. We would both have to be on the same plane for my plan to work. And even if our destinations were not the same, at least I would finally be free.
My tail twitched, with its own mind. I still did not have full control over it. It appeared to be connected to my emotions and my instincts. At the moment it reflected anger.
Anger was too weak a word for what coursed through my veins and filled my mind. Hatred, abhorrence, seething fury and rage – those were a mere sample. I had lots more; ire, wrath, infuriation, a need to destroy, to shred and tear, rend and slash. Kill. That was what I wanted to do – kill. Preferably Herleva, but that was impossible because she had beaten me to it, the bitch.
I would like to kill Arlette but the damned spell would not allow me to harm her. Somehow the dead woman arranged it so that I passed to her pupil on her demise. If I had known, I would have murdered Arlette many moons ago. That would have put a rotten apple in Herleva’s barrel and spoiled her plans.
As I saw it, I now had a choice. Wait or die.
Die currently had the upper hand.
Night fell imperceptibly swifter here than in my native land. Twilight did not last quite as long. The sun dropped below a bank of cloud hugging the horizon, draping the sky with bolts of orange and purple cloth, fading to a keen silver in the east. The breeze carried a hint of the sea far to the west, a certain tanginess tempered by the many miles of heath and grassland in between. I could taste autumn, faint but definitely there. The wheel of the seasons turned, and though I felt it on the outside, I did not feel it on the inside. I would not feel it no matter how often it turned. Unless I put a stop to it. Here. Now.
What would I do if the fall failed to kill me? Cats usually landed on their feet, and though the drop was a mighty one, was I prepared to take the chance? Smashed jaw, broken legs, and still alive?
My shudder gained me a sharp look from the patrolling guard.
I could always change into a woman. Ha! That was bound to work! I let out a purring growl of amusement. The guard moved closer. I gave him the cat stare. He stared back. After a moment he moved on.
The battlements were always patrolled. Women were not allowed up here, at least I had never seen one, not even Arlette. If I tried to climb the steep narrow steps to the top on two legs rather than four, I would probably be stopped and sent back down, and I could hardly transform up here. Someone would notice. Though maybe if they shot an arrow into me, it would do the same job.
The void called again, the wind ruffling my fur, tickling my flanks. I stood and moved closer to the edge, peering over.
‘Oi!’
A swipe flung me off the crenellation and onto the floor. No hawk dive to nothingness for me today.
‘Stupid cat. Get outta here!’
I fled down the steps and away from the guard’s booted foot. He might not have wanted to witness my fall, but he was happy enough to send a hearty kick in my direction.
Finding a sunny spot on the walkway, I sat and contemplated my future. It had been less than a week since Herleva had departed this earth and Arlette had yet to show what kind of mistress she would make. Maybe I would wait for a while. See what happened.
After all, Arlette wouldn’t live forever, would she?
THE END
Historical Note
Wales in the tenth century was split into a number of kingdoms, or principalities, Gwynedd and
Deheubarth being two of them. When Rhain ‘the Irishman’ laid claim to Deheubarth, Llewellyn ap (ap means “son of”) Seisyll took umbrage, leading to a battle where Rhain was killed. Rhain’s body was never found. Llewellyn ap Seisyll had already burst onto the political scene when he defeated and killed Aeddan and his four sons, thereby obtaining Powys and Gwynedd. Now he ruled all three. I have referred to him as Seisyll rather than Llewellyn, as another Llewellyn will appear in a later book in the series, and too many Llewellyns can only serve to confuse!
I made Wulfstan up. Totally. But Edward and Alfred were very real. For a couple of hundred years, England had been subjected to a series of raids by the infamous Danes (often referred to as Vikings). Just before the time this novel is set, King Aethelred of England had fled to Normandy with his wife, Emma of Normandy, and their sons Edward and Alfred. When Aethelred died, Emma married the Danish King Canute, who had become king of England, and she gave him an heir, Harthacanut. Edward and Alfred remained in Normandy. Edward’s rise to the English throne is a whole different story, and not one I intend to write, but readers might be interested to know that poor Alfred met an untimely death after having hot pokers held against his eyes.
In history, Arlette and Herleva are one and the same. I have separated them into two different people, purely for the sake of the story. She also went by a few other names – history is unclear as to her real one – and she is usually depicted as a tanner’s daughter. Fulbert has also been documented as an embalmer. I have also played around with her age a little bit too, because some sources say she was born in 1003, and others that she was born in 1010. I’ve gone with the latter because it suited the tale I wanted to tell. The story goes that Robert, Duke of Normandy, spied Arlette in the tanning pits (which can still be seen from the walkway above the castle’s walls), with her skirts up around her thighs, and fell in love with her. She bore him three children, the most famous of whom was William the Conqueror. What a meteoric rise to status, wealth and fortune, for a commoner!
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