Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  Courage was the sticking point because, although the presence inhabiting the bones may have dissipated, evil still emanated from them.

  I did not want to touch them, I did not want to feel their smooth outlines, and I certainly did not want to feel the baby-soft skin of an infant when I picked up the pouch. Far from squeamish, I had never had an attack of the vapours at the sight of open wounds or protruding bones, and many a time I had bathed and stitched human flesh, but those fragments of what had once been a child were imbued with darkness and altered so completely that they were no longer human. And the question running through my mind every time I thought about them, was whether that poor baby had been stillborn or had been bred purposely for the role and then murdered. My heart told me it was the latter.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I got to my feet and approached the hearth. The smell of thyme was fainter now and the fire had burned down to a soft glow. I desperately wanted to douse the black candles but I needed their light to do what was necessary and I left them alone for the time being.

  For a reason unknown to me, my instinct was to clear the items away in the order they had been used, so first I gritted my teeth to tackle the painted shards of bone. Wrapping my hand in the material of my skirt and using the hem of my dress as a barrier between me and them, I opened the drawstring bag. One by one, I gathered up each and every fragment, counting them to ensure I didn’t miss any.

  I tried to keep my gaze averted but it was hard. It seemed as though the bones, now that they were no longer needed, wanted to be seen, for every single one flipped over onto its painted side when my fingers, made clumsy by my fabric-covered hands, attempted to grasp them. They mocked me, I was certain of it, daring me to look on them, and I swore they took delight in my revulsion.

  At last, the job was done. I drew the fine cord tight (I did not want to consider what that gruesome string might be made of) and sighed.

  Arlette had not stirred. Sitting in exactly the same position, she stared into oblivion, and I could not tell if she was aware of my presence or not. But even if she was oblivious right now, sooner or later the fast-approaching morning would seep into her mind and she would expect to see that the evidence of her summoning had been cleared away. She would most definitely check that this had been done. Sooner or later…

  Hoping it would be later, I understood that this was my chance, maybe my only chance. The idea had occurred to me when Herleva had cast the bones, that this dark paraphernalia needed to be destroyed, but Arlette always kept the key to the armoire about her person, and always paid great attention when she handed it to me, demanding its return immediately. And neither did she leave me unsupervised with the door open. I don’t know if she guessed my half-thought intention, but she gave me no opportunity to act on it – until now.

  My back was to her and under the cover of rolling up the fleece, I stuffed the loathsome bag of bones down the front of my bodice in one swift movement, where it nestled between my breasts like an evil black heart.

  Hastily, I cleared the rest of the things away, taking great care to gather up the precious silver grains and pour them back into the casket, then brushing the salt into the cracks between the floorboards. The charcoal-drawn circles and runes were easily dealt with by the application of a cloth, some water, and a bit of scrubbing.

  Finally, I rinsed out the wooden bowl, whose sculptured sides were blessedly motionless, and put everything safely back in the cupboard. Locking it, I walked over to my mistress and placed the key in her hand.

  She curled her fingers around it wordlessly, not looking at me, the narrowing of her eyes the only sign that she acknowledged my presence. With no further orders from those thin-drawn lips of hers, I took my leave, trying not to depart with undue haste, lest she suspected anything.

  Outside, the stars were fading as the sky gradually lightened. I would have liked to dispose of the pouch when the sun was high in the sky, as much for my own sake as an instinctive recognition that the day was no friend to those hellish fragments, but I dared not wait. It was hard to be alone in a castle. Of course, solitude could be demanded if the person demanding it was powerful enough but even then, servants hovered within earshot and watching eyes were everywhere. The more important a person was, the more they were observed. I was under no illusion regarding my own importance or rather, my lack of it, but I was well aware that my actions and words were under scrutiny because of who I served.

  I needed darkness for what I intended to do.

  The thought did occur to me that I could slip anywhere I wanted as Cat, but something held me back. I was not sure whether it was instinct or a vague knowledge that I should not open myself up to black magic whilst in the total thrall of the ungodly enchantment, which made me decide to remain Caitlyn, no matter how much I was tempted to change. I did have one consoling thought; although it would be difficult to leave the fortress, and certainly impossible to pass through the gates without being seen, I realised I did not need to travel outside the walls. Inside would do perfectly well, and I knew exactly where to hide the pouch and its dreadful contents.

  The abbey.

  Where else to nullify evil but in a house of God? Underneath the abbey’s stone-slabbed floor, beyond the crypt, lay a small ossuary. It was partially sealed, well hidden, and no longer used. Perfect for my purpose.

  No one had any need to enter the silent realm of the dead, no one had any reason to disturb the sleeping remains of the men and women who had been placed in that dark, dismal hole so many years ago. Except for a curious cat, and I had always been curious.

  In fact, I would be surprised if anyone knew it was there at all. Strange artefacts lay with the skeletons – sharp, stone shards, clay pots, beads – and I suspected the people whose remains had been placed here, had lived a very, very long time ago indeed. Maybe even before the Romans or the tribes who had tried to resist them.

  The squeeze would be a tight one, but I would manage it with care and if I took it slowly. So that is what I did. Slipping into the abbey as silently as possible and hoping that the bell calling the children of Christ to early mass would not peal until my deed was done, I tiptoed along stone passages and down stone steps until I came to an old door. It was half hanging off its rusted hinges and another board had been placed in front of it, probably to prevent inquisitive monks and nuns from going any further. Several shoves later, accompanied by gritted-teeth groaning, I had moved both barriers sufficiently enough to squeeze through. Gasping at the pain in my side and trying to prevent the healing wound from rubbing against either the coarse wood or the rough stone, I inched slowly through, popping out on the other side like a rabbit out of its burrow.

  On this side of the door, the passage was more of a tunnel, and the steps had become an uneven path over the rock. Several times, I had to negotiate rock falls, picking my way over boulders and squeezing sideways through narrow openings, and all the time I prayed that the tunnel roof would stay where it was and not come tumbling down on my head.

  My luck held and I finally rounded a corner, the flaming brand flickering unsteadily in my damp, chilled palm, and there they were, partially hidden from view behind a half-demolished wall of rough-chiselled hunks of rock. Skeletons.

  An unsettling thought occurred to me – had the wall been placed there to keep intruders out, or to keep the dead in?

  Too late for second thoughts now, I had to rid myself of the burden I carried. The urge to pull it from its resting place between my breasts and fling it into the far corner of the chamber, was strong. Restraining myself, I clambered over the wall (for that was definitely what it was) and scrambled down the other side, the hairs on my neck prickling with fear.

  I was alone, in the dark, with the dead, and no one knew I was here. There would be no rescue for me if the roof caved in, or if those ancient bones began to stir…

  A crunch sounded loud underfoot. I took a shaky breath, knowing what I had stepped on to make such a noise – I had heard many bones snap
in my time. Lowering the torch, I swept it around the chamber, trying to peer into the corners.

  Nothing had changed since the last and only time I had visited this place. Most of the bones were laid horizontally in niches around the walls, with a few scattered on the ground, and most of the artefacts had been placed next to the bodies in the niches, except for the ones which had fallen.

  The light from the flame revealed skulls, thigh bones, lower jaws, knotted vertebrae, tiny finger bones, and the curved arcs of ribs. So many, too many. From the size of the skulls, I guessed they had belonged to men, women, and children alike.

  ‘God forgive me,’ I muttered, making my way to the far wall, mindful of where I placed my feet.

  There was a small niche right at the back, high up, at head height. The hole was no more than three feet long and contained a wrapped bundle. I wedged the brand into the niche next to the one I had my sights on, then I reached into my bosom and dragged the pouch out. I say dragged, because the damned thing did not appear to want to come out. For a second, I felt a resistance, then it came free with a sigh. I swear it wriggled in my hand and so, with irreverent haste, I shoved it behind the small corpse, as far as it could go.

  I debated whether to say a few words and decided against it. A prayer from someone as tainted as me would do little to silence the restless spirit residing in those bones, and the child that I had hidden it behind would have undoubtedly already had prayers spoken in its own religion. It did not need my ineffectual mutterings.

  Besides, I wanted to leave now; this was by far one of the most disturbing places I had set foot in.

  Reaching to retrieve the brand, I almost knocked it from its perch. What was that? The noise came from behind. A sigh, a moan, a whisper?

  Swallowing hard, terror clawing at my chest, I turned slowly, expecting to see something from the afterlife rising to greet me.

  There was nothing, no one. But I was in no doubt that it was the skeletal remains which had spoken, lamenting having to share their final resting place with such evil as I had placed amongst them. I felt pity for them, but I also felt justified. If I never did anything else in my life that was good (and I had done plenty that was bad), then surely removing this wickedness from the world and burying it deep in sacred soil would go some way to alleviating the stain on my soul.

  Chapter 15

  My finery was not as grand as either Matilda’s, who was resplendent in silver, reminding me of a ray of moonlight, nor Arlette’s, who wore deep claret the colour of drying blood, but I felt marvellous anyway.

  I would have liked the bodice to be pulled a fraction tighter (I may be much older than I looked and half cat to boot, but I was still woman enough to be vain), because as loose as the fabric was, my wound still protested, so I dared not demand that it be cinched in any further.

  For once, I wore my hair free and not in its customary plait, and it flowed over my shoulders and down my back to my waist in a dark brown flood. I had let the maids brush it until it shone, and when I ran my palm down the tresses they felt as soft and as smooth as the finest silk.

  I wore a gown of blue, so deep it was almost navy, and which had been embroidered with lavender thread and edged with cornflower and sage brocade. My calf-skin slippers were of the softest leather and I had a silver filigreed necklace at my throat.

  I felt like the queen I had once been and not the slave I had become, and I revelled in it. I was not fool enough to think it would last, although I intended to enjoy it to the full for as long as it did. Arlette would be too busy with affairs of state to need me today, however I suspected the only reason she had consented to my attendance at her son’s wedding as myself was that she could not demand that I attended as Cat, because I was still too sore and weak to transform. For this reason alone, the injury had been almost worth it, for I was longing to watch William wed his betrothed while wearing this fine gown of mine. It was rare that I had anything new, and rarer still to own something of such beauty.

  The ceremony took place in Rouen. Matilda and, more importantly to William, her father, had arrived five days ago, with a vast retinue of family, lesser nobility, servants, soldiers, and assorted other hangers-on at Baldwin’s court.

  The logistics of housing and feeding them all had frayed Arlette’s nerves to the brink of breakdown, and she kept up a steady stream of muttering under her breath, mostly about the astronomical cost of it all.

  William, wisely, left his mother to her domestic concerns and barricaded himself in his rooms, firstly with Walter and several other trusted knights, then with Baldwin and his advisors when the Count finally arrived.

  Matilda had been left to me and Arlette to entertain between us. The bride-to-be had brought an army of her own in the form of her sisters, her ladies, and her maids, and she made constant demands on both of us – after she had overcome her shock at seeing me at Rouen, that is.

  I could still hear the disbelief in her voice when she set eyes on me.

  ‘Caitlyn?’ she had asked, frowning so hard her brows creased into deep furrows.

  I had curtsied and replied, ‘Yes, my lady.’

  She had given me a scrutinising stare. ‘I had heard you were dead or fled,’ she had stated, her tone giving nothing away. Oh, this one was well-trained alright, and I delighted in the thought that she would make William an excellent consort in her own right and not simply because of who her father was and what she would bring to the marriage bed.

  ‘I am very much alive. My lady,’ I replied, ‘but I did indeed flee.’

  ‘Did it have anything to do with a dead man in the cellars?’ she asked.

  Aware I needed to choose my words carefully, I replied, ‘I still have the wound he gave me.’ I touched my side instinctively and I did not have to lie, either.

  ‘Tostig raised the alarm when one of his men disappeared. He claimed you might have had something to do with the fellow’s demise.’

  ‘He was right, I did, although how he knew I killed him is beyond me,’ I replied, hoping she would enlighten me.

  She didn’t. ‘Why did you kill him?’ she asked casually.

  ‘Because he came at me with a knife in his hand.’

  ‘And what do you think the reason for that was?’

  She was a canny girl, alright, suspecting there was more to my story than a man trying to take from a woman something that she was not prepared to give.

  ‘I thought at the time that he intended to force myself on me,’ I replied. ‘On reflection, I am not so sure that was the reason.’

  ‘Oh?’

  I decided to come clean and tell her the truth – or a version of it, one which she would believe. ‘I overheard something I shouldn’t have regarding his brother, Harold, and the Irish king, Diarmait.’

  ‘The body was discovered in the grain store,’ she said.

  ‘I was looking for your cat, my lady. I saw it slip away and followed it. Tostig’s man must have followed me.’

  ‘It was fortunate for you that you were able to overpower him.’ She still did not believe me, and I didn’t blame her.

  ‘He let his guard down along with his britches,’ I said.

  She laughed at that.

  ‘He did give me a nasty cut before I felled him. Would you like to see it?’ I asked, determined not to squirm beneath her gaze. ‘His death was most certainly self-defence, my lady,’ I added.

  ‘Then why did you flee, if what you say is true?’

  ‘Would you have believed me?’

  ‘You would have been given a fair hearing,’ she countered.

  I snorted. We both knew that was unlikely. ‘I did not want to take the chance,’ I retorted.

  ‘You could not have been too badly hurt if you were able to make your way back to Normandy,’ she pointed out, and I shrugged. She could see for herself, if she wanted.

  After greeting her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Arlette had been preoccupied with the particulars of ensuring that Matilda’s rooms were in order, and she had l
eft us to talk while she busied herself with issuing a stream of orders to the servants.

  I didn’t think she had been listening, so was taken aback when she said, ‘My gentlewoman was gravely injured. We feared for her life and she so nearly lost it. It was only good care and her own constitution which brought her back from the brink.’

  Matilda narrowed her eyes. She seemed to accept the explanation though, and nodded once in acknowledgment.

  Already, I could feel the power play between the two women, and I smiled to myself. William was going to be driven to his wits’ end trying to keep both his mother and his wife happy. Of the two, his mother was the most important and the most deadly. I wondered how long it would take before Matilda realised the same thing.

  The poor girl would need to take care not to anger her mother-in-law too much, nor to try to come between Arlette and her son. For far too long, Arlette had been the only female figure of any consequence in William’s life, and his mother was not going to relinquish her position easily. I had the feeling that Matilda would not enjoy being pushed aside, though.

  It should make for an interesting marriage.

  Talking of marriage, trumpets announced the bride’s arrival and brought me out of one reverie and into another, as I recalled my own nuptials. This magnificent abbey was a far cry from my own wedding, which had taken place in the little stone church in Llandarog. I had knelt to say my vows on those exact same stones on which I had knelt to wash my husband’s corpse. So many years had passed and I was still lamenting his death, although it was not the loss of him which I mourned now, but the loss of myself and my way of life. And possibly my soul.

  Baldwin led his daughter to the altar, his expression giving nothing away. William was equally taciturn. Arlette was taking pains to hide her smirk of satisfaction. Adela, Matilda’s mother, allowed a brief flash of worry to cross her face but she hid it swiftly. I knew she cared a great deal for her daughter, and it was only natural that a mother should be concerned; William was an unknown quantity, even to those closest to him, and I knew that Adela was hoping that he would treat her daughter with kindness. Love was too much to ask for...