Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  ‘Now, are you going to tell me?’ She wiped her hands on a cloth.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It is none of your business.’

  ‘My grandson is my business.’

  ‘I don’t see how the two are connected, in spite of your wild claims.’

  ‘They are connected, although the how of it eludes me for the present. I think there is more to you than what can be seen, my lovely,’ she said.

  What did she mean by that? She could not possibly know about Cat. Could she? A shiver travelled down my spine.

  ‘It is time you left,’ I said. I didn’t want her near me. I wouldn’t go as far as to say she scared me (perhaps wariness was a better word) but she did make me feel decidedly uncomfortable, and she spoke nonsense.

  ‘Make me,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ My ears must have deceived me, or the woman had lost her mind.

  I struggled off the bed and stood facing her, uncertain which of us would win in a fight. I had youth on my side, but she was stronger than me in my present condition, despite her years. She planted her feet apart and beckoned me forwards. I teetered on unsteady legs.

  ‘Granny…’ The door slammed open, and Hugh barged in. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon.’ He looked from one to the other of us, as we stood there like two cats in a staring contest. ‘Maude said you needed me, but she made no mention of you, Lady Caitlyn.’ He gave me a nod, but could not meet my eye. ‘I thought this was old Dulcie’s room.’

  ‘It was. They put me in it,’ I said. Maude, the little minx, must have conveniently forgotten to mention that simple fact, and deliberately disobeyed Blod’s instruction.

  ‘I can handle this, Hugh,’ Blod said.

  ‘I think you will find I do not need handling.’ I lifted my chin and stuck my nose in the air.

  ‘Handle what?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Your betrothed,’ Blod said.

  Hugh gave her an exasperated look and shook his head. ‘Have you had too much wine again?’ he asked. Then he noticed the state of me. It was fair to say, I did not look my best.

  ‘What have you done to your hair?’ Hugh skirted around his grandmother and took a good look at my head. He turned to face Blod, and asked in a resigned voice, ‘What have you done, Granny?’

  ‘She tried to kill me,’ I said at the same time as Blod said, ‘Stopped her from killing herself.’

  Hugh looked like a man who wished he had not asked. His mouth dropped open, and his head swivelled, as he stared at each of us in turn.

  ‘She hit me on the head.’ I put my fingers to the lump.

  ‘Because your betrothed wanted to jump off the west tower,’ she said to Hugh.

  ‘I would have succeeded if you had not interfered,’ I insisted.

  Hugh closed his mouth at my confirmation. ‘You tried to jump off the west tower?’ he repeated slowly, his tone incredulous. As the words sunk in, his jaw clenched, and his expression hardened. ‘Why, Cat? What would possess you to do that?’ He gripped my shoulders and gave me a shake. My head wobbled back and forth. I groaned and scrunched my eyes shut.

  ‘Leave her be. I said I will handle her.’ Blod pushed him away, and I crumpled onto the bed, feeling quite sick.

  If it was not the grandmother, it was the grandson trying to put an end to me, and now Hugh had made another attempt on my life. One more shake and I might have died. I might die anyway if the pain in my head was any indication. I wallowed in the misery of it.

  ‘Why would she want to do that?’ He turned to his grandmother.

  ‘You will have to ask your betrothed yourself. She refuses to talk to me about it.’ Blod huffed.

  ‘Betrothed,’ he muttered, ‘we are not betrothed.’ His eyes widened as a thought struck him. ‘Granny, what have you done? Please don’t tell me you have arranged for me to wed her?’

  ‘I do not need to arrange anything. She is your destiny. What will come to pass, will come to pass.’ Blod tried for a mysterious expression but instead looked more like she had a bad case of wind. The woman was clearly mad.

  ‘She keeps talking about that,’ I said. ‘She needs to be locked up. And she tried to kill me,’ I repeated, holding my throbbing skull with both hands.

  ‘I did not! I stopped her.’

  ‘From killing herself?’ Hugh asked, but it was more a resigned statement than an actual question.

  ‘Yes.’ Blod nodded vigorously.

  Was it my imagination, or had she reverted to strange-old-woman?

  ‘She seems to think you were the one doing the killing,’ Hugh said to his grandmother. ‘From the state of Lady Caitlyn, I would be inclined to agree with her, if she had not already admitted it with her own lips.’

  ‘Nope. It was her. When she tried to end her life. I merely got her away from the edge,’ Blod said.

  ‘By hitting her on the head?’ Hugh scratched at his non-existent beard.

  ‘She did that herself.’

  ‘She hit herself on the head?’ He scratched harder.

  ‘Now you are being deliberately stupid. She fell and hit her head.’

  ‘Because you took my feet out from underneath me,’ I said, keen to make Hugh understand what this harridan had done, what she was capable of.

  ‘Yes, to stop you from flinging yourself off the tower,’ Blod persisted.

  Hugh threw his hands up in the air. ‘Why would you do such a thing, Cat? What is so bad that you feel the need to end your life?’

  Hugh missed the point. My attempt at suicide was not relevant here. The fact that his grandmother was a murderous, mad, old woman was.

  ‘I was asking your betrothed just that question when you barged in,’ Blod said.

  ‘I am not his betrothed,’ I yelled.

  ‘And I am not hers,’ Hugh agreed. ‘I am not betrothed. To anyone.’

  ‘You will be,’ Blod countered. ‘To her.’

  ‘No,’ Hugh and I chorused.

  Another ‘No!’ came from the open door.

  Hesta.

  Wonderful.

  ‘I knew it! I knew you had given your heart to this woman.’ Hesta threw herself into the room, sweeping the back of her hand across her brow. If my head didn’t hurt so much, I would have laughed at her antics.

  ‘I have not,’ Hugh said. A spot of red coloured both his cheeks.

  ‘Your grandmother seems to think you have.’ Hesta’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She was good at this. I guessed she used tears to get her own way all the time.

  ‘My grandmother needs to mind her own business,’ Hugh growled.

  ‘You are my business,’ Blod said.

  Déjà vu. This is how the conversation started in the first place. Around and around in circles, just like my spinning head and the thoughts it contained.

  ‘Go away! All of you,’ I groaned. Enough. I wanted to lie down in a quiet, dark room. With the emphasis on quiet.

  ‘Not until I get an answer.’ Hesta narrowed her eyes at me. But she gathered up her few things anyway.

  ‘We. Are. Not. Betrothed.’ I ground my teeth so hard they hurt.

  Hesta looked at Hugh.

  ‘We are not,’ he confirmed.

  ‘So, why does your grandmother seem to think you are?’ Hesta asked, a tear falling down her cheek.

  ‘She is insane,’ I muttered, loud enough for all to hear.

  ‘My grandmother is confused, and she has no idea what she is saying.’ Hugh glared at the old woman.

  Blod stared up at the beams and attempted to whistle, the picture of nonchalance.

  ‘I don’t understand why she is here, anyway,’ Hesta said to Hugh.

  Blod drew herself up to her full height of four-foot-ten and answered for him. ‘I came because my grandson needs me. I sensed his anguish,’ she announced.

  ‘All the way in Pembroke?’ Hugh said.

  ‘Yes.’ Blod lifted her chin.

  ‘You told me you came to spend Christmas at Abergavenny because you and my mother had cross
words.’ Hugh’s chin got another scratch.

  ‘We did. I’m not lying.’

  He glared at her. ‘What did you quarrel about?’

  ‘She thought it not safe nor sensible for a woman of my age to make such a treacherous journey.’ Blod said. ‘I told her she was talking through her—’

  ‘Sweet Mary, Mother of God! You will be the death of me.’ Hugh dropped onto the bed. I yelped as it bounced. ‘I shall escort you back to Pembroke.’

  ‘I refuse to go.’

  ‘Mother will be worried about you.’

  ‘I sent word.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted, shrugging her thin shoulders.

  ‘God help me, but you try my patience.’ Hugh balled a fist, rubbing his other hand around it.

  ‘I meant, why is your grandmother in Caitlyn’s room?’ Hesta asked.

  ‘Caitlyn fell.’ Hugh sent another glare at his grandmother. Blod put a finger to her drawstring purse of a mouth and gave him an innocent stare in return. He turned his attention to me, but I had no intention of telling Hesta anything. ‘Granny knows something about healing,’ he said.

  ‘I do, I do.’ Blod’s head bobbed up and down.

  I decided to appeal to the healer in her. ‘Please leave. I do not feel well.’ I sounded as weak and plaintive as I felt.

  Blod pulled on Hugh’s tunic. ‘Go. Your betrothed needs to rest,’ she said.

  He put his face in his hands.

  Hesta flounced out, tears trickling down her face. She even cried prettily.

  One down, two to go.

  Hugh allowed Blod to drag him to his feet and propel him out of the door. ‘I shall return later,’ she promised, sticking her head back into the room. I waited for her to leave and promised myself I would not be here when she did. She wouldn’t find me a second time. Cats could hide much better than people.

  The pair of them argued all the way down the corridor. I heard their voices rising from the next floor, becoming fainter, and I sighed with blessed relief. All I wanted to do was sleep. Preferably forever.

  I closed my lids, the willow bark finally doing its job as the pain eased to a dull ache. Only to open them again to see a pair of brown eyes peering down at me.

  Maude.

  I did not deserve this.

  ‘Granny said you tried to commit suicide. It is a sin. Are you not afraid of hell? And Satan? Father Ignatius says he has horns and breathes fire.’

  ‘She told you?’ I asked in amazement. Well done, Blod. Soon the whole castle would know what I had done. Or tried to do.

  ‘No. I overheard,’ Maude said.

  ‘You overhear a great deal.’

  ‘It is the only way to know what is going on. No one ever tells me anything.’

  I wasn’t bloody well surprised. ‘Were you listening outside?’

  Maude nodded.

  ‘The whole time?’ I demanded.

  She nodded again. ‘I told you Uncle Hugh likes you. You are to be married.’

  ‘We. Are. Not.’

  ‘But Granny said…’

  ‘Little girl, let me tell you something. The problem with eavesdropping is that you often do not hear the full story.’

  ‘I did not eavesdrop!’ Her voice rose in indignation. ‘I stood outside the door.’

  I let it go, too tired to argue. ‘Go away,’ I said instead.

  Maude’s little face fell. ‘I only came to see if you needed anything.’ Her voice was small, and she turned to leave, her shoulders drooping.

  If I had kicked a puppy, I could not have felt worse. ‘I’m sorry. I have had a trying day.’

  Maude bounced back so quickly, I wondered if she had been acting. ‘Do you still want to commit a mortal sin?’ Her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

  I did, but not just on myself. Blod’s face came to mind.

  ‘No,’ I sighed, telling the child what I thought she wanted to hear, and feeling for the pouch tied to my girdle. It was still there. The sooner I did this the better. ‘Pour me a mug of water, please.’

  Maude poured and passed it to me.

  ‘Thank you. Now would you mind leaving so I can sleep?’ I asked.

  She nodded, bent over and kissed my cheek. ‘You will make Hugh a good wife.’ She skipped to the door.

  I wrinkled my nose at her. What she believed made no difference. This time tomorrow I would be dead.

  I waited for her to leave, listening to the patter of her footsteps. She sounded as if she were skipping and I smiled sadly, remembering the quick and happy feet of my own childhood.

  Alone, at last, I sat up, swinging my legs to the floor, stocking toes feeling the chill of the bare flagstones. Someone had removed my shoes. One of them lay half under the bed, and I debated putting it on and searching for the other. I reached down and fumbled under the bed before I realised what I was doing. Procrastinating, finding any inane reason to delay. Just eat them, Caitlyn. Get it over with.

  My fingers were stiff as I untied the knot securing the pouch, and my hands trembled as I opened the drawstring and poured a handful of dried berries into my shaking palm. This was it. No going back. Once eaten, they could not be uneaten. Joan reckoned that six berries might be enough to kill. I picked out eight to make sure. No, ten. Ten should do it.

  I put the remainder back in the pouch and retied it around my waist, hoping the poison would be buried with me.

  The berries looked like currants, wrinkled and shrivelled, black and innocent in my hand. The dried root was easier to conceal in food, the berries were in case an opportunity arose.

  Gingerly, I picked one up and placed it on my tongue. Sweetness, sickly and cloying, filled my mouth. Pleasantly surprised, I chewed tentatively. I had expected a bitter taste, to accompany its bitter consequence.

  I ate another, and another, washing each one down with a gulp of water until my palm was empty.

  I had no idea how swiftly the poison would work, but I guessed I would have enough time to change into a cat and hide away, mindful of Blod’s promise to return.

  There was only one issue I had with this plan – cats are not buried in hallowed ground. My feline body would most likely be thrown upon the midden to be picked over by crows.

  I hoped God would forgive me.

  Chapter 24

  I did not turn into Cat – the fear of dying unshriven held me back – but I did hide. Unmindful of the cold, for soon I would be as cold as death itself, I left my cloak on the chair and padded to the top of the stairs. No one. Good.

  My shoes, or rather one of them, for I had no idea what had become of the other, lay where it had fallen. I did not bother wrestling with my boots. Stockinged feet would suffice. By the time I stepped onto the bailey, my feet were numb, but the lack of footwear failed to bother me.

  In a few short hours, nothing would bother me again.

  The guards at the main gate didn’t once glance my way, too occupied with righting a cart which had lost a wheel and was blocking the drawbridge. A few hesitant flakes of snow floated in the air, a vanguard for the pregnant, yellowing clouds to the west, and the driver of the cart kept looking up at the sky, hoping his next check on the weather would tell a different tale.

  The town of Abergavenny boasted over two hundred people, not including the outlying farms and homesteads. They hurried, cloaked and hooded, to and fro, settling their business before the first snow of winter coated the land. There was no telling how much would fall, nor how swiftly. Not one of those good folk looked in my direction, either.

  I trudged on sodden, unfeeling feet down to the river, a black ribbon snaking through the wide valley, silent and treacherous, and peaceful. No one would think to look for me there. If anyone actually bothered to look for me at all.

  Keeping the castle on my left, I skirted around the water-filled ditch and headed towards the river beyond. I could not hear it, but I could smell the aroma of dank, muddy water, but as I drew closer, it gurgled, running too deep here to make a greater s
ound.

  Willows and aspen lined the banks, their trunks interspersed with bushes. Grass and weeds grew right up to the edge of the water. I found a spot where the grass had been trampled by a previous visitor and sat.

  Hunkering down, I set my back to a tree, with my legs stretched out in front and my bottom on the freezing earth, and examined my body from the inside out, seeking signs of the poison’s hold. No drowsiness, no stomach cramps, no fluttering in my chest. Nothing. I realised I had no clue as to what I should be feeling, nor how belladonna affected its victim. For some stupid reason, I assumed it would send a person into a deep sleep, and from there a gradual slip into death. But what if it caused unspeakable agony? What if it made me writhe on the ground, bleeding from every orifice? What if my eyes turned back in my head and I foamed at the mouth, screaming as my insides were devoured by flames?

  I had my fingers halfway down my throat before reason prevailed. Joan’s poison would be a subtle one, so any examination would not lead to suspicion of foul play. No agonised writhing with spouting blood, and no internal fire. I took my fingers out of my mouth and licked my lips, wishing I had brought a wineskin with me.

  My body felt no different than before. No worse, though my headache had receded to the point where I almost did not notice it. Indeed, I felt marginally better. How ridiculous. What if I had not consumed enough to kill me? Back to throwing myself off a tower? Or…?

  Some people claimed dying from the cold was a good way to go. Towards the end a person felt warm inside, though how anyone actually knew, I couldn’t fathom. Had someone been brought back from near death and explained how peaceful it was? If the poison failed to work, I planned to sit here until I froze solid.

  My hands joined my feet in lack of feeling. My ears hurt, as did my nose, the chill nibbling at them like rats on a corpse. I had been shivering for some time, and my teeth chattered, breaking the silence. A hush hung over the world as the earth held its breath for the snow. Not a hint of a breeze stirred the bare branches, and the cold had lifted in the way it sometimes does before a heavy fall, but it was still freezing.

  The sky had a strange quality, lighter than it should be for this late in the afternoon, yellowed and lowering with the flakes it carried. Was it only this morning I had sat in the chapel with Lady Eva? It seemed a lifetime ago.