I could hardly traverse the length of the palace wearing a bloody dress. It would not take long for two and two to become a very accurate four. If I intended to treat my wound, I would have to do so myself, here and now, before I lost any more blood and became any weaker.
I undid my bodice and eased the fabric off my shoulder, peeling it away from my side, the already congealing blood sticking nastily to the skin. With my breath whistling between my clenched teeth, I gingerly traced the length of the wound with one shaking finger. Two to three inches, I guessed, lifting my breast out of the way for a better look.
The edges gaped like a mouth and I wished I had some catgut handy to sew those lips together. Catgut for a gutted cat. I stifled a wild laugh, realising that shock was setting in, or maybe it was blood loss. The thought chilled what little blood I imagined I still had left running through my veins.
Giving myself a silent talking to, I picked the slick, wet knife off the floor and used it to slice a couple of strips from the bottom of my petticoat. Folding one piece of linen to make a pad, I pressed it against the cut, before awkwardly winding the other strip one-handedly around my ribs.
He had sliced me rather than stabbed me, which was fortunate. The wound wasn’t a fatal one, unless it became infected. Wounds often did, and the thought was of some concern. I had seen enough men, and women for that matter, die from infection, and that particular death didn’t appeal to me.
Wait…
The letter! Where was it?
I dropped awkwardly to my knees and felt around for it in the half-dark, and when I eventually found it after a mad scurry and some frantic patting, I remained on the cold stone, too weary to move.
I had no idea how long I stayed there, but when the bell for matins rang, faint down here, but still audible, I realised tomorrow was already upon me. The messenger was long gone and so was the night.
Stiffly and with great effort, I clambered to my feet, wincing with each and every movement. Taking a tottering step forward, I eased the door open, letting a small amount of light into the storeroom, and craned my neck down to peer at my injury once more.
While I was insensible, the cut had bled profusely, and the white linen was dark and clotted. But at least the blood didn’t appear fresh, and my probing fingers came away from the fabric sticky but not slick.
Would I be better off as Cat or Caitlyn? Cat carried the least risk. If Tostig’s man was found and I was unharmed, I might have tried to bluff my way out of it. Yet with a gash in my side and covered in blood, I had no chance of denying any involvement. Plus, I could barely walk, so even if I did change my dress, I could hardly appear normal. Tostig would smell the lie on me as easily as a wolf smelled blood.
There was only one choice – Cat.
I sank carefully back to the floor and considered my options. As Cat, I wouldn’t be able to give the message to the old man in the inn, therefore I would have to change back into a woman before I met with him. That meant I had to find somewhere safe, and where there was a dress handy, for I could hardly walk into a hostelry daubed in blood and clutching at my side. The odds of finding such a place was slim to none.
I gradually came to realise that I didn’t have a hope in hell of passing the letter on and I also came to understand that the only safe place for me was with William. I needed to get to him and ensure the Duke received the information. Therefore I needed to be Cat. That was the essence of my plan – travel as a cat and hitch a sneaky ride in any cart heading to Normandy.
The choice was actually no choice at all.
Chapter 12
Day three, and the wound was not getting any better. If anything, it was worsening, but at least I was spared having to walk. The cart in which I hid was one of many, and all of them were well-secured and well-guarded. I didn’t know what the others carried, but mine had bolt after bolt of wrapped cloth, soft enough for a poorly cat to lie on. Locked and covered, the shelter was perfect, for no one bothered me, yet a small nick in the wood of one of the beams was wide enough for a cat to climb in.
Unfortunately, I was swiftly becoming too sore to squeeze back out through it. Every time I tried, my ribs would catch the edge of the hole, turning me into a hissing ball of misery. But I couldn’t last much longer without water, so it was imperative that I tried to leave my sanctuary as soon as the convoy stopped for the night.
It was the sound of a key grinding in the lock which dragged me from my feverish slumber, and the scrape of an iron bar being removed from its housing had me on my feet and sidling towards the rear of the wagon.
Blinking stupidly at the unaccustomed light flooding the interior as the door opened, I cocked both ears forward and listened to the steady drone of a man counting. Each number was accompanied by the slap of a hand on one of the bolts of cloth.
‘That one there, open it,’ a voice said, and the bolt next to me was hauled to the cart edge.
‘See, it is the best that Flanders has to offer,’ another one said. ‘I’m sure the duke will be well pleased.’
The duke? Was the man speaking of William? Hope flared in my heart.
‘This is not destined for The Bastard.’ The first man spoke again. ‘It is for trade with Aragon.’
The clink of coins was loud in the gathering evening.
‘Though, mayhap, I could persuade the mother to take some of this off my hands – it will save me the bother of hauling it to Aragon. I have a feeling The Bastard will want to make his new wife a gift or two, and some nice silk may soften her up though I heard she’s soft enough already. If I knew she liked a bit of rough, I’d have beaten her myself, then you’d be calling me “my lord” and begging for my favour.’
The laughter was raucous but without malice. I liked merchants. You knew where you stood with them – it was all about the profit. Anywhere there was money to be made, you would find at least one of them.
My decision now was whether I should continue with the new owner of the bolts of cloth, or whether to abandon the convoy altogether and try my luck elsewhere. But first, I needed water, and then I needed to determine my location.
I left it until the last possible moment before dashing lopsidedly from the rear of the cart and skimming out of the fast-closing door. A cry of alarm, a curse, and an ineffectual kick in my direction followed me as I scampered, panting, towards the nearest building and around the side of it.
A puddle brought me up short and I licked my lips at the smell of water.
A communal well, water splashing down its sides, enticed me into the centre of a small square. Women were filling buckets, drawing the cool, clear liquid up from the depths. Enough was being spilt to form a rivulet, and I lapped at it eagerly. Thirst finally sated, I limped slowly back the way I came, deciding to take my chances with the man who may, or may not, be heading to Normandy.
It was too late. My cart, and the others in the caravan, had gone.
I should have felt despair, but all I felt was ill. The brief revitalising effect of the water quickly wore off and, as I stared at the ruts the wheels had made in the soft earth, I wondered if this small trading post in the middle of God-knows-where was to be my final resting place. One dead cat, unmissed, unmourned, and unnoticed. At least as Caitlin, my corpse would be granted a Christian burial, and not left out in the road for the crows to peck. Should I become a woman once more for one final time? I had come into this world in human form, and it was only fitting that I left it the same way.
I sensed it would not be long now. Sickness raged through me; I could smell it on my fur and in my flesh. Despite three days of licking at the wound to keep it clean, it had become infected. Heat radiated out from it, the swollen edges of the tear beating in tempo with my heart, the throb a steady drum-march towards death. I crouched, tail wrapped around me, staring listlessly at I knew not what, and I guessed I wore the glazed expression that animals seemed to get when they were seriously ill or wounded. It was as though they had retreated into themselves to wait for the inevitable
.
As I sat on the trampled earth, the stench of human excrement assaulting my nose from the drainage channel running down the middle of the street and the noise of numerous voices ringing in my ears, I marvelled that the spell could be so easily outwitted. I had contemplated death very often (though less so as the years progressed) and each time I envisioned it at my own hand, or occasionally I would have disturbing thoughts of being outed for a witch and burned alive. Never once had it occurred to me that sickness would carry me off to my maker. I had felt weary, hungry, cold and hot, but this was the first time since Herleva had worked her magic, that I had become ill. I’d not had a sniffle, nor an ague. Nothing. I had almost come to believe I was invincible.
Clearly, I was not.
Although I appeared to be less susceptible to the ills which plagued mankind, I was not totally immune to them, it seemed. A dirty blade and a gash to my ribs was going to be the end of me, unless I changed back into Caitlin. In woman form, I stood a slim chance of begging for help, and even if I failed to get it, or the help which I did receive proved futile, at least I would be granted a Christian burial.
The thought teased me, stroking at the edges of my fevered mind, tempting me to just get it over with, here, now. So what if I had witnesses to my transformation? I was going to die anyway.
No, wait… my thoughts lurched through my mind, like a drunken sailor. If I did turn into Caitlyn right now and I was seen doing so (and that was very likely considering I had made no attempt to conceal myself), I would be denied a proper burial. No last rites, no priest, no hallowed ground. No chance of making my peace with God. My corpse would probably be burned and my ashes scattered to the wind. In fact, I would most likely be thrown on the pyres still alive… I shuddered.
If I was going to turn back into me, I had to find a safe place to do it. I had to move from here, but I was so weary and so ill, I didn’t have the strength.
A voice I had heard before, and recently too, caught my attention, and with an effort I turned my head. The merchant who had purchased the bolts of silk hoved into view. He rode a plodding carthorse, of better quality than most, and behind him was a covered waggon and three rag-a-muffin hands-for-hire.
Beyond caring where they were headed, the vague familiarity drawing me like a lure, I lurched to my feet and staggered towards the trundling little train. Only missing the turning, churning wheels by a whisker, I used the last of my strength to leap for the narrow board at the back and there I crouched, my claws gripping instinctively into the wood, anchoring me in place.
I stayed where I was for the rest of evening and all of the following night, as the six men camped just off the roadside. Not even the aroma of roasting meat wafting across my nostrils could encourage me to move. I would die here, I knew it, and once my body was noticed it would be plucked from its perch and thrown into the bushes to rot and to be eaten by the wild things.
I felt sorry for myself, for not being given the chance to at least plead my case before God, and I felt sorry for William, who would never know what had happened to me, and would never receive the letter I was carrying. As for Arlette – she could scry if she was that interested. In fact, she should have been scrying for the past few days, and I spent some time musing over why she hadn’t been. When I didn’t want or need her to spy on me, she did, and when I could have done with a bit of supernatural prying, my dear mistress was nowhere to be sensed.
I pondered on that too, my thoughts circling like crows above a corpse. Had something happened to her? And if it had, surely I would have felt it? Or maybe my sickness was shielding me from her, or perhaps she was there but I couldn’t sense her because I was too ill. Send someone, you bitch, I silently snarled at the image in my mind. I visualised her, hunched over her skull, staring into the roiling liquid inside, and called for her aid if not for my sake, then for her own, and for her son’s. But if she was scrying and she could see me, she ignored my plea. Fuck her. The last laugh would be mine. She was already only half the witch that Herleva had been, and without me, Arlette would be reduced even further. All she would be good for would be the odd feeble curse and the occasional love potion.
I drifted in and out of consciousness all through that long night, the fever burning me from the inside out, my mouth parched, my breathing laboured. Despite all the odds, morning saw me still clinging to life, if only barely, and as the first rays of the newly risen sun bathed me in warmth, I heard something which warmed me even further and brought me back to some semblance of life.
‘Rouen by lunchtime, lads,’ the merchant declared, ‘and if the Duke stirs himself to buy a bolt or two, we’ll stay the night. I’m too blessed old to be sleeping on the hard ground.’
I could not see him, but I heard the merchant’s bones creaking as he stretched and the rasp of fingers against beard, and I could have kissed him
Rouen – William’s stronghold. He would be there, I was certain of it. It was from Rouen that the Duke had launched his headlong dash to Bruges, and he would be sure to have returned there until the wedding. William would not be able to save me, but I might be able to save him. It was imperative that I warn him of Godwin’s plotting.
I swear the thought of seeing him again, this surrogate-son of mine, kept me alive through the rigours of the morning. One of the guards spotted me and there was a tense moment on my part as I thought he might shoo me away, but when his “Get gone” and “Clear off” and the accompanying arm waving didn’t work, he resolved to let me be. Besides, I could not have moved if I wanted to. With a shrug, he turned away to mount his horse, and I continued to cling on, both to the wooden board and to my life.
The sun was high in the sky when the merchant and his band clattered onto the cobbled streets of Rouen and up the gentle slope to William’s fortress on the banks of the Seine. I had been able to smell Rouen and the river long before the outskirts of the town, and I rallied somewhat, knowing William was close.
Just a little while longer and I could die in peace, my job done.
It would be a relief.
I lacked the strength to move and lay there on the narrow strip of wood, my position unchanged since yesterday evening, and waited.
It didn’t take long. Without further ado, the merchant, eager for some silver to line his pockets, walked briskly around the side of the cart, a sturdy key in his fist. He didn’t notice me at first, and proceeded to insert the key into the lock and turn it. The noise grated, setting my teeth on edge. A small hiss escaped me, more pain than annoyance.
It was enough to make him glance down.
‘Grrr,’ he growled, but I was unable to move.
‘Roal, my man! What brings you here?’ A soldier slapped the merchant heartily on the back and Roal lurched forward a step. I was forgotten and I mewed weakly, trying to attract his attention. If I was to reach William, I was going to need some help to do so.
‘Nothing you can afford,’ the merchant retorted. Neither of them so much as glanced down. ‘I’ve got silk for The – your duke.’
‘Silk you say? It had better be of good quality, else his steward will send you away with a flea in your ear.’
‘Oh, it is. Besides, I can handle old Remin.’
‘It’s Sir Remin now. You’re behind the times. Right, let’s have a gander at what you’ve got.’ The soldier moved to open the door, but I was in the way, and the solid wood board sent me flying.
My yowl of agony as I dropped to the floor, made both men jump.
‘Effing thing,’ Roal muttered and drew his foot back.
I lay there, panting with pain, and waited for him to put an end to me with his hobnail boot.
The soldier grasped his arm and pulled him back. ‘Wait… I know this creature,’ he said, bending down to give me a closer look. I stared back at him with wide, pleading eyes. ‘I think it belongs to Lady Arlette.’
Roal put his foot back on the ground. ‘Are you seriously telling me you can tell these vermin apart?’
The soldier
bent down further, his face looming large, and I silently begged him to take me to my mistress.
‘Some of ’em. They come in different colours, don’t they? See this one ’ere? Its eyes are blue. Or are they grey?’ He was pointing to my eyes, nearly poking me with his finger, but I didn’t flinch ‘Aye, it looks like the lady’s pet, alright. She’ll be really fucking annoyed if anything happens to it. Loves it like it was one of her kids, she does.’
Roal gave the soldier a knowing look. ‘You’d better take it to her, then, and quick too, before it dies. It don’t look too good to me.’
‘I don’t want to touch it.’
For pity’s sake, I thought. Here was a man who fought and killed for a living, and the soldier was too squeamish to pick up a dying cat? I mewled at him.
Roal nudged him. ‘Go on, I can’t stand here all day, I’ve got cloth to sell and ale to drink.’
The soldier heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose I’d better do summat. If the flea-ridden beast is hers and she finds out I did nothing, she’ll have my guts for garters. She dotes on it, she does.’ He shuddered, though whether it was from the thought of what she would do to him if she did find out that the soldier had neglected me, or that Lady Arlette doted on a cat, I was uncertain.
If I had been able, I would have laughed. Dotes on me, indeed! I wanted to assure him that her doting had nothing to do with love or affection.
‘Let me go and get Sir Remin,’ (again there was the emphasis on the word sir, and I guessed there was some resentment in the ranks), ‘and I’ll make sure this creature is taken to the Duke. If it isn’t Lady Arlette’s cat or if it dies, at least they can’t blame me.’
Relief surged through me – I would get to see William before I died. Then I had a frantic moment when I couldn’t remember what I was meant to warn him about, and I mewed piteously.
The soldier scooped me up, none too gently, and tucked me under his arm, where I hung limply, letting the pain wash over me.
Caitlyn Box Set Page 34
