Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  I wondered what terms would be negotiated, for terms there most certainly would be; if Llewelyn did not want to negotiate with the English king for William’s release, William would already be dead. And William knew it – hence the cockiness and the confidence, despite his embarrassment at being taken prisoner.

  ‘I heard a rumour that Llewelyn is asking for two thousand pounds for your sorry carcass,’ Hugh said, his attention still on me. He held out a hand but I ignored it, as I also ignored the soft, little kissing noises he sent my way as a form of enticement, although I couldn’t help but stare at his mouth as he called to me. A heat started low down in my belly and spread up to my chest, and I imagined those lightly puckered lips on mine.

  ‘Two thousand pounds! Is that all I am worth?’ William looked indignant.

  Hugh glanced up at his lord, then sat up and leaned back in his chair. ‘It is a king’s ransom, Will, a great deal of money.’

  Interesting news indeed. Llewelyn might easily raise an army with that kind of wealth at his disposal. There would be little doubt that the ransom would be paid; William was too rich and too valuable to leave to languish in a remote Welsh dungeon, although perhaps dungeon may be too strong a word honoured guest for the luxury the Lord of Abergavenny had been accorded. He might be imprisoned on the topmost floor of one of the massive circular gatehouse towers, but William occupied a guest suite, with a sitting room, a bedroom and his own privy. Expensive carpets were on the floor, rich clothing had been procured and hastily altered for him, he was served the best of food and wines… Llewelyn was treating him like an honoured guest – apart from the locked door and the guards placed outside it.

  Hugh had no such restrictions on his movements it appeared, else he would not have been in the great hall when I needed rescuing.

  I wondered why.

  Chapter 3

  Joan was waiting for me, bed-ready, staring into the flames of the night-banked fire and warming her hands at the hearth. Her women would have already been sent to their beds, although I suspected Llewelyn may visit her later. He often did. Unusual for an arranged marriage, and for a marriage of such long standing, the Prince seemed to genuinely love his royal wife, as much as he enjoyed the prestige of being married to King Henry’s half-sister. I did wonder whether he loved her out of choice or witchcraft. A mixture of both, perhaps?

  Joan’s mother, Clemence, had been a nothing, a nobody, in the scheme of things. Norman French, of good family, but neither good enough nor wealthy enough to secure the husband she wanted, she had resorted to using magic to enthral King John and tempt him to her bed. He had duly obliged, and she had presented him with a bastard child – Joan, his firstborn. Clemence had been livid – she had hoped for a son – and I had borne the brunt of her temper for months. If the child had been male, he might have stood a chance of being King of England. Instead, King John had married, got himself a legitimate son and heir, and Clemence had been forced to make do with a daughter. Although, the daughter had done extremely well for herself, indeed.

  The whole affair had given me a secret smile, for I had witnessed almost the exact same thing with Arlette.

  Clemence had continued to use her dark arts to keep Joan in King John’s thoughts, and when the child was old enough to marry, her father had wed the girl off to Prince Llewelyn of Wales at the tender age of thirteen, eager to cement ties with this formidable Welshman. It was not exactly what Clemence had hoped for, but Joan had become the Princess of Wales. Not too bad a rise up the ladder for a bastard girl.

  It was a pity Joan didn’t see it that way. Although she held the title of Princess of Wales, she was English through and through. She had resented being sold off to appease the Welsh; even at thirteen, she had hoped for a match which kept her close to the throne of England. I had witnessed her disappointment first hand, and it had not been pleasant. She had schemed and plotted continually, eager to further her position, and Joan had even managed to persuade the Pope to declare her legitimate, though I failed to see what good that would do. Bastard or not, she was married to Llewelyn, and she took great pains to keep him bound to her, heart and soul, using all the whiles and charms at her disposal. There would be no more ladder-climbing for her. Unless Llewelyn died…

  ‘Well?’ Joan’s expression was expectant.

  ‘William is to be ransomed for two thousand pounds,’ I said.

  ‘A princely sum. Is he worth such an amount? And if so, who will pay it?’

  ‘Lord Marshal?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Joan mused, ‘Although it would not be for love of his son-in-law. I heard they can barely tolerate each other. No, if Marshal is prepared to pay, it would be for political reasons only. It would not do to allow the Lord of Abergavenny to be held by Llewelyn. It might give my husband ideas.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If Llewelyn does not receive a ransom, he will kill William and send his head back to Marshal in a bag. If he did such a thing to one English lord, King Henry rightly fears that the rest of the Welsh princes might throw in their lot with Llewelyn. My brother would have a full-blown war on his hands instead of the petty clashes he deals with at present. In a war for border territories and for Wales itself, there is no guarantee Henry would win, and even if Marshal hates William as much as it is rumoured, he would suffer severe loss of face if the Welsh executed one of his own family.

  She sat and gestured for me to loosen her hair. I did her bidding, unpinning her thick yellow locks and brushing out the tangles.

  ‘I heard he is handsome,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  The image in my mind was not of William; instead, his man, Hugh, filled my thoughts and I struggled to recall Lord Abergavenny’s features.

  ‘He has a beard,’ I said, as a start.

  ‘Phish! What man does not?’ Joan was unimpressed with my description.

  Hugh. He does not, I thought.

  ‘Blond hair, tall, a warrior’s build,’ I added.

  ‘Taller than Llewelyn?’

  ‘Yes, more muscular, too.’

  ‘I believe he is little more than thirty years old.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘You did not say whether you thought he is handsome.’

  My hands stilled, and I replaced the comb on the table. Joan turned to face me.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I replied, but I was not talking about Lord Abergavenny.

  Chapter 4

  The great hall brimmed with people: barons, knights, soldiers, pages, and squires, for the most part. Many of Llewelyn’s nobles had accompanied their lord to Criccieth Castle after the battle and were reluctant to return to their own lands, wanting to witness the captive for themselves, and maybe hope to be granted a share of the ransom.

  Men were everywhere, loud, brash, and jubilant. Women were scarcer, just Joan and her ladies, and a few wives and daughters of the men-at-arms and knights who garrisoned the castle. Ale, mead, and wine had been poured, and the atmosphere was feast-day exultant. A battle had been won and hostages had been captured, and the men’s relief at finding themselves alive at the end of the day proved irrepressible. They wanted to celebrate.

  William and Hugh marched in, escorted by several of Llewelyn’s men; a prison detail thinly disguised as an honour guard. No one carried arms in the presence of the Prince of Wales, except for his personal protectors, who were hand-picked and fiercely loyal. William’s escort bore no weapons other than the small daggers used to cut meat, but no one doubted the status of the strangers. William and his men were prisoners, not guests. The hall fell silent. No one had expected Llewelyn’s prisoners to be summoned for supper, and a quiver of excitement rippled through the hall.

  If I had not been watching Joan closely, and if I did not know her so well, it would have passed me by, that little, tell-tale frisson which rippled through her. It took her one glance at William, Lord of Abergavenny, and the very air reverberated with her awarene
ss of him.

  I lay curled on Joan’s lap; not a position I liked, but this evening Joan wanted to keep me close. I knew not why, but at least from here I saw faces, not legs. She stiffened and froze when the prisoners entered, and her reaction drew my attention when all other eyes, Llewelyn’s included, were focused on William. It was only I who noticed her response to him. A small intake of breath and widened eyes gave her away, as did the tension radiating from her, and a tiny sound escaped her throat, almost a purr. Who was the cat now?

  William, clothed in borrowed finery, the mail and armour which he had been wearing when he was captured now exchanged for a crimson tunic and a pair of calf-skin boots, strode across the hall, his head held high. Hugh, less flamboyant in slate-grey tunic and darker grey breeches, walked beside him, his expression blank. Undeniably the more handsome of the two, Hugh drew my gaze, but William wore his nobility and great wealth like a king wore a crown, clear for all to see. Every other man and woman in the great hall studied him with interest. Or resentment, or hatred, or perhaps all three, for this man was so detested by the Welsh for his family’s suppression of my countrymen, that he had earned himself the nickname, Black William.

  This evening he showed wide-mouthed smiles and calm confidence, golden hair and polished boots, with no hint of the legendary blackness about him. He strode into Llewelyn’s hall as if he were the prince of it, not Llewelyn; as if he had come to offer negotiation, not to be informed of his fate. I admired him for it. Not many men had such audacity or boldness.

  Hugh appeared more cautious, a small smile playing about his lips, his eyes wary. He looked more like a man anticipating a fight in a tavern, than one about to share meat and mead at a prince’s table.

  ‘My lady, may I present William de Braose, Lord of Abergavenny, Builth, and Brecon,’ Llewelyn announced as William and Hugh approached the high table.

  Joan, sitting straight and regal, inclined her head. William bowed. I watched his eyes. His gaze met Joan’s in a bold stare, but there was an emotion on his face which I failed to read. Was it attraction? Admiration? My lady’s beauty had not dimmed, in spite of her thirty-six years and several pregnancies, and this man would not be the first man to acknowledge it.

  ‘Princess,’ he murmured, far too intimately for the occasion. ‘You are as lovely as they say.’ He straightened and gave her a wry smile. ‘I am sorry we have to meet in such circumstances.’

  Joan wore a suitably mild expression, but her breathing quickened and she held his gaze for a second longer than was seemly.

  Her husband broke the spell. ‘And this is Hugh of Pembroke,’ Llewelyn said, gesturing towards the other man standing before them.

  Hugh bowed to my mistress and she nodded imperiously, but I swear she never really saw him. Hugh gave a wry smile of his own.

  The two men were invited to sit, places having been reserved for them at the high table. Llewelyn and Joan had pride of place, next to each other: a prince and his princess, presiding over the festivities. William sat on Llewelyn’s right and Hugh on Joan’s left.

  ‘Hello again, kitty,’ Hugh said, seeing me on Joan’s lap.

  He was as handsome as I remembered.

  I resisted the urge to nod at him, remembering which face I wore. Sometimes I had to work at being Cat – the state of ‘catness’ did not always come naturally. And why should it? After all, there was nothing natural about my condition.

  She tightened her grip on me and I knew I had displeased her; I should never have been noticed. The whole point of my being a cat was my unobtrusiveness, my ability to hide in shadows and dark corners. ‘I did not realise you and my pet had already met,’ she said.

  Was it only me who noticed how she almost spat the word “pet”?

  ‘Indeed, your cat and I became acquainted last night. She was being set upon by one of the hounds and a rather large ginger tom.’

  ‘Who won?’ she asked, uninterested, merely making conversation. She assumed I could take care of myself.

  ‘I did,’ he said.

  She stopped squeezing, and for the first time, she looked clearly at Hugh. He wore a warm smile and creases crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  ‘I kicked the dog and poured a jug of water on the cat. Your pet was most grateful,’ he explained.

  ‘I have no doubt of it.’

  ‘Do you have a name for her?’

  Joan hesitated, and I froze. Never once, in all my long years, had anyone asked my name when I appeared in cat form. My lady called me by my given name, though never while I was a cat, and I held my breath, waiting for her to reveal it.

  ‘Cat,’ she said, after a moment’s pause, and I sighed. How appropriate, for that was how I referred to myself when I sported four paws. It was also what my William had called me. The thought gave me a brief pang; it had been a very long time indeed since anyone had referred to me as Cat.

  Hugh laughed loudly, startling me. My claws shot out and dug into my mistress’s thighs, and her swift clout to my head warned me to take more care. I sheathed my sharp daggers and surreptitiously inspected her gown. No pulled threads and no drawn blood. Nevertheless, I would doubtless pay for my carelessness later.

  ‘I am sorry.’ Hugh was clearly not sorry at all. ‘I did not mean to frighten Cat.’

  I glared at him. I wasn’t frightened, stupid man!

  ‘Now I have offended her.’ He laughed again. ‘She has a stare like her mistress – queen-like and reserved.’ He smiled at Joan, to soften his words. ‘And you are every inch a queen, my lady,’ he said.

  ‘You flatter me, sir.’

  ‘Of course! You are a woman who deserves to be flattered.’

  Now he was flirting with her, and Joan simpered as I sat there, astounded. My mistress never simpered. Never. I didn’t believe she had the ability, but there she was, smiling a small smile, her lips were moist and parted, her gaze was downcast and she was fluttering her lashes.

  I let out a small growl of annoyance. It went unheard, but when I saw her eyes and the calculation in them, I knew she was play-acting.

  ‘Tell me, sir, how did you come to be in the company of Lord William?’ she asked.

  ‘I am his sworn man, and to his father before him. I expect you remember Lord Reginald – he died this June.’

  ‘Indeed, I do. I was sorry to hear of his loss. Lord William has large boots to fill.’

  ‘He is more than capable, my lady,’ Hugh countered.

  ‘And yet he is at my husband’s mercy.’ Her tone was sarcastic.

  ‘An unfortunate turn of events. Battles are like women – fickle and unpredictable.’ He smiled, and Joan smiled back. A servant placed the first of the platters on the table, diverting Hugh’s attention. ‘You set a good table, Lady Joan.’ He cut off a slice of glazed boar with a small knife.

  ‘I may be far from court, but it does not mean I let standards drop.’ My mistress’s voice was sharp.

  Llewelyn turned to his wife and put a proprietary hand over hers. ‘Not fallen for Sir Hugh’s charms yet, my love?’ He sent Hugh a wink and said to Joan, ‘This one has a reputation with the women-folk. Handsome devil, isn’t he? Has them drooling all over him. I have yet to meet a woman who can resist him.’ The Prince’s words were playful and his tone light, but they held a clear warning.

  Hugh took it in his stride. ‘My reputation is not deserved, your Highness.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it is!’ William joined in. ‘Even Lady Joan’s cat fell for him. It followed him to my chamber last night and joined us in our meal. It was all purrs for him, but look what it did to me.’ He held out his hand, revealing several red-raw scratches. I was not sorry I had inflicted them.

  ‘What do you expect, Will, if you treat a lady with such indignity? He deserved to be clawed,’ Hugh said, turning to Joan and laughing.

  I let out a squeak as the lady in question tightened her grip once more, plucking me from her lap and dumping me in Hugh’s. I yowled in dismay at the indignity.

  ‘Twice y
ou have championed my pet,’ she said. ‘Take her – she is yours, if you want her.’

  What game was the woman playing now? She would never give me away, the most valuable of all her possessions. I bet not many witches could boast that they owned a familiar, and the art of creating one was a dying one. I may be the last to be ensorceled.

  Hugh stroked a hand down the length of my back, and I arched up to meet his touch. For once, my response was all cat and instinctive, and I flattened my ears as his hand came down for another caress, the roughness of his palm travelling down my head, along my spine, right to the tip of my tail. I stood in his lap, my paws trampling on his thighs, my whiskers buried in his tunic, and I failed to prevent a rumbling purr.

  ‘See,’ said William. ‘Not even a cat can resist him.’

  ‘But I can resist a cat,’ Hugh said, scooping me up and placing me on the floor. Ashamed at my reaction to him, I shot under the table, hackles raised, and hissed at several pairs of legs.

  ‘It is your turn to offend her.’ William laughed. ‘Careful she does not scratch you too.’

  Lord William had no sooner put the idea in my head, than my claws were out and I struck Hugh on the leg.

  Not waiting around to see the effects of my actions, I fled, darting around tables and benches, dodging servants and dogs, not stopping until I slipped through a hole in the postern gate and had cold, damp grass under my paws.

  Night had long since fallen, and lanterns flickered in the town and along the castle walls. I turned my back on them and stared out to sea. Only a few scudding clouds, wind-driven and hurrying inland, obscured the stars.

  Wind ruffled the guard hairs along my flanks, carrying with it the scent of open water and distant rain, and a false promise of freedom. My paws were silent as I slunk through the yellowed, dying summer grass, made grey by the darkness.