Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  I glanced up at Ifan’s face as we approached, marvelling at the way his eyes slid past my door to focus instead on the empty, wax-daubed sconce sitting high in a small alcove beyond it.

  He halted outside a store-room.

  ‘Is this it?’ he asked, with raised eyebrows.

  ‘No, sir, the next door.’ I took several more steps, fished the key out of my pocket and inserted it into the lock. Well oiled, it clicked open, and Ifan’s expression cleared. Understanding had replaced confusion, and the spell was temporarily broken.

  ‘Good,’ he said, jerking his head at the store-room next to mine. ‘I thought for a moment that Lady Joan had consigned you to the dust and mice. How have I never noticed this?’

  An inevitable question, and more would undoubtedly follow.

  He followed me inside, and took everything in with one swift look: horse-hair mattress, furs piled atop it; empty, cold fireplace (if I wanted warmth I had to lay the fire myself); heavy oak chest, several spluttering candles, half-eaten by their flames, and a narrow, shuttered window facing out to sea. I had purposely placed the chest directly underneath the high opening. With the shutter unlatched, Cat could easily leap from chest to window sill, and from there clamber down the ivy clinging to the stone outside, while Caitlyn often peered wistfully through the narrow gap, watching the play of light on water, and dreaming the impossible.

  ‘You are certain you do not wish me to call someone? A servant? I am reluctant to leave you alone,’ Ifan said.

  Did he fear the effects of the almost-suffocation, or did he fear Hugh might return to finish the job?

  ‘I am well enough, Sir Ifan, and I thank you for your concern. You have been most helpful. All I need is rest.’ I put my hand on the half-open door and smiled gratefully at him. He made no move to go. For God’s sake leave, I thought at him.

  ‘Why did Abergavenny’s man attack you?’ he asked, and I gritted my teeth.

  Looking at the floor, I shrugged, not knowing what to say to him. I seemed to be doing that a lot of late.

  ‘Why were you outside Lord William’s door?’ he carried on. ‘I watched you speaking with Pembroke in the hall. I saw you leave, and I saw him follow you.’

  His insistence was annoying.

  ‘And you followed the both of us?’ I kept my tone neutral, hoping for inspiration.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did it not occur to you that we might be enjoying a tryst?’

  Ifan looked away. It clearly had occurred to him, but he had followed regardless. Why?

  ‘There was no tryst,’ he pointed out. ‘Why did you go to the Englishman’s quarters?’

  Sweet Jesus, what story could I give? I could hardly tell Llewelyn’s most influential and trusted baron that I had been searching for Llewelyn’s wife in the chambers of a sworn enemy, and I hesitated for too long, having no reasonable explanation to give.

  Ifan’s eyes were cold and hard, his appraisal of me calculating, gallant knight turned hardened interrogator. He took a determined step forward. My thoughts slowed, like honey oozing off a spoon, thick and gelatinous. Where was my quick wit when I needed it? I froze, undecided, my options few and all of them flawed. Bile, hot and bitter, rose in my throat and my stomach cramped.

  I had no choice but to stay and endure his questioning. His hands bunched into fists, and I hoped he wouldn’t use them to batter the truth from me. Or maybe he would arrest me and take me before Llewelyn. Or – and the thought of this filled me with cold, dark horror – he might throw me in the oubliette. Llewelyn rarely used this hole, the threat of it alone was often enough to break the most steadfast of prisoners. Twelve-feet deep and three-feet across, the vertical shaft, hand-dug out of solid rock, forced the occupant to remain upright, and in total damp and cold darkness. Few survived longer than a week, even if a gaoler did remember to throw food into the pit. I might be able to climb out as Cat, but there was no guarantee I would escape, because the walls were chiselled-smooth and moss-covered, dripping with water and slime.

  Ifan must have seen the terror in my eyes. He smiled, a dry lifting of the lips, no doubt anticipating an easy task, when movement in the shadows outside the partially-open door caught my eye. A flash of lavender and silver.

  Joan.

  Relief weakened my legs and I clutched the frame of the bed hard, my knuckles bone white in the gloom. I raised my chin and took a deep, steadying breath.

  ‘Sir Ifan.’ Joan sailed into my tiny room like a galleon before the wind, all swishing skirts and brisk steps. ‘Thank you for your care of my maid.’ She shot me a quick, warning glance before examining the rest of me. ‘I see she is not gravely harmed.’

  Ifan frowned and gave her a considering look. ‘She was lucky I happened along. How did you know of her illness, my lady?’

  ‘Indeed, she was lucky, and I thank you for it. As for how I know? A servant informed me. You may leave her in my care; you have done more than enough. I shall see to her now.’

  She stepped to the side, giving Ifan a clear path to the door. He didn’t move, merely looked from one to the other of us and the questions in his eyes were clear. As was the doubt – he did not believe the Princess. After a couple of heartbeats, he locked eyes with me, and I injected as much sincerity and openness as I could muster and settled down for the long haul. I had perfected the implacable cat stare early on in my cat-hood. This was one contest the knight was going to lose.

  Joan uttered a small cough and Ifan broke the connection. I blinked slowly.

  ‘Forgive me, my lady. I have one or two questions for Mistress Caitlyn,’ he said.

  ‘As have I, Sir Ifan. Be assured, I intend to ask them.’ Joan gestured to the open door, her dismissal clear.

  Ifan had no choice but to obey. He bowed to Joan with lowered head, trying to hide the anger on his face, and brushed past me none too gently on his way out.

  ‘Until we meet again, Caitlyn,’ he said, both a warning and a promise.

  I waited until he disappeared from sight, before I closed the door and turned to face the wrath of my mistress.

  Joan sat primly upright on the edge of my bed, smoothing her skirts, a blush on her cheeks. Rarely had I seen her embarrassed or at this much of a loss.

  ‘Wine?’ I asked, more to break the silence, than a desire for refreshment, although my throat was a little sore and dry.

  She said nothing, so I poured a goblet for her anyway and held it out. She took it, cupping the bowl in her hand, making no move to drink.

  I threw the wine into my mouth and poured another, a false comforting warmth radiating out from my stomach. Several more of these and I might sleep deeply enough to keep the oubliette from colouring my dreams.

  ‘I was there.’ She fingered the stitching on her gown for a moment, then placed the goblet on the floor and clasped her hands together, a frown rumpling her forehead.

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘How?’ Her voice was sharp.

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘Did Ifan?’

  I shook my head. ‘Only me, but even if I hadn’t, it was easy to guess your whereabouts.’

  ‘My husband? Has he guessed?’ Fear replaced sharpness.

  ‘No one else noticed your absence after supper, only me.’ I paused. ‘And perhaps Pembroke. Why else would he follow me?’

  ‘How did you know where I had gone?’ she asked.

  I gave her a withering look.

  She sighed. ‘I didn’t think I was that obvious.’

  ‘Not to others, but I know you too well.’

  ‘My whereabouts are none of your concern.’

  ‘You took a great risk.’

  ‘It was worth it.’ Her voice had lowered further, and I barely heard her. I watched the blush spread prettily across her cheeks. She glowed.

  ‘You love him,’ I said. I had never seen my mistress like this.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But you hardly know him.’

  ‘I have known him ever since my mother t
aught me how to scry. I looked into my mirror years ago, and his face stared back. My fate and William of Abergavenny’s are entwined,’ she said. ‘I have seen it. It is foretold. I am to marry him, and the marriage must take place before Dafydd marries William’s daughter.’

  My mind whirled with questions. ‘Why?’ was the first one to come out of my mouth.

  ‘Because I will bear him a son.’

  ‘A son!’ Incredulity coloured my voice with disbelief. ‘Does William know this?’

  ‘Not yet, but he will.’ She smiled a secret smile. ‘I might have seen his face in my scrying mirror, but I didn’t know who he was until Llewelyn brought him to Criccieth.’

  Ah, that explained her reaction the first time she saw him. Another thought. ‘Llewelyn?’ I asked. Joan had worked wonders with the Pope to secure her legitimacy, but I didn’t think she could persuade the holy man to annul her marriage.

  ‘He has to die.’

  No, no, I will not do it. I have killed before at the behest of a mistress, but each time it was to keep her secret (and mine) safe. I wouldn’t kill just because this one had taken a fancy to another man.

  Before I could refuse, she spoke. ‘You will travel with William when he leaves. I have a task for you.’

  ‘Before or after I kill your husband?’ I asked, sarcasm coating each word.

  ‘I will deal with Llewelyn myself. You,’ she paused. ‘Will deal with Eva.’

  Eva? I had heard the name recently but could not think where. Then it came to me – William’s wife!

  Chapter 11

  It was a bright, crisp autumn day in early November. There were low clouds far out to sea which threatened rain, but for now the sun had most of the sky to itself, and although the breeze came from the west, it was not too chilled by its journey across the water.

  I delighted in my freedom, even if the reason for it was not to my liking.

  My palfrey, an elderly mare, gentle and calm, carried me with ease, her gait smooth and slightly plodding. Her ears were pricked and she had enough spirit left in her to arch her neck. Perhaps she was also happy to be out of the stable. I didn’t mind her lack of speed. The slower she walked, the longer I stayed away from the castle.

  I pointed her towards the south, following the coast, keeping the sea on my right, and quickly left behind the village which had grown up near the castle.

  We trotted down onto the sand, and the mare’s hooves scuffed through the fine grains. The tide, halfway out and retreating steadily, left a watermark of seaweed and driftwood. In the distance, children rooted through the sea’s debris, collecting wood and searching for crabs. I loved a fire made from driftwood, although some claimed that the blue flames were a sign of the devil and refused to burn it.

  I steered the mare onto firmer, damper sand, and took her closer to the waves, laughing aloud as she splashed through the shallows like a young filly as she snorted and danced at the coldness of the water. She rolled her eyes in mock fear at each wave-break and tossed her head. I gave her more rein and let her do what she willed. Her joy lifted my heart, and I leaned forward in the saddle as she bunched her hind legs beneath her, reared, and shot across the beach.

  The wind whipped the hood of my cloak from my head, and my hair streamed out behind me like a pennant, as the mare’s hooves thundered across the beach, kicking up spumes of water and clumps of sand. My nose filled with the scent of seaweed, hot horse, and leather, and the thudding hoof-beats were the percussion to the screaming, wheeling gulls overhead.

  She slowed, and I straightened, feeling an ache in my thighs. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat astride a horse, and I had forgotten the freedom of it. The bouncing trot became a walk, as the mare’s sides heaved. Steam rose from her neck and she blew hard through distended nostrils. I stretched forward and gave her neck a pat.

  I tasted salt on my lips, spray rimed the tangled mess of my hair, and I panted along with the horse, as much from excitement as exertion, my heart thundering and my soul soaring. If I could ride like this forever…

  A rocky outcrop turned us inland, and sand gave way to grassy dunes. We wove through them towards the heathland beyond. A farmhouse in the distance told me we had passed the hamlet of Morfa, smoke from its chimney curling into the sky and dark humped cows like mini black dunes, their backs to the gathering wind, lay chewing the cud.

  We continued to climb away from the coast, heading east towards the mountains framing the horizon, towering peaks of unforgiving rock, purpled by distance. Snowdonia, the heart of Llewelyn’s power, provided him not only with protection on his eastern flank, but with copper, gold, iron, and grazing for thousands of sheep, cows and goats. The English never dared follow us here. Too cold, too high, too unpredictable.

  I saw what I wanted, reined in the mare and slid from her back, groaning when my feet touched down. The soft skin on the inside of my knees was chafed from the stirrup straps, every muscle in my legs ached, and I had yet to ride back. Or maybe I would walk.

  The hem of my skirt was sodden, and I shook out the material, hoping it would dry in the gusting wind, glancing back the way we came to check the sky. Not mere rain – a storm brewed, if the darkness on the horizon was any indication. Immediately overhead the sun shone, and the sky remained mostly cloudless, but I had an urge to gather what I needed quickly, not wanting to be caught in the open when it struck.

  Belladonna wasn’t a rare plant. It grew in many places and tolerated a wide range of conditions. If I looked hard enough, I could probably have found it growing closer to Criccieth, behind a hedge or in a ditch. But my search might be noted, especially since most folk put a flame to it when they saw it. It was called Deadly Nightshade for a reason. Every part of the plant was poisonous, especially the root. Lady Joan had many uses for this particular plant.

  I lengthened the horse’s reins, led her to a bush well away from the belladonna, and tied her loosely, making sure she could reach enough grass to keep her occupied. She dropped her head and grazed contentedly as I unbuckled her girth. I made a note to remember to retighten it before I mounted, else I would come off quicker than I got on. She ignored my friendly pat to her neck, swishing her brown tail and flicking me across the face with the wiry strands, and I took the hint and left her in peace, but not before removing the saddlebags and placing them out of reach of her hooves.

  This plant suited my needs, it being young, maybe two summers old. Roots were harder to dig up in an older plant, and age made no difference to toxicity. This one might have fewer leaves and not as many berries, but I would harvest enough for my mistress’s purpose.

  I reached for one bag and lifted the flap. The calf-skin gloves were butter-soft, and I slid them on my hands then knelt amongst the heather and got to work. The gloves would most likely be ruined by the end of my mission, but they protected my skin from the touch of the leaves. I didn’t intend to take any chances.

  Dew saturated the heather, dampening my skirt right through to my petticoats as I knelt down to dig. The small trowel chewed through the soil, the sandy earth crumbling readily under the blade, and I soon had enough root exposed to saw off a piece with my dagger. Taking a fold of cloth from the bag, I wrapped the root, then placed the parcel inside and wedged it in the bottom. Joan had provided a small linen sack for the berries, which gleamed blue-black against the pointed green leaves and looked remarkably like the fruit of the elder tree. How easy it would be to confuse the two.

  I picked enough to fill the sack and laid it on top of the root inside the saddlebag, then wiped dirt off the trowel with a handful of grass and put it away.

  The first dark clouds had reached the sun, my back ached from hunching over, I was dirty, tired, and becoming chilled. It was time to head back, so I got to my feet and stretched out the kinks in my spine, groaning with the relief of it. Stripping the gloves from my hands, I poked them into the hole where the root had been, and kicked the soil back over to hide them. Give it a couple of days, and no one would be abl
e to tell the plant had ever been disturbed. I had left enough root for it not to be too affected by my actions, and it would soon grow again.

  The mare had moved some distance away, having worked herself free of the loose tie, and the reins trailed along the ground under her feet, like flat brown snakes.

  I didn’t know whether it was those which spooked her, or the whipping wind of the approaching storm, but she jerked her head up and snorted, her ears pricked forwards and her eyes showing their whites. She danced a little jig, hooves lifting clear of the trampled grass as the reins slithered across the ground, then she gave a squeal, tossed her head, and bolted.

  I threw myself across the grass, grabbing wildly for the reins, but she was strides away even before my body hit the ground with a thud. I lay winded for a moment, and by the time I raised my head to peer over the hummocky, grassy tufts, the horse was gone.

  My knees protested as I clambered laboriously to my feet. I felt ninety not twenty-three, conscious of every small and large hurt that I had collected over the last few days. The walk back to the castle would be long and wet.

  The first drops were smatterings, few and far between, but the wind was backing and gusting, whipping around me as the storm neared. Noon had come and gone, and purple-black clouds the colour of the berries I had just picked, hid the sun. The west was night-dark, although it was only early afternoon, and I knew that this day would end even earlier than was usual for November.

  Pulling the hood of my cloak up over my head and hunching my shoulders, I realised I should have dressed warmer and not been stupidly seduced by the bright promise of the morning. I knew better. The mountains to the east drew rain like water drew ducks, and often the high peaks wore hats of clouds as black as a nun’s habit. Weather could change in a heartbeat on this coast, trapped as it was between the mountains and the sea.

  The storm was fully upon me by the time I reached the beach. Stinging rain, driven horizontal by the wind, smarted my cheeks. Already drenched, I kept my head down, holding the saddlebags in one hand and the hood of my cloak over my head with the other. Out of the corner of my eye, the sea surged and boiled, white froth foaming angrily up the sand, the tide on the turn, driven higher and faster than normal by the wind.