Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  To most folk, apart from children and the occasional young lady (like Matilda) who had the luxury of time to be able to play with kittens, cats were only tolerated because they had a job to do. They were not seen as pets. Not many creatures were, except for a dog or two whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to keep its mistress’s feet warm. A man’s hound was usually a hunting dog, favoured because of its ability to dig out badgers, or track otters, or some such. Matilda’s small, delicate dog was an exception, a pet. And now, it appeared, so was I.

  I was happy with the situation because if someone spotted a grey cat slinking about the palace, they would realise it was a favourite of Lady Matilda’s and would hopefully keep their kicks and curses to themselves. I counted on this to be able to access Godwin’s private rooms without being chased out, though so far, I had gained nothing useful from the time I had spent shadowing the man.

  It said a great deal that Baldwin had provided Earl Godwin and his family with a whole floor to themselves. It also said much that Baldwin was prepared to give the Earl sanctuary at all. I could not help but wonder where Baldwin’s loyalties might lie – with the current, well-established but childless King Edward, or with a man who hankered after the English throne and already had a clutch of sons to ensure a smooth succession when he died?

  It was my task to discover which way Baldwin’s loyalties lay, and although Matilda might be about to marry the future King of England, neither she nor her father knew it. No announcement had yet been made by Edward, and William was in no real position to tell them. What could he say? “My mother’s step-mother was a witch and she foretold it?”

  Hardly. The only mitigating circumstance was William’s bloodline through his father. William and Edward were first cousins once removed, which gave William a substantive claim, and since Edward had so far failed to produce an heir, William’s was the only legitimate one, despite his bastard status. I suppose others could have worked this out for themselves, but I suspected that no one really took William seriously enough. After all, he was illegitimate, and Edward was not that old. Then there was Brihtric who might make a play for the throne himself. He was certainly in a good enough position to do so.

  What William needed, and what would hopefully take place when Edward attended the English king, was for Edward to formally declare William his heir. And the longer the powerful Godwin remained exiled, the better it was for William, for I anticipated many Englishmen would be reluctant to accept a Norman as their overlord and would need time to become accustomed to the idea. At least they were used to the Danes.

  My task also included discovering Godwin’s intentions. He was not going to endure exile happily but the question was, did he simply want reconciliation with Edward and would be happy to remain an earl, or did he seek the highest office in England for himself? And what was Baldwin’s part in all this?

  Then there was the small matter of Edward’s wife; Edith was Godwin’s daughter, and I would bet anything I owned that she reported everything back to her father. The man had insinuated himself so far into the court that I was surprised Edward had managed to shove him out of it at all.

  I tried to look at the problem of succession from Edward’s point of view and realised that he had three options.

  The first assumed that Edith was barren and so the King should put her aside and wed another. Godwin may have something to say about that, but since a narrow sea now lay between him and Edward, Godwin’s voice was rendered somewhat fainter. Maybe Edward would take this opportunity to seek a more fertile bride?

  The second assumed that the King did not, in fact, bed his wife, but if he could manage to shut his eyes and think of England once or twice, then he might get her with child and plant a prince in her belly, which would solve all his problems of succession. I suppose that depended on whether he could shut his eyes, and whether he actually wanted to beget an heir on a Danish queen and have Danish blood running through the veins of the heir to the throne.

  Or there was a third – and this was where life became very interesting for William – Edward could declare a successor, and William would be it. England would not have an Englishman for an heir, but the country would have a man of royal blood; and even if that blood was a tad diluted and bore the taint of bastardy, blood was at the root of William’s claim. Godwin hadn’t a drop of the royal stuff in his veins, and I bet the lack of it annoyed him greatly.

  Aside from all this, Herleva had foretold it, and I had no reason to doubt her prophecy. One day, William, Duke of Normandy, would be King of England.

  That was the reason I was in Flanders and that was the reason why I was snuggled on top of a basket of soft yarn, in Godwin’s private rooms, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation between him and his sons.

  Godwin, the former Earl of Wessex was of typical Viking stock. He came from a long line of Danish invaders and had stood shoulder to shoulder with Canute when the man seized the English throne for himself. Godwin’s once-fair hair now bore more grey than flax, and the lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed his advancing years, but he was still big, loud, and imposing. Here was a man used to command and used to getting his own way.

  If I had been Caitlyn, I may well have been cowed by the sheer enormity and presence of the man, but I was Cat, and so I merely watched and listened. I was good at that.

  ‘What news from Ireland, Father?’ Sweyn asked. Four of Godwin’s sons were lounging around their father, but I knew for a fact that there was a fifth, and I had just discovered that Harold, the fifth one, was not in Flanders at all, but in Ireland.

  Godwin’s mouse of a wife was also in the room. Gytha was quiet and unnoticeable, and I guessed she used this to her benefit, cultivated it even, for I noticed that those eyes of hers missed very little and I suspected her ears missed even less. One tended to forget she was there, and I wondered how often she used this to her (or rather, to Godwin’s) advantage.

  Godwin frowned. He was sprawled in a chair, a cup of wine in his hand, his wife quietly sewing by his side. ‘Diarmait has pledged men to our cause,’ he said, ‘but how many, I have yet to determine.’

  Who was Diarmait, I wondered.

  ‘Harold should leave Dublin and join us here. There is too much water between Ireland and England,’ Sweyn pointed out.

  Godwin’s laugh was deep and resonant. ‘Aye, but you forget there is water between Flanders and England, too.’

  ‘There might be, but there is less of it.’

  ‘The amount does not matter, son. Baldwin may have given us sanctuary but I do not expect him to give us much else. He will not raise an army on my behalf. All he is doing is hedging his bets and using his kindness,’ Godwin sneered the word, ‘as a bargaining chip if my plans succeed. No, we shall have to look to Diarmait for more substantial support.’

  I quickly added two and two and arrived at a very believable four. Harold, one of Godwin’s middle sons, had sneaked off to Ireland to beg military aid for his father. The question was – why? Was it merely to persuade Edward to reinstate Godwin as Earl of Wessex, or was it to usurp Edward completely and allow Godwin to take the throne for himself?

  William needed to know of this. Despite Herleva’s certainty that William would one day rule England and although I had no reason to doubt her, I could not afford to ignore any threat to him.

  I wanted to dash off with as much haste as I could muster, but although cats were prone to strange behaviour, I did not want to draw undue attention to myself, so I stretched slowly, lengthening my spine, easing the kinks out of first one leg, then the other.

  As it happened, a swift retreat might have been more prudent.

  ‘Shoo!’ Gytha noticed me for the first time and flapped me away from her yarn.

  I resisted the urge to rake through it with my claws and sent her a belligerent look instead.

  Godwin raised a foot as if to kick me away, and I arched my back and hissed at him.

  ‘Don’t harm it. I think it is Lady Matilda’s cr
eature,’ Gytha warned. ‘It has distinctive colour eyes. I would know it anywhere.’

  Yes, I do have unusual eyes for a cat, and thank you for pointing it out, I thought. Cat’s eyes were the same colour as Caitlyn’s – blue-grey, more smoky than vibrant – and the pupils were round, not slitted as some cats were. Apart from my mind, they were the most human things about me.

  Trust Gytha to notice, but then, she would hardly connect the soot-grey cat haunting her rooms with Lady Matilda’s newest gentlewoman, would she? I had nothing to fear from her.

  Casting thoughts of Godwin’s mousey wife away, I sprinted for the door, the only thought in my head was that I needed to get a message to William. If Godwin was planning to usurp Edward, the sooner William travelled to England and persuaded Edward to announce him as his successor, the better.

  Or… an idea occurred to me. What if Godwin were to have an accident? A fatal one? It would certainly solve William’s dilemma, and I vowed to mention it in my message.

  However, there was only one problem with the suggestion – I knew who would be the one to arrange his death.

  Chapter 10

  Arlette was no Herleva, that was abundantly clear. However hard I tried to attract her attention, she failed to hear me. Herleva would have, but not once had I sensed Arlette in my mind, though I often felt her eyes on me when she scried. However, she certainly wasn’t scrying now, on the very occasion when I wished she would!

  I changed tack and slipped off to the grain store to transform. Maybe I would have better luck as Caitlyn, and besides, I needed to show my human face at some point. I had been Cat for long enough. Soon, one or other of the ladies who I shared a chamber with would remark that I had been absent for a couple of days and I did not want to provide more arrows for Matilda’s bow.

  Although it was easy enough to creep into the furthest, darkest corner of the castle as Cat, it would be harder to emerge as myself, but it had to be done. The grain store was a large, windowless room buried in the depths of the cellars, and was a quarter full of assorted stacked sacks of oats, wheat, barley, hops, and spelt. At this time of year, the piles were at their lowest level, as harvest season was not yet upon us, but even this depleted amount would see the palace through several months if it ever became necessary, so I had plenty of sacks to hide behind.

  It was not unusual for cats to lurk there. In fact, they were usually welcomed, because mice and rats liked grain just as much as people did. I paused and listened to the scurrying and squeaking from inside. The frequency and volume told me that no other feline was present, which eased my mind somewhat. One less threat. Other cats did not like me much, and I was a particularly small example of one. A fight would not be pretty and I would most likely come out of it the worst.

  The rodents’ noise ceased for a heartbeat when I squeezed through a hole and into the storeroom, then mayhem descended as various creatures dashed to safety.

  I waited for the frantic activity to cease, then checked the door as best I could. It appeared firmly shut, though it was not kept locked, unlike the wine cellar. Baldwin’s steward had his priorities, it seemed.

  No footsteps sounded from outside and all was quiet, so I retreated behind a particularly substantial pile of hops, hoping they would shield me from a casual glance, and took a moment to steady myself, before letting the magic do its work. Herleva had been right – practice did make the transformation quicker and easier, but however quick it was, the agony of it always stole my breath and weakened both my body and my mind for a few vulnerable moments afterwards.

  I had managed to stay on my feet this time, although the process was easier if I was able to lie down, but a gentlewoman venturing into these parts was unusual enough without said gentlewoman’s fine gown being coated in a layer of dirt and dust from the granary floor. However, once I returned to my true form, I had no choice but to lean against the stack which had hidden me. If I had not, I would have collapsed.

  One deep breath followed another, and another, until the pounding of my heart lessened, and the roaring in my ears diminished. The pain took a little longer to ease, leaving me clammy with sweat, despite the coolness of the room, and I waited as long as I dared in order to compose myself.

  With eyes no longer able to see in the almost-dark and with hearing greatly reduced, I felt my way to the door and stood behind it, listening. There was no sound, so I turned the latch and eased into the corridor.

  Tallow candles burned along the length of it, supplementing the natural light seeping in at the far end. It was enough to see that the way was clear. Brushing hastily at my skirts, I began pretending to search for Matilda’s pet as I made my way out of the servants’ domain and back to the luxury of the palace’s more public spaces, calling “kitty” every once in a while. If anyone asked, I would say that Matilda’s small grey cat had gone missing and the lady was pining for it. But I was not stopped. I don’t actually think I was noticed at all, so when I deemed it safe, I dropped the pretence.

  What I needed now was a boy.

  Matilda’s mother had taught her daughter better than most. Matilda was well-versed in those skills which were regarded as necessary for a high-born lady, like how to be a good and decorous wife, how to embroider, how to run a large household, as well as being able to dance.

  Her mother had taught her considerably more than that, however. Matilda spoke several languages; throughout her childhood she had observed the Countess playing an active role in the governance of Flanders and would have often heard her mother discussing politics; Matilda knew the scriptures as well as any woman of substance should, and she could read. But, more importantly from my point of view, she could write. Not well, admittedly, but she had parchment, quills and ink in her rooms, and this is what I sought.

  The boy would play his part later.

  I waited until supper, when the family, their nobles, and their guests were gathered in the hall, before I made my move. Baldwin and his family sat at the high table, his wife on his right, Matilda next to her. His eldest son and heir, also christened Baldwin but commonly referred to by his second name, Maarten, sat on his left. More significantly, Godwin and Gytha also had a place at Baldwin’s table. He clearly held these exiles in some esteem.

  I, like Matilda’s other gentlewomen, ate my supper at one of the lower tables. It always used to amuse me to watch the lesser nobles at William’s court jostling for position, and I could tell just from where they were seated whether they were on the rise or on the slide. Baldwin’s court was no different, and I took note that the Count had ensured Godwin’s sons were not slighted. Was Baldwin hedging his bets in case of Godwin’s return to Edward’s favour, or was there something more sinister afoot?

  The hall was noisy and my headache was unfeigned. Gitte, the friendliest of Matilda’s women, placed a hand on my arm, her usually sunny face etched with concern.

  ‘You are very pale, milady. Are you unwell?’

  I nodded and winced, rubbing my temple. ‘It is a headache, that is all, but I think I shall withdraw from company this evening.’

  Gitte gestured at the untouched food on my plate. My lack of appetite was not contrived, either.

  ‘Shall I send some bread and honey to you, later?’ she queried. ‘A rest may restore your appetite.’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I think I will lie down. I am sure I will feel better come morning.’ I rose and curtseyed towards Matilda.

  William’s bride frowned at me, but her nodded consent to withdraw was given swiftly enough. She probably felt as uncomfortable in my presence as I did in hers, and it occurred to me that it might be a relief to her to have me gone. I turned to leave, but not before something caught my eye. Gytha was studying me, a measured look in her eyes, and I was conscious of her gaze on my retreating back with every step I took.

  Even outside the hall, I could not shake that speculative stare. Had I given myself away in some fashion? My eyes? She had commented them before, but the eyes in question had belonged to a four
-footed creature, not two.

  I snorted. Impossible! My paranoia was getting the better of me. That Gytha knew I was Caitlin of Normandy was undoubtedly true, and I would bet my antler comb (the only possession I had left from my long-ago life in the Welsh hills) that she had guessed I was no mere gentlewoman sent to ease a bride’s transition into her new husband’s home. Gytha’s scrutiny was normal mistrust, nothing more.

  That was the problem with being a spy – you tended to believe that your secret was about to be uncovered and every look, every whisper, could have you on edge.

  I shook off my unease and made my way to the family’s wing. My room, which I shared with three others, was not far from Matilda’s and, right up until the moment I passed my door without entering, I felt calm enough, if a little nervous.

  Once passed it, my heart beat faster and my palms acquired a certain dampness. If I was caught...

  Trying not to sneak, I entered Matilda’s chambers as though I had every right to be there, and headed for the cupboard where she kept her parchments and quills. My own use of these materials was rusty, and I made a poor job of the hastily written message. Speed was essential, and by the time I had completed my task the parchment was more ink blots than words, but it was legible and that was all that mattered.

  Not having time to seal it with wax nor dust it with sand to fasten the words to the page, I raced back to my own chamber, letting the air dry the ink and hoping no one would challenge me. A waiting woman writing letters would hardly go unnoticed, for what business did such a lowly creature as I have with such a thing? Ink-stained fingers were an additional problem, but I needed to rid myself of the letter before I tackled my purpled skin.

  William, ever the strategist, had made certain I could contact him if need be. Walter, ever the obedient one, had arranged for a man to sit in an inn every evening, between the evensong and vesper bells.

  This man was old, I had been told, with a long white beard, and he carried a staff to help him walk. Walter had informed me that he was crooked and bent, and no one would give him a second glance. I had never clapped eyes on the fellow, but I suspected the bent spine and the stick were for disguise only, and to make him stand out from the mass of other men who probably frequented the tavern in search of ale.