Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  As for Caitlyn, I’ll leave that to you – but witchcraft certainly would explain Matilda’s sudden change of heart, wouldn’t it?

  Another Kind of Magic

  Chapter 1

  I disliked cats.

  The big, ginger tom, mere feet away from me, back arched, fur fluffed out from ears to tail-tip and hissing louder than Cleopatra’s asp, did little to change my opinion. He did not like me, either. Not many did.

  He sensed my otherness, despite my appearance. Perhaps I did not smell enough like a cat, or perhaps something else alerted him. I was not what I seemed, and he hated me for the deceit, threatening to tear my face off with each throaty growl.

  I was never going to win a fight with this half-wild feline, and both of us knew it, so I showed him my sleek, grey tail and ran. Fleeter and more agile than the ageing tom, I kept just ahead of him, his frustrated yowls loud in my ears. Once or twice, his paw almost caught me as he swiped at my rear leg, hoping to trip me, but each time I bounded out of his reach, fear giving me speed as I raced for my life. He would kill me if he caught me.

  I led the way blindly, with no thought to where I headed. We hurtled down treacherous, steep, winding stairs, foot-smoothed and narrow, out into the courtyard, across the muddied cobbles, and into the great hall. One of the castle dogs bounded into my path, barking hysterically. I leapt a good three feet in the air, clearing his flea-ridden back as he skidded to a halt. Yellowed, inch-long canines snapped shut, so close that the stench from his breath blasted into my face. He may have missed me, but the ginger tom did not, raking my side with sharp claws, deep enough to draw blood. Unbalanced, I dropped to the flagstones and tumbled ears over tail, mewing at the sudden hurt.

  They were upon me, both of them. The scent of blood drew them like wolves to a kill, the dog sensing I was the weaker of the two cats, and the tomcat, intent on obliterating me, paid the mutt no heed. Hell, he could probably take the dog in a fair fight.

  I crouched low, flattened to the floor and hissed, claws unsheathed, teeth bared, standing no chance but prepared to fight regardless. I had no choice, and this vicious little skirmish would be to the death. My death.

  ‘Get out of it!’

  I did not recognise the voice, but when a heavily booted foot swung and connected with the dog’s ribs, I realised the man was friend, not foe. A piteous yelp replaced frenzied snarls, as the mutt was sent sprawling across the floor. A downpour of water from a thrown jug drenched the cat on top of me, and the ginger tom yowled in outrage and dismay. He jumped backwards, and if I were not hurting so much, I would have laughed at the indignation on his face. He spat and hissed insults, orange fur plastered to his body, all dignity lost, and the fight washed out of him. With one final growl, he shot across the hall and disappeared out of the door. The dog had fled, but he still yelped, and I guessed the kick must have done him some damage.

  Served him right. Served them both right, although I wished the tomcat had suffered more than hurt pride and a soaking. All cats hated me, but most simply avoided me. The ginger tom, however, had taken my existence as a personal insult. The enormous male cat had attacked me once before and would probably do so again if he had the chance. Dogs, on the other hand, saw nothing but a cat and treated me as such. It made no difference, the result was often the same.

  I lay there for a heartbeat or two, too shocked to move, although move I must. A normal cat would have fled already, but I was not a normal cat.

  A pair of boots loomed over me, mud-caked and worn, rubbed to a shine from stirrup-straps. Big, calloused hands stroked my water-sodden fur, and I tensed at the violation.

  ‘Shush, lay still, little cat, I will not hurt you.’

  I let the man examine me, and I lay rigid and discomfited as he prodded and poked. His fingers were gentle.

  ‘You have a nasty scratch across your ribs,’ he announced. ‘But you will live.’

  He picked me up, as tender as if I were his own babe, and cradled me in his arms for a moment, before placing me carefully on my feet. I stood, wobbling slightly, more from shock than injury.

  ‘Go now, find somewhere to hide, and clean your wounds.’

  I meowed at him, hoping it sounded grateful and, mindful of his advice, slunk back to my room.

  Ever cautious, I hesitated outside my door. The ill-lit passage was empty. Ears swivelling, I listened intently. Reassured by the quiet, I squeezed under the door. Many years ago, I had removed a chunk of wood from the base, sufficient enough for a little cat to slip through, my own secret entrance.

  Once inside, I peered up at the door, checking it was still barred and locked as I had left it; it would not do to take chances. As expected, my chamber was empty. The small room, with its tiny slit of a window, was cold in winter and stifling in summer, but at least it was all mine. I shared with none of Joan’s women, for a good reason. Imagine their reaction if they saw me shudder, and blur, and change, going from woman to cat and back again? I did not fancy being burned at the stake, nor drowned for a witch.

  Me the witch? Ha! The unfairness of it stung. If caught, I would stand accused of witchcraft and the real witch would walk free, however much I protested my innocence. Even if they believed my story, the Church would want to burn the devil out of me. Either way, a bonfire awaited.

  Caitlyn once more, I stood upright, sodden and dishevelled, and removed my drenched gown and shift. I reached for a scrap of cloth to dry the hair clinging to my naked back, the tendrils curling down to my waist and sticking to the raw gashes which reached from underneath one breast to where my bottom-most rib joined my spine. I hissed in pain. Pulling the locks free aggravated the wounds. Blood oozed slowly, but clots were already forming.

  Deliberately, I stretched in the opposite direction, muffling a small cry as the three parallel wounds reopened. Ignoring the blood flowing freely down my side, I knelt in front of the hearth and piled logs on the embers, blowing the almost-dead fire back to roaring, greedy life. Satisfied it had taken hold, I filled a small, soot-black kettle with water from a bowl and hung it above the flames to boil.

  While I waited for the water to heat, I used the remainder of the liquid in the bowl to sluice my injuries. Lord knows where that ginger tom’s claws had been. I had seen too many wounds fester for want of proper cleaning, not to pay particular attention to my own. The exact same thing had happened to me many years ago after a knife wound to my side, and I had nearly lost my life. I did not want to be in the same situation again. I still bore the scar, although it was on the opposite side to this. When this one healed, I would have a matching pair.

  The water had come to the boil, and I added a splash of it to a bowl standing ready-filled with a mix of powdered herbs. I stirred until I had made a smooth paste, then smeared it on the wound. Finally, I folded a square of fresh linen and held it over the scratches, binding it tightly, wincing. I vowed I would catch that damn cat one day and see how he liked being set upon by something bigger than himself.

  Taking a clean, dry gown from the chest at the foot of my horsehair mattress, I dressed and laid the wet garment across a chair for the heat of the fire to dry it. I was done here; I needed to return to my task.

  With a sigh, I became Cat once more.

  Chapter 2

  I sat patiently outside the door, primly upright, with my tail curled around my front paws and with my eyes half closed. The bell for Compline rang, made faint by distance and thick stone walls, and I waited some more, the epitome of serenity on the outside but taut as a lute string inside.

  I hated playing the spy, despite my many years of experience at the craft, and in spite of my competence. No one suspected a small, dove-grey feline to be anything other than what it appeared, even if its blue eyes were sometimes too knowing and intelligent. People saw what they wanted to see, and my mistress took advantage of their ignorance.

  Lord William’s door was closed and locked, with two guards stationed outside. They looked as bored with their vigil as I was with mine.<
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  William… the name always gave me pause. Even after all these long years, and the hundreds, maybe thousands, of children who had been named after the Duke of Normandy, I always thought of my William, my heart-son, and the man who had fulfilled a prophecy to become England’s greatest king. The man behind this door, William de Braose, Lord of Abergavenny, was nothing like my William had been. The only thing the two men had in common was their given name. And maybe their ruthlessness.

  The hairs along my back rose, as footsteps drew me out of my reverie and set my heart to pounding. Breathing deeply to quieten my jitters, I crouched low, ready to dart to the door. The guards posted outside Lord William’s chambers straightened, stretching out limbs aching from four hours of being on watch.

  Two servants appeared, closely followed by several of Llewelyn’s men. Our lord was taking no chances with his distinguished guest, nor with the man they escorted. I was at the wrong angle to see his face. Though my eyes were night-ready and I saw as clear as day when in cat form, there were distinct disadvantages to being less than a foot tall. All I could see was the underside of a clean-shaven chin.

  One of the guards unlocked the door, and the servants were gestured inside with their burdens of food, mead, and fine wine. The prisoner followed. I wove through several pairs of legs, slunk through the open door, and found a dark corner in which to hide. If I were quiet enough, no one would ever know I was there. The servants retreated, the door was locked once more, and the men were left to enjoy their meal; roasted heron, among other dishes, if my nose told me true.

  ‘Wine?’ The voice was cultured, the man who owned it was well-dressed and confident. He turned from the table and held up a jug, sniffing at it with some caution. William, Lord of Abergavenny, the man who had piqued my mistress’s interest, displayed haughty good-looks, with his fair-haired, sun-lightened locks falling over his forehead, and his handsome face with its neatly trimmed beard.

  ‘It does not smell like the usual Welsh swill. I would hazard a guess that this is French,’ he added.

  ‘Please, but not too much, if I am to spend the rest of this evening in Llewelyn’s hall. I shall need my wits about me,’ the second man replied.

  I stiffened, the hairs on my back rising again because I recognised the speaker, the seated one, the one whose face I had yet to see. He was the kicker of mean dogs and the thrower of water. My saviour from earlier. I could not recall his face, nor anything else about him, apart from his voice and the gentleness of his hands.

  Intrigued, I crept closer, keeping to the shadows, grey on grey, eyes narrowed in concentration, paws soft and silent on the Persian carpet which covered a great deal of the stone floor. No expense was being spared for this particular prisoner, I thought, making sure to remember to tell my mistress how well Llewelyn was treating William.

  ‘Here.’ William handed the other man a goblet of ruby liquid, and sat in the opposite chair, clutching his own drink. ‘So, where has Llewelyn brought me?’ he asked.

  ‘We are at Criccieth.’

  ‘Criccieth! I suspected as much. What do you know of this castle?’

  ‘Twin-towered, heavily fortified, it has a massive curtain wall and is built on a steep headland. The sea is on three sides and mountains on the other, and it can only be reached by a narrow causeway high above the beach. It is almost inaccessible and is at the furthermost reach of Llewelyn’s lands. Our captor has chosen our prison well.’

  William huffed. ‘He has made damned certain Lord Marshal and his forces will not risk trying to rescue me. How many men did we lose?’

  ‘Too many,’ the other man said. I edged around the room, slinking underneath a low table to try to catch a glimpse of his face. ‘The King ordered Marshal to retreat, and we were cut off. We did not stand a chance.’

  His voice carried a Welsh lilt, rounded and polished, like a stone whose sharp edges had been smoothed by a fast-flowing river. The sound of it sent shivers along my spine.

  William grunted. ‘Bastard! I might have known King Henry would not have the stomach for a fight with Llewelyn.’

  ‘Hush, Will. The situation could not have gone on. Llewelyn had the advantage, and Henry knew it.’

  ‘The King is still a bastard for leaving us there. Him and bloody Lord Marshal!’

  ‘They had no choice. We were too far up the valley and too far from the town. What would you have Marshal do? Risk all to save a handful of men?’

  ‘I am the Lord of Abergavenny, not a common foot soldier. How dare he leave me there to die?’

  ‘But you are not dead,’ the man pointed out. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are very much alive. And you will stay that way; you are too valuable to Llewelyn to let you come to any harm.’

  The other man rose out of his chair, and I finally saw him. All of him. Oblivious to the heated discussion above my head, I lost interest in their words at the sight of him. How did I fail to notice his beauty when he saved me earlier? Admittedly, I had not looked at his face, too sore and shocked to consider anyone other than myself, but nevertheless, I could not believe this man had escaped my attention.

  Over six-foot tall and rangy, and with a warrior’s loose stance, he carried himself like a man confident in his own skin; a man well-versed in battle; a man muscular enough to heave a sword almost as tall as a grown woman. Raven-haired and clear-skinned, his face devoid of beard, I thought him even more handsome than William. A frown creased his brow and his blue eyes bore signs of strain. He appeared worried, as well he might. Being Prince Llewelyn’s prisoner could do that to a man.

  ‘At least he is treating us well.’ William gestured towards the table and its burden of food. ‘We should eat, Hugh.’

  Now I had a name for him, but I was none the wiser as to his identity, nor his importance, although he must be a man of means, else he would not be treated with the same accord as William.

  My mistress, Princess Joan, had commanded me to discover all I could about William, Lord of Abergavenny. So far, I had little more to tell her than that which she already knew.

  William had been fighting with Lord Marshal and the rest of King Henry’s forces when Llewelyn took him prisoner, along with some of his men, and brought him to Criccieth in a covered cart. Joan had watched the procession enter the castle from her solar window, and the whole court had blazed with the news of William’s capture ever since.

  The two men ate in silence, each man seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and my stomach growled at the smell of roasted meats. I had missed supper for this, and my resentment once more raised its head. My mistress had little consideration for my needs or wants.

  An apple hit the floor with a thud and rolled under the table. I held my breath, hoping it would be ignored, trusting there were plenty more in the bowl and that this one would be left for a servant to clear, but a hand appeared, groping for the fruit, followed by a head, and I found myself staring into the eyes of the man with the gentle touch.

  ‘Hello again, mistress cat.’ His voice was low and sweet, and held a hint of a smile.

  ‘What is down there?’ William wanted to know.

  ‘A cat. One I have encountered before.’

  ‘Chase it out, before it steals the rest of the meat.’

  ‘Come here, little cat, I will not harm you.’

  I slunk out from underneath the table, mortified at being seen. Cats in a castle were as common as the mice and rats they were there to kill, and no one ever noticed them. They skulked in corners, bred in the barns and sheds which dotted the courtyard, and stole food from tables, but no one usually looked twice at a cat. Except for this man. I would need to be more careful. He would never guess the truth, but I had not lived this long without being cautious.

  He scooped up the apple, polished it with the edge of his tunic, and bit into it with enthusiasm. His teeth were white and straight, his lips nicely shaped. I watched him as he chewed, and he watched me, in turn.

  ‘I don’t believe it! I bet it is female,’ William excla
imed. ‘What is it with you and women? They can’t stay away from you.’ William abruptly leaned forward, and without warning, caught me up and turned me over. I hissed and spat, and raked his hand with my sharp, dagger claws, but not before he had seen what he wanted.

  He dropped me with an oath, sucking at the scratches on his hand. ‘Female,’ he announced. ‘And a nasty one.’

  Hugh laughed at his lord’s words. ‘I would scratch you, too, if you did that to me.’ He searched the chamber and found me hiding under a chair. I would have fled the room, but the door to the passage remained locked and guarded, and the door to the bedchamber was closed. I had nowhere to run.

  I growled at him, furious and indignant, but he only laughed. So, I settled for sitting down, wrapping my tail around my paws, and giving him a haughty cat stare.

  ‘Will, you have scuppered my chances with yet another lady,’ he joked. ‘This one is not happy.’

  William became serious all at once. His head dropped and the cockiness leaked out of him. ‘I hope Eva has been informed that she is not yet a widow. I cannot bear for her to be worried,’ he said.

  ‘All women worry. It is in their nature. Llewelyn must have sent word to the King that you are his prisoner, and the King will have passed the message to your wife.’

  That was probably correct. Prince Llewelyn might be a military man, but he was also no fool. If there was gain to be had, then he would ensure he had it. And there was definitely a profit to be gleaned from this particular situation.

  Llewelyn ruled North Wales, and all had been relatively peaceful between the Welsh and the English until King Henry allowed Lord Marshal, one of the most prominent men in England, to begin building a castle on Welsh soil. Llewelyn, unsurprisingly, had taken umbrage at that, and had attacked the English and their half-formed castle, capturing William and some of his men in the process. That William happened to be Marshal’s son-in-law, proved to be an added bonus for Llewelyn.