Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  Brihtric allowed Nelda to lead the way and at his indication, I followed him as we traversed the bailey, heading for the squat, square tower. Two floors up, and Nesta paused outside a closed door and fished a set of keys out of her pocket.

  When she turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and stepped aside to let us pass, I was not sure what I was about to see, and I took a moment to make sense of it.

  A woman was playing with dolls.

  She sat on a woven mat in the centre of a small room, surrounded by the children’s playthings, which were arranged in a semi-circle, and tankards and goblets had been placed in front of each of them. Crudely carved, with painted faces, the dolls were dressed in scraps of cloth.

  The woman was pouring water from a jug and crooning to them as she did so, her words unintelligible.

  She totally ignored us, and I was not sure she even knew we were there.

  ‘Odella.’ Brihtric’s voice was so soft and so full of love that it almost made me cry.

  The woman paused for a moment, water spilling onto the mat, but she did not look up from her task. Her crooning grew louder as if to block him out, and when he failed to say anything further, she carried on pouring.

  ‘Who is she?’ I breathed, already knowing the answer in my heart.

  ‘My wife.’

  Chapter 25

  On the way back to London, Brihtric had given me an explanation of sorts. He had married for love, they both had. They had been lucky. Odella was the daughter of one of Edward’s lesser nobles. Brihtric was the third son of another. Neither set of parents had put much thought into the match. Brihtric, as a third son, was hardly likely to inherit, and Odella was a daughter of little consequence. When they met at court in Winchester and fell in love, Odella’s father had been more than happy to have his daughter taken off his hands. Brihtric’s father did not care who his son married as long as he did not bring shame on the family – a lesser noble’s offspring was perfectly acceptable and probably all that Brihtric realistically could hope for.

  Unfortunately, Brihtric’s father had not foreseen the death of both his older sons, and by the time their demise had occurred Brihtric was already firmly wed to Odella, with a child on the way.

  That child was the undoing of both of them.

  It had been a daughter, and the babe had not survived one full night before God saw fit to take her into His bosom. The mother almost followed suit. The birth had been a hard one and Odella had bled copiously. The priest had been called, and the anguish in Brihtric’s voice told me that he had fully expected his wife to die. The memory clearly pained him still, because in a way, his wife did die.

  I had come across it before, when a person loses so much blood that it seems to affect their wits. He had told me that her heart did stop beating at one point. He had said he lost his own mind then, grief and rage at the unfairness of life overwhelming him, and I had tears in my eyes as he had recounted shaking her violently, slapping her face, and begging him not to leave him.

  She did not leave. She came back from the brink of death, but she had changed beyond all recognition, and I wondered whether Brihtric regretted the begging and the pleading – it would have been kinder to them both if he had simply let her go.

  ‘She refused to believe the babe was dead,’ he said, woodenly, on the ride back. ‘She insisted it was alive, and when she was strong enough to rise from her sickbed, she went in search of it.’

  ‘The dolls?’ I guessed, and he nodded.

  I noticed how pale he was, and understood that he loved her still, but could not bear to see her like that.

  I did not expect us to sleep in the same bed upon our return, and I did not expect us to make love, but we did both, and now Brihtric was slumbering soundly, and I was at my wits’ end with thinking about the events of the day.

  There was only one thing to ease my restlessness…

  A woman up and about in the middle of the night might be remarked upon. A cat would attract no such attention. With little thought to my own safety, and with reckless disregard to what would happen if Brihtric saw me, I transformed there and then in full sight of my lover were he to awaken, turning from Caitlyn into Cat.

  Luckily for me, Brihtric did not stir; the disclosure of his secret had brought him some peace, it seemed, for after our love-making he had slipped into sleep with the ease of a babe with a bellyful of milk.

  My own peace was not so easy to achieve, and I had spent yet another night lying awake by his side, listening for the midnight mutterings which thankfully failed to arrive. Brihtric slept undisturbed and the only thing to pass his lips was the occasional sighing breath.

  I, meanwhile, had wrestled with my thoughts, ever since leaving Odella. To my shame, the fact that he had a wife did not prevent me from allowing him to share my bed, and I had made love to him earlier that evening as though it was the last time.

  Maybe it was. Maybe this was our farewell, earlier than I had planned and full of tart sweetness.

  A nasty, selfish little part of me wished he would put his wife aside and annul his sham of a marriage, and I hated myself for it. Not just for the fact that it was wrong and not moral, but because even if he did, he could not possibly have any future with me. I would be asking him to set aside his wife for an illusion. What sort of person did that make me?

  That was the reason why I transformed in front of his sleeping body, without a care if he saw or not. My loathing for myself overrode my fear of being seen and the aftermath which would undoubtedly follow if I was. And I think I almost wanted to be caught; I would certainly deserve the punishment.

  There was another reason – I now know why he had refused Matilda. But he had not shied away from me. He had given me his heart along with his body. I had the feeling that he would turn his back on his wife if I asked him – something he would not have done for status or wealth. He would do it for love, though, and I did not know how to deal with it.

  I slipped out of my room, and made my slinking, skulking way outside, and beyond, slipping through the postern gate.

  The night was alive with sights and smells no human could detect; the patter of mice feet in the granary; the scent of a fox hunting outside the castle walls; the swooping, almost silent flight of a barn owl. This last had me crouching low with instinctive terror, and I hissed up at it as it flew overhead. Although the bird and I might be a fair match in a fight, I was not prepared to take a chance on it.

  My thoughts were red and blood-filled, the urge to slice and rend and tear was so strong that I could taste it. I wanted to kill something, anything.

  This feeling was hardly a new one. It happened every so often and I had learned to give in to it, to assuage the anger. It was either that, or throw myself off one of Edward’s towers.

  Rats, that was what I was after. As a woman, I could tolerate mice, but rats were an entirely different proposition. I hated them. And they did not appear to like me much, to be fair, either as a woman or a cat. They showed a certain amount of wary disdain for the human, but the cat was another thing. I was not a very large cat, and I think they saw me as a challenge. The smaller ones fled the moment they sensed me, but the larger ones were not quite so cowed, and I had a few tiny scars to prove just how uncowed they were.

  The small rodents were not worth the hunt. It was the large, aggressive, dominant creatures that I sought. They were the most fun, because they put up the greatest fight. Normally, hunting did not appeal to me, although I loved the chase and I certainly partook of any meat that was caught (venison was my favourite, although I was quite partial to boar), but when I was Cat I understood the attraction. I also understood how men loved a fight, for I was looking forward to that exact same thing myself.

  And if the rat got the better of me, so be it.

  I stole around a corner, the scent of rodents filling my nostrils, and came to an abrupt halt.

  I had found a rat alright, but not the sort I had been expecting.

  This one wa
s human, and it was speaking Danish once more. What the hell was Wulfstan playing at, skulking behind the kitchens and meeting with ruffians?

  This time, when his conversation was finished, I decided to follow the other man, rather than Wulfstan, who I guessed would be heading back to the castle.

  The ruffian took the opposite direction, heading into the seedier part of the town where prostitutes sold their wares and hard men gathered to gamble and fight. I watched him swagger through the streets and noticed how at ease he was in them, and I kept to the shadows, flitting cautiously from one to the other.

  Once or twice he glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing for him to be suspicious of. If he sensed he was being followed, it would never occur to him to search the dark places near the ground, so I slunk and skulked, and gave him no cause to realise I was even there.

  At length, he came to a halt outside a door and rapped on it, three times, then once, then twice, and waited for someone to open it. When they did, I was too far away to make a dash for it, and it closed before I had a chance to get close enough to slip inside. Never mind, there were other ways of entering a building, and I found one quickly. A rotting plank of wood around the side was all I needed, and I swiftly took advantage of it.

  Voices, two men, I guessed, but there may well be more in the room beyond, drew me in. Danish – I might have guessed.

  The stink of human waste and rotting food assailed my nostrils, and I wrinkled my little nose. A scattering of disgusting rushes rustled under my paws, and I slowed to a creeping stalk, anxious not to let the crackle of brittle stems betray my presence. It might not matter if someone was to spy a cat creeping along the floor, but I did not want to take a chance of being shooed away.

  I had been concentrating so hard on my stealthy approach, that the voices had not registered overly much. It would have been a differed story if I had understood the language, but I understood not one word of Danish, so I had been focusing on slipping inside unseen rather than the speakers themselves, so when I crept in through the semi-open door, I almost cried out in surprise and dismay.

  Tostig!

  I shuffled cautiously backwards until I had almost reversed out of the door; this was probably the only man in England (apart from William) who might recognise me for what I was. He had been in his father’s chambers when Gytha had commented on my eyes, and I was certain his mother had suspected something, and had sent her son to follow me when I pleaded a headache and left Baldwin’s great hall to write a letter. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I remembered feeling that he knew me when he assaulted me. I had put it down to paranoia. Now I was certain that he had indeed seen me before, or my eyes, at least. Then there was the small matter of the man who I had killed in Bruges saying that Gytha had been right.

  It was not that unreasonable a conclusion to jump to – it was clear questions were being asked about me, rumours being spread. Everyone knew the devil was all around, and folk were always on their guard against demons and evil, sorcery and magic. It was not such a leap to believe that the woman who shadowed Lady Arlette’s every move, the woman who had been present when Duke Robert had been seduced by a common tanner’s daughter, might in fact be more than she seemed. All it needed was for someone, anyone, to mention that Lady Arlette had a cat that looked exactly like the one which Lady Matilda had taken a shine to and—

  I stayed there, hiding in the shadows and listening to the foreign words floating above my head, for what seemed like a very long time indeed, learning nothing more of any significance, and when the man took his leave and Tostig took himself off to bed, I made my way back to William.

  It was time I stopped playing at love, and started doing what I was required to do.

  Chapter 26

  She was beautiful, even more handsome than Silver had been. A lady’s horse, this palfrey was elegant and fine-boned, with a flowing mane and tail, and the classically arched neck and dished face indicating Arabian descent.

  ‘Her sire was an Arab,’ Wulfstan said, confirming my guess. ‘I paid a fortune for him. The dam was one of Sigrid’s, out of your mother’s mare.’

  ‘Are you sure I can keep her?’ I asked, taking a tentative step closer and holding out my hand to let her sniff me.

  Wulfstan guffawed. ‘I certainly can’t ride the beast.’ He thumped his substantial torso. ‘I would flatten her.’ He grew more sombre and gave me a measured look. ‘She is yours, if you want her.’

  I wanted her alright. I would sell what was left of my soul to keep her. She had a look of Silver about her, and she reminded me of home.

  Yes, home. Wales was where I truly belonged, and I cursed Arlette for sending me across the water with William. How could I return to Normandy with a settled heart and mind? My heart belonged to Brihtric and my mind belonged to my homeland. The fragile peace I had fought so hard for over these last two decades had been shattered into a thousand pieces. The only thought keeping me going, as always, was the inevitability of Arlette’s death. The witch had to die at some point. Sooner would be better than later for me, but I could wait for however long it took. Time, to a certain extent, was immaterial. If Brihtric had been free to love me, then I would be praying that Arlette would expire today. But with him bound to another, it did not really matter when my mistress passed over. And I was not so evil that I prayed for Odella’s death, either. I did not want the blood of an innocent on my hands. However much I resented Brihtric’s wife, the poor woman did not ask to be mad, and my pity for her was real enough.

  ‘Well?’ Wulfstan’s voice intruded on my thoughts.

  ‘You know I want her,’ I replied. I had so few possessions that the mere thought of owning her made me feel wealthy. If Arlette tried to take her from me…

  Ha! There would be absolutely nothing I could do about it!

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ I said to Wulfstan, and gave him a curtsey. ‘You do not know how much this means to me.’

  His swift glance at my face was astute. ‘I think I do.’

  I froze. Please do not tell me he knows who I really am, I prayed, and dread settled deep in my stomach. He was an intelligent, cunning man – it should not come as such a surprise to me if he had worked it out. Clearly, he had put the pieces of the puzzle together and had seen the complete picture. He—

  ‘It must be hard for you to have no kith nor kin to speak of, and to have lost your mother… This is the least I can do,’ he said, and my fears rolled over and went back to sleep.

  ‘You are too kind,’ I murmured. These secrets would be the death of me!

  ‘Have you any urge to see your mother’s birthplace?’ he asked.

  If he only knew it, I had a great urge indeed. Those rolling Welsh hills were singing a sweet siren song, carried on the breeze. I could almost smell the gorse and the heather, almost hear the bleat of half-grown lambs and the call of the skylark. Oh, how I longed to return, to see my homeland once more, to hear the lilt of Welsh in my ears and the sweet familiarity of my country in my heart.

  I nodded a response, not trusting myself to speak lest Wulfstan heard the sorrow and longing in my voice. It was a mistake to come here, to England. So near, yet so very far…

  ‘It is a pity you are not staying longer. I could have taken you there.’ He leaned closer. ‘I have links with the Welsh.’

  So Wulfstan was still playing that game, was he, and I wondered what those links were and how strongly he had forged them. At least one thing was certain – Idris did not rule in my stead.

  With a blatant disregard for caution and because I could hold back my curiosity no longer, I asked, ‘Who rules Deheubarth now?’

  ‘A man called Gruffydd ab Rhydderch. He rules Gwent too.’ Wulfstan studied me, and I squirmed a little under his regard. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘My mother felt the loss of her husband and her land keenly, my lord. I am curious, that is all.’

  ‘As you are aware, she came to me after he was killed and sought my help in restoring her to her
rightful place.’ He slid me a sideways glance. If I had not known how false his words were, I would not have noticed it.

  Did she hell! But if that was the tale Wulfstan wanted to spin, then I was content to let him, and he relaxed when all I did was nod. It was then that I realised he was testing me, wanting to know what my “mother” had told me.

  ‘She said Idris was to blame for Rhain’s death,’ I said, poking the bear to see his reaction.

  ‘He was.’ Wulfstan was quick to agree.

  When he failed to volunteer any further information, I spoke again. ‘What happened after she left Wales?’ I had asked and asked, but neither Prince Edward nor Prince Alfred had known, and neither of them had cared enough to find out. And why would they? An insignificant Welsh kingdom on the edge of nowhere was nothing to them.

  ‘Llywelyn ap Seisyll died less than a year after your mother left for Normandy,’ Wulfstan said, and I made sure I kept careful control of my expression at the unexpected news.

  Less than a year? If only I had kept my anger under control and not stabbed Idris, I might be queen now in my own right. I should have gone along with the farce of a marriage, secured my place on Deheubarth’s throne, then arranged to have Idris quietly removed from it.

  But then, I was far younger and much less worldly wise, and I doubted I would have had the stomach for it, either. It was ironic that I had the stomach for it now alright, when it was too bloody late.

  ‘Who succeeded him?’ I asked.

  ‘Let me see… Rhydderch ab Iestyn, then Hywel ab Edwin, followed by Gruffydd ap Llywelyn of Gwynedd.’

  The names meant nothing to me, and though Wulfstan pretended that he had to search his memory for these men, I noticed that the names came easily enough. He had clearly kept a close eye on my little kingdom.

  ‘None of them were Seisyll’s sons,’ he added.