Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  A crowd obscured my view, but I pushed and sidled my way through it, gathering mutters and elbow digs as I went. They let me through with some reluctance, for even with my fine-spun gown and obvious status, no one wanted to give up their place. When I reached the front, I gripped the rail, the press of bodies tight against my back, all wanting to see, and for a good reason.

  Hugh of Pembroke, clad in boiled leather and chainmail, faced one of Llewelyn’s best fighters, Deric ap Edwyn. Six-foot-six, sheathed in slabbed muscle, wider than a Welsh Black bull and just as wily, Hugh’s opponent was formidable. The two men circled each other, breathing hard. Hugh, leaner, more agile, and quicker on his feet, had tried to tire the larger man by dancing around him, staying just out of reach. Deric, too experienced to fall for such tactics, refused to be drawn. I held my breath as Hugh dodged an arm-crushing swing. Even blunted, the business end of each of the swords measured a good five feet and could deliver a savage blow.

  Hugh deflected another strike with his shield, the wood reverberating with a dull thud, a wooden bell ringing out the match. And match it was; for all its ferocity, the swordplay was just play. They did this for fun, these men, and not simply to keep skills honed and bodies war-ready. I understood the need for the latter, but I failed to understand this eagerness to fight. They relished it, sought it out, and if none was available, they manufactured it. The real battle had taken place less than a week ago, and yet there they were, those same men, keen to enter the ring and risk injury, without good cause, merely for enjoyment.

  Deric caught Hugh a clout to the ribs and sent him reeling. Hugh danced upright soon enough, swinging his own sword, the knock hard but not serious, although I suspected he might be sore and bruised come evening.

  ‘Finish him, Deric. What are you waiting for, man?’ the soldier next to me shouted. I flinched, his yell ringing in my ear.

  ‘Aye, Deric, take the English dog down. Or are you playing with him because you fancy him?’ another called, to laughter and cheers.

  ‘He is not English,’ I muttered.

  ‘He threw his lot in with the English, so he will be treated like one,’ the man on my right said.

  I glanced up at him, surprised that he heard me above the racket. Ifan of Harlech, one of Llewelyn’s barons, stared back. Handsome in a rugged way, rumour had it that he had gone through two wives already and would not be averse to taking a third. I almost smiled a greeting. I knew him well, though he did not know me, and I remembered in the nick of time that I needed to pretend to be a stranger at the castle.

  Hugh struck Deric on the shoulder, and the other man stumbled backwards into the crowd, the press of onlookers keeping him upright. Hugh kept his eyes on his foe, ignoring the booing and hissing from the crowd. The fight might be well matched, but the audience was clearly one-sided.

  ‘Deric, bach, stop acting like a maid in love,’ Ifan called, and I smiled, both at the Welsh endearment and Ifan’s expression. He appeared genuinely appalled that Deric had allowed Hugh to land a blow.

  Deric dropped his shield, his left arm dangling by his side, numbed or broken, and Hugh pressed forward. He had the other man at a disadvantage, and Deric parried hard.

  ‘Take him, Hugh,’ I called, unheard above the yelling of several scores of men and boys.

  ‘I do not know who you are, lady, but it would be best not to champion William of Abergavenny’s man,’ Ifan said to me. His words were good-natured in tone and he smiled as he spoke them, but his eyes said otherwise.

  ‘He is lacking support, sir. I merely wish to rectify the situation,’ I said, equally light-hearted, but I wondered what Llewelyn’s man saw in my own eyes. I turned back to the fight. ‘Hugh,’ I shouted, louder this time.

  The roar of many voices lessened, and several heads turned in my direction, perhaps because there were only a few women amongst the gathering, or maybe because I was championing the prisoner.

  I didn’t care. I’d had enough of hiding in the shadows, pretending to be no-one. Joan would be cross if she came to hear of it, but a giddy recklessness overtook me. I wanted Pembroke to win so very badly.

  ‘Go at it, Hugh!’ I shouted, as loudly as I could.

  Hugh heard, my voice chiming across the arena, and he glanced in my direction and his eyes locked onto mine.

  Deric took advantage of Hugh’s distraction and rushed forward, sword swinging.

  Hugh took a strike to the head from the flat side of Deric’s blade, and dropped to the ground.

  The contest was over.

  Cheers, wild and hoarse, resounded off the curtain walls, and many surged forwards to slap the victor on his back. I lost sight of Hugh in the mass of bodies, my last view of him was a prone form lying motionless in the dirt, blood blossoming at his temple.

  Oh, God, I had killed him.

  ‘That was prettily done, mistress.’ Ifan looked pleased. ‘Never underestimate a woman, I say. What you ladies lack in strength, you make up for in guile. And there was I, thinking you were rooting for Pembroke.’

  ‘I am to blame,’ I said, thickly. ‘It is my fault he is dead.’ My throat closed, the words sticking in my chest. I had to force them out. Horror clenched my stomach and I thought I might vomit. I had not meant for such a thing to happen. A simple error of judgement and a man died. One heartbeat – it took no more than that to end a life.

  I had caused other deaths, but those deaths had been intentional and deliberate, and driven by the wishes of whichever mistress I had to obey at the time. This was different; my stubbornness and stupidity had caused this. I should have done what I have always done – stayed inconspicuous and unremarkable. If I had, Hugh would still be alive. Remorse stole the air from my lungs. He had been so full of life, with so much still to live for. Now he lay broken in the dirt.

  Underneath my grief and guilt, the depth of anguish and remorse which I now felt troubled me. I had seen many men, women, and children die. I had buried the pieces of my husband with barely a tear. I had killed in cold blood and hot, and I had witnessed the demise of many mistresses, yet I hardly knew this man and I failed to understand the depth of my sadness. Why had he affected me so?

  ‘Mistress? Are you unwell?’ Ifan asked.

  I needed to sit down. I needed some wine. I needed to never have set eyes on Hugh of Pembroke.

  ‘Come, lady.’ Ifan took my elbow. ‘I will escort you to the hall. You need tending to. I have rarely seen anyone as pale as you who has not lost most of their blood.’

  Blood. Hugh’s blood. A red rose on his temple, a death flower blooming in hair made dark and slick by blood.

  I sank towards the ground, my legs unable to hold my weight. With a muttered curse Ifan scooped me up before I reached it, cradling me against his chest. My head lolled over his arm, my face turned up to the sky. I watched the clouds up high in the vast blueness, framed by the curtain wall of hand-hewn rock. Heads obscured my view. I wanted to tell them to move. I floated for a moment, safe, a child again, cosseted and protected.

  A cloth rinsed in cold water and applied to my brow brought me to my senses.

  ‘Fetch some wine,’ Ifan commanded. ‘And ale, for me.’

  I was propped in a chair, Ifan kneeling in front, concern on his rugged features. Others surrounded us, enjoying another distraction to brighten the grind of daily life. First a man dead, now a fainted woman. There would be plenty to talk about at supper tonight.

  ‘Drink this.’ Ifan thrust a cup at me, and I took it from him with unsteady hands and dutifully drank. The wine was rich, smooth, and unwatered. I gulped it down and wanted more. Much more. Enough to drown the memory of a man lying dead on the trampled earth. I held out my cup and emptied it again as soon as a servant refilled it.

  ‘No more,’ Ifan warned. ‘What will your husband say if you are brought back drunk?’

  ‘No husband.’ I tried to shake my head, but the faintness had not left me, and dizziness threatened.

  ‘Who are you, my lady? Have you a father or a bro
ther at Criccieth?’

  Ifan was not subtle. Direct questions demanded direct answers, and I was abruptly glad that he had refused me more wine. I needed to keep my wits, not drown them.

  ‘Neither father nor brother, sir. I am one of Joan’s gentlewomen.’

  Ifan stared at me, and it took some effort not to flinch or look away. I gazed steadily back at him, my expression carefully blank.

  ‘I thought I knew all her women,’ he said after a long pause. ‘I do not recall your face.’

  ‘That is because I only arrived last night.’

  He intended to ask more questions – I read as much in his face, his curiosity coloured with suspicion – and I wanted to slap myself. My story would not survive detailed scrutiny. I should have kept my head low and not drawn attention to myself, and not to have been so stupid as to champion Llewelyn’s enemy. Now the Prince would want to know why Hugh of Pembroke had died in a practice spar, and why I had been so keen for him to win. He might accuse me of spying for the English, and I didn’t even want to contemplate Joan’s reaction.

  Less than a night and a day as Caitlyn, and already I was in trouble. It would be cathood for me for the next few decades.

  A voice saved me from further questions. Or rather, my reaction to it did. I flinched, and the blood drained from my face until I must have looked even paler than before.

  I did not believe in ghosts. Did I?

  ‘Mistress, you are not well.’ Ifan’s head was inches from mine, his concern genuine.

  I stood, pushing his hands away as he tried to sit me back down. I needed to see for myself, and I would not be appeased.

  ‘You should sit down, before you fall down,’ Ifan pleaded.

  I stumbled through the press of people, who were already drifting away now that they saw I wasn’t about to expire. I had recovered, and although many would be curious about me, they had chores and duties to attend to. There had been enough disruption for one morning, and as I clearly was not going to provide them with any more entertainment…

  They were wrong.

  Ifan took my arm, either to support me or to stop me, but I shook him off, and walked several more wobbling steps, my strength returning with each lift of my foot.

  Hugh sat there, as large as life, not a ghost and not dead, enjoying the attention of his admirers. A gaggle of women, servants and ladies alike, were gathered around him, offering him wine, and ale, and dabbing at his head with water-soaked cloths. A friendly slap or two across his back from passing soldiers acknowledging his part in the contest, completed the picture.

  At first, I felt relief, acute enough to make me feel weak, then it turned to anger. I thought he had died, that I had killed him. The emotions stopped my tongue. I halted and gaped at him, like a carp on a hook.

  I stood in full view, staring. When the fluttering hens parted enough for this damned cock to notice me, his eyes widened and a slow smile spread across his lips. One or two of the ladies turned, saw me, and looked away, dismissing me with one all-encompassing glance.

  Hugh did not. He continued to stare, his gaze meeting mine with such boldness it infuriated me further. Had he no remorse? I had almost fainted with guilt while he was acting like nothing had happened.

  I didn’t think about what I did next, and I had no idea why I did it. Reason fled until all that remained was raw emotion.

  I took three quick strides and slapped him. Hard.

  The noise of it pierced the din of the hall and I cringed, horrified at the sudden hush. My palm stung, and I wanted to wring my hands, but I held them motionless at my side, waiting for his reaction.

  Hugh did not flinch. His cheek had reddened slightly, but that could easily be explained as a result of the sword blow, or the accompanying blood, for I had struck him on the same side of the head.

  Mortified, I held my tongue, determined not to be the first to speak. All eyes were on us, darting from one to the other, waiting.

  The silence wound through the space between us, coiling around the throats of the women who had fussed over him, weaving its way among the astonished soldiers, stopping all sound until the bark of a dog broke it. We stared at each other, Hugh and I, as still as the statues of the saints in the chapel, while all around us life crept back into the hall. His lips wore a wry and crooked smile, and he gave a slow nod. I wanted to reach out and caress his face, to stroke away the hurt, but my hands remained by my side. I had fed the gossip-mongers enough food for one day.

  A maid stepped in front of me, the moment vanished, and I turned to leave, conscious of Ifan’s puzzled stare as he watched me trudge across the hall.

  I wasn’t sure which man I feared the most.

  Chapter 7

  ‘I am sure it is nothing. You have seen how women drool over him and want to cosset him. This new woman is no exception.’ Llewelyn threw another log on the fire. Sparks shot up the chimney while the flames hissed and spat. I felt like doing the same.

  ‘I have a feeling about her,’ Ifan said.

  I curled my tail closer around me, and crouched lower, shuffling further behind the solid oak chest until only my face peeped out.

  ‘Bed her, then,’ Llewelyn said.

  Ifan rasped a hand across his chin. ‘She is pretty enough.’

  Thank you, Ifan. As if your opinion mattered to me.

  ‘But do not let my wife catch you unless you are set on matrimony,’ Llewelyn said. ‘She guards her ladies jealously. This new one is a result of a dalliance.’

  Ifan cocked his head.

  The Prince elaborated. ‘Joan brought a handful of maids from England with her when we wed, and this woman’s mother was one of them. The maid had a tryst with a visiting noble and he planted a seed in her. Joan was furious, and she demanded he marry the woman. Apparently, the man did as he was told, and this woman is his daughter.’

  This woman. Huh! I have a name, I wanted to shout at him. There is nothing like being called “this woman” to put a person in their place.

  ‘Where does she come from?’ Ifan asked.

  ‘Leominster, I believe. Her father has a small manor and some land near there.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Ifan really wanted to know if I could be trusted, and if my “father” allied himself with the English or the Welsh. Leominster, part of the borderlands between the two countries, had a mix of loyalties.

  ‘I know of him.’ Llewelyn heaved himself out of the chair and threw open the door.

  Should I leave now? I dithered, uncertain, until Llewelyn decided for me.

  ‘Honey and bread,’ he shouted, and the scurry of feet eager to do his bidding was cut off abruptly when he slammed the door shut. I had not moved.

  ‘I know he is careful not to show allegiance to either side. Lady Joan vouches for her and that is enough for me,’ the Prince said, returning to his seat.

  Ifan leaned forward, arms on his knees, hands clasped. ‘I say she is here to spy. Why else would she be so concerned about the fate of one of William’s men?’

  Why, indeed? I would like an answer to that question myself.

  Ifan reminded me of a terrier digging a rabbit out of its warren. Now that he had my scent in his nostrils, I didn’t think he would let me go. Ah well, I had enjoyed my brief moment as a woman, and I had no one else to blame for my predicament but myself.

  Llewelyn had appeared satisfied with the story Joan and I had concocted. Maybe it would suffice. But my days of appearing as Caitlyn were doomed if Ifan dug any further. It would be easy enough to determine that my “father” had no knowledge of my “mother”, and this nobleman did not have a grown daughter in service to Lady Joan.

  The victuals arrived, and I eyed the open door with longing, but once again I failed to move. I suspected Ifan had not finished and I shuffled, tail twitching and ears flicking, wondering what he would ask next.

  ‘You are too curious about her. Bed her. Get her out of your system.’ Llewelyn offered Ifan some bread.

  The young
er man refused and poured a tankard of mead. The sweet smell of it hung in the air. ‘Mayhap I will…’ he said.

  That is what you think, sir! The hairs on my neck rose in indignation and my claws crept out from their velvet sheaths. I wanted to scratch his eyes out. How dare he? Treating me as if I had no say in the matter.

  ‘Enough talk of women,’ the Prince said. ‘I expect Barris to return with King Henry’s answer in the next few days.’ He tore off a chunk of bread and dunked it in the honey. Strands dripped back into the bowl, glowing gold in the shafts of the midday sunlight slicing through the slitted window.

  ‘Will the King agree to such a large ransom?’ Ifan asked.

  ‘I have no doubt he will, and as soon as the crown pays, I will arrange a marriage between my family and William of Abergavenny. Isabella, his eldest daughter, is of marriageable age. I want to seal a betrothal between her and Dafydd.’

  Mouse-quiet, I held my breath at the news, confident that my mistress had no inkling of her husband’s plans.

  Ifan nodded, his gaze fixed on the hearth as he thought. ‘There is still time for William to have sons,’ he said.

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  Ifan sat forward, eyes wide. ‘If William dies, Dafydd will inherit his lands. You canny bastard! The pair of you will rule most of Wales.’

  Llewelyn’s ambition astounded me, but I had to admire him for it. He would become more powerful than Lord Marshal himself, and Wales would be a force to be reckoned with indeed.

  ~~~~

  ‘Walk with me,’ Joan commanded, and I fell into step alongside my mistress, waiting for her wrath to descend. She said nothing further as we passed through the arch underneath the massive twin towers of the gatehouse and into the outer bailey.