Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  Timing was everything.

  Aware that the church would fill rapidly, I paused before joining the shuffling throng. I intended to be far enough back so that my leaving might not be noticed, or worse, hindered.

  I hung back for as long as I dared, then, on hearing the clattering of many hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels on cobbles, I darted inside and took up a position just inside the door. Out of reflex, I genuflected and made the sign of the cross, the familiar gestures going a small way to soothe my nerves, then I took a moment to look around. It had been a long time since I had been inside a church, and I was not certain that God really wanted me there.

  The high-vaulted ceiling soared above my head, the arching, carved stone reminding me of the ribcage of a giant beast. Ahead lay the altar, flanked by two beautiful windows, the morning light streaming through them, casting multicoloured beams across the heads of the worshippers. The walls were richly decorated with paintings and I shot glances at them, but my gaze kept returning to the figure of Christ, nailed bloodily to the cross, his face a rictus of agony, and I wondered if his father could also find it in His heart to forgive me my sins.

  My own heart listened hard for God’s voice, but I heard only silence and its own steady beating, and a dull resentment began to build inside me at the unfairness of it all. Aside from the demands of the spell, which I could hardly be blamed for, my only other cardinal sin, and one which I had yet to seek atonement for, was murder. But it was a killing which I believed was justified. A man, slaying his enemies in the midst of battle had God on his side, and was certain of His love and forgiveness, yet a woman, using whatever means she could to defend herself, was doomed for eternity. I hoped Idris was burning in hell for what he had done, and if I was destined to join him when my time came, then so be it. I did not regret putting an end to him.

  An increase in the muted chatter and a rustling as people turned to stare, pulled me out of my reverie, alerting me to Matilda’s arrival. She walked regally behind the Count and Countess, her head held high, looking straight ahead, before bending her knee to God at the top of the aisle, her movements graceful and self-assured. Observance done, she glided to the family pew and slipped into it, sitting as straight as a well-crafted arrow on her cushioned seat while her gentlewomen fussed around her, arranging her skirts and making sure she had her bible in her hand. Matilda let them fuss, her attention on the altar, her expression reverential and solemn, and eminently regal. Oh, yes, this one would make a fine queen, indeed, I thought. William (or should I say, Arlette) had chosen wisely.

  Along with everyone else, I bowed my head and closed my eyes in prayer as the mass began, and tried to concentrate on the familiar words, but the ritual passed me by. I felt no part of it, no connection to either the incantations or to the heady smell of burning incense. Both reminded me too sharply of Herleva, but with the abdominal chanting of a spell being cast instead of God’s holy word, and the stink of thyme in my nose instead of the incense. Her incantations and chanting had been a parody of this mass, but the effects had been instantaneous and irrefutable. The ceremony taking place before my very eyes seemed powerless in comparison, ineffectual and meaningless. God had most certainly abandoned me.

  Movement broke into my thoughts as the congregation were called to take the body and blood of Christ, nobility first, common folk after. The people around me shuffled forward, one by one, and I knew I would have to join the line. To do anything else would surely be noticed.

  I kept half an eye on Matilda as I moved closer to the altar, knowing she would not leave until the mass was over, but needing to check all the same. I watched, reassured as she returned to her seat and knelt once more, her head bowed in silent prayer, the image of modest piety.

  Then, all too soon, it was my turn. I opened my lips and extended my tongue for the host. The bread was like dry dust in my mouth, but I gave the customary response of “amen” when the priest muttered, “Body of Christ”, and half expected God to smite me down for my impudence.

  Next, came the blood. I dutifully took a small sip from the proffered chalice and once more responded with “amen”, and still God did not chastise me. The wine was cheap and thin, but it served to wash the last vestiges of the stale bread from my mouth, and I returned to my place near the door, trying to keep my breathing even and my eyes downcast. I was clearly not in a state of grace, so maybe that was why I failed to feel God’s spirit. Would confessing my sins be the answer? But it was too late now, for confessing anything. Mass was almost at an end, and I could not linger afterwards. I had work to do.

  The church was stuffy and my face was flushed. Nervous anticipation flooded my body, and I fanned myself with my hands, their ineffectual fluttering drawing the attention of those nearest to me. The doors were a solid weight at my back, sealing me inside this house of God, trapping me, and a momentary panic took hold.

  Seeing my expression and the trembling of my hands as they reached for the latch, a kindly gentleman opened it for me just as mass thankfully drew to an end, and I slipped outside, breathing in deep gasps of fresh air, wondering if this was God’s way of declaring me unwelcome. It was well known that those who had given themselves over to the devil could not abide anything holy, and I felt sure I must have committed yet another sin by taking communion when I was not worthy of it. If I did not succeed in escaping with Walter, I vowed to return to church and seek absolution.

  Another deep breath to steady my nerves, then another, the sunlight stinging my eyes after the gloom of God’s house as I searched the square for Walter, relieved to see he was exactly where I had spied him earlier.

  A nod from me was all it would take. One nod to seal the fate of the unwitting maid in the royal pew. One nod to fulfil Herleva’s prophecy and propel William another step along the road to his destiny.

  I gave that nod.

  Walter turned to look behind him and his own head bobbed in response, as the signal travelled along the streets towards William.

  And so it begins, I thought, and I waited, feeling the press of Baldwin’s guards at my back as they cleared the way for the count and his family to leave the church. The royal family would be the first to walk through the doors, the mass of other nobles, gentlefolk, servants, artisans, and peasants, filing out in order of importance. I was lucky to have escaped when I did, and I was also lucky not to have been reprimanded for my impertinence.

  Hastily, I moved to the side, not wanting to be caught up in the events which were about to unfold, just as the Count and his wife stepped over the threshold and into the square, their waiting horses stamping and tossing their heads, impatient to be off. I watched the Count take a couple of paces, then I heard it – a sharp clattering rumble, faint at first, growing louder with each beat of my faithless heart.

  Matilda paused in the doorway, one of the court ladies at her side, and blinked in the sunlight, oblivious to the chaos about to ensue. Move, I urged her silently. She had to be fully out of the church for William to do what needed to be done, because he would not venture onto hallowed ground for this task.

  Count Baldwin’s men were cocking their heads in the direction of the noise, a ripple of unease running through them, and they glanced at each other, questions in their eyes. So far, they had not registered any threat, but any moment now William would appear, and this would be the moment of greatest danger for the Duke.

  My heart hammered and my mouth was suddenly dry. Fear coursed through me, and I almost felt faint with worry for William. I strained on tiptoe to see over the heads of the people but I was too short, although I felt the ripple of William’s imminent appearance travelling through the crowd like a sudden chill breeze through long grass.

  Muttering and head-turning from the folk in the square, and the racket of fast-moving, iron-shod hooves on cobbles filled the air, and without warning the crowd parted, the Dead Sea to William’s Moses. Suddenly Baldwin’s guards had their hands on their sword hilts and they turned as one as William burst fort
h from between two buildings, followed by a dozen of his finest knights, his horse plunging, its huge hooves smashing onto the cobbles, sparks flying. People were diving out of the way, screams rending the air and echoing around the square.

  William charged headlong at the church. I was close enough to hear the count gasp and his guards hurried to form a shield around him, their weapons fully drawn and raised.

  Someone moved to hustle Matilda back into the safety of the church, the ladies twittering in consternation like so many startled sparrows. Fearing she would slip back inside to sanctuary and that the all risks and planning would be for nought, I called out to her, using the pet name which only her mother used in their most private moments together.

  ‘Tildie!’

  It was enough to make her pause, and that pause was sufficient to change the course of her life.

  Her frightened, questioning gaze met mine for the briefest of moments, before William threw himself from his mount and her attention flew to him, as the rest of his men struggled to reel in their over-excited horses as they wheeled and plunged, the sudden halt not to their animals’ liking. William, clearly unarmed (wise move, my lad, I thought) dropped to the ground in front of Baldwin and his ring of soldiers, his hands open and raised, and walked towards the church steps. Matilda had nearly made it to the bottom of them before the commotion, and she was standing there still, her eyes wide and her face pale, but I noticed a flare of interest sparking in their depths before my gaze shot to the Count.

  Would Baldwin set his men upon an unarmed man, or would he wait to hear what the intruder had to say first, before ordering them to attack? His soldiers were at full readiness, but the Count’s expression was more curious than concerned, especially since none of the intruders had drawn their swords or made any threatening move.

  Baldwin, standing tall and calm, although I noted that he had put himself in front of his wife, using his own body as a shield, shouted above the mayhem. ‘Who are you and what is the meaning of this?’

  William halted a handful of feet from Matilda. He turned to the Count and bowed. ‘William the Bastard, my lord, and I mean to teach your daughter some manners.’

  His announcement probably saved his life. Unarmed or not, no man would be allowed to lay hands on Matilda and expect to live. Baldwin’s men surged forwards but were halted by the Count’s raised hand. Amusement and a grudging respect swept across the Count’s features before it was swiftly masked. At this point, the other man was more intrigued than alarmed. I hoped he would remain that way…

  William turned to Matilda.

  Her eyes were huge in her pale little face, and she did not take her gaze from the suitor she had so publically spurned. A trembling hand went to her mouth and she gasped, but to be fair to her, she made no move to run and I admired her courage. Although, if she’d had known what he was about to do to her or what would follow after he had completed his task, she would not have been so brave.

  William, I noted, had taken great pains over this first meeting with his future bride. His cloak was a rich crimson velvet over a burnished iron breastplate, a solid gold clasp glittering at his throat. His head was bare, the morning sunlight turning his short, russet locks to shining copper, and his clean-shaven face showed off his strong jaw and firm mouth. He held himself tall, his head lifted, a scornful expression on his face, looking every inch a king – and he knew it.

  Nicely done, William, I wanted to say. Even his horse had been carefully chosen – huge and black, its hooves raked across the cobbles stones, drawing sparks once again, the whites of its eyes showing. I expected to see its red, flaring nostrils breathing fire, because if any steed was the spawn of the devil, then this one surely was.

  William’s knights had also been picked for their size and their looks, and even I, who knew what was happening, thought that a dozen ancient gods had come down to earth.

  William bowed to his lady.

  Matilda raised her chin, her defiance palpable. She was quickly gathering her wits, and her stance and attitude were heading towards scorn and ridicule, disdain sparking from her eyes.

  No, William, not like that, I thought at him frantically. Walter, did you not instruct him…? Ah.

  Swifter than a striking adder, William was upon her, a Goliath to her David, dwarfing her with his sheer size and power. He whipped the veil from her head, grabbed her long hair, and dragged her to him. She let out a scream, staggered, and lost her balance, falling into his arms. He steadied her, placing her back on her feet, but keeping her close to his armour-plated chest, his fist still caught in her hair.

  A cry went up from the crowd, and I joined in. For one moment, it seemed that this young, handsome god was going to sweep her up and carry her off. With his face inches from hers, he bent his head further. There was a collective intake of breath as they waited for the bastard to kiss the maiden.

  Get on with it, I wanted to shout, even as I saw the drama and the sense in what William was doing, for the soldiers surrounding Baldwin were beginning to smirk, the tips of their blades dropping to the ground. They would not attack now, not even when their mistress was being so publicly castigated.

  Matilda let out a cry of disgust and outrage, her face a mask of contempt and repulsion. She turned her head and pushed at William’s chest, one of her little feet lashing out at his boot-clad shins.

  With a muttered oath, William threw her to the ground. Matilda’s scream of outrage and shock reverberated around the square, and she clapped a hand to her head.

  I prayed it was only I who had noticed the fistful of auburn locks clutched in William’s hand. That must surely have stung, but she appeared to be more outraged than hurt, as she lay there on the cobbles. I turned my attention back to William, just in time to catch him stuffing the autumn strands beneath his breastplate. Don’t lose them, my boy, I prayed…

  No one uttered a sound. Even the horses were still and silent, as the world waited to see what this bastard duke would do now. The only noise came from William’s harsh breathing. Even Matilda was quiet, although the fury and indignation on her face told its own story.

  If she’d had any sense, the maiden would have left it there. If William had not been so fired up, he might have walked away. But the arrow was notched, and when Matilda let fly with possibly the barb which could pierce his armour, William reacted in the only way open to him in order to save face.

  Matilda – beautiful, well-bred, regal Matilda – spat at him.

  Even this William might have tolerated, but when she followed it with, ‘You are nothing but a peasant bastard. Get out of my sight!’ William took the only course of action that would make sense of the abrupt about-face which Matilda was shortly to experience.

  What came next was not pretty. It was not worthy of the man I had come to think of as a son, but it had to be done because the success of our plan depended on it. No one made a move to help the stricken maiden, not even her own father, as William rained down slaps on the tiny, helpless woman at his feet, his expression hard and grim. He clearly was taking no pleasure in chastising Matilda.

  At the end, when everyone fully expected him to gather Matilda into his arms, throw her on the back of his horse and carry her off to claim her for his own, he did not oblige them.

  William, Duke of Normandy, left the woman who had scorned him lying in a heap on the ground, beaten and sobbing, and he rode away without a backward glance.

  Chapter 6

  Hide in plain sight was the old adage, and Arlette had taken it to heart. Her solar, the chamber that she used as her own small private hall, was light and airy, the shutters often open, the heavy, embroidered drapes drawn back to flood the room with sunlight. It was rare for her not to have several companions in attendance, and the room was usually filled with laughter and music, and the soft sounds of a loom being worked, or a hem being mended.

  Yet, underneath the apparent gentility lay a subliminal wariness. The laughter was subdued, the speakers were careful in their
choice of words, and I recalled an old tale of doves in the cote living a life free from foxes and with plenty of grain to eat. However, the unacknowledged price of this luxury was the death of one of their number as, every so often, a bird was taken for the pot. I wondered if the birds’ cooing was muted because if it.

  Arlette’s solar felt remarkably like that dovecote.

  Tonight though, the chamber was empty, Arlette having shooed out both gentlewomen and servants alike. Only I remained, ostensibly with a message from her son, which Lady Arlette said she wished to hear in private.

  The night was a dark one, no moon shone and clouds obscured the sky – a perfect night for this spell, it seemed.

  ‘Give it to me,’ she commanded.

  I handed her the carefully wrapped and meticulously guarded package.

  ‘If I had known what you had planned, I would have strung you up by your tail and cut out your innards,’ she said conversationally, undoing the string securing the package with steady, sure fingers.

  Herleva would have known my intentions, I thought snidely, but I wisely kept the observation to myself, and I was glad I did when Arlette added, ‘I might do so still.’

  I blanched, not at the thought of death, but at the thought of the anticipated pain. Death did not frighten me – the agony beforehand did. I hid my next thoughts well, deciding that there was no way Arlette would cause me enough harm to kill me (I was too rare a creature for that), but I would not put it beyond her to do something to me which would be particularly painful, but would not prove fatal.

  My paling cheeks pleased her and she smiled to herself, the smirk growing wider when she unfurled the cloth to reveal a goodly handful of long, auburn strands of hair, and I thought once again that tearing those out must have hurt Matilda greatly. I wondered if they had left much of a bald patch, and if so, whether it would have grown back in time for it to not be noticeable at her wedding.

  Arlette removed the key to her armoire from her girdle and gave it to me. ‘Fetch my bowl,’ she commanded. ‘I shall also need two black candles and some red wine.’