by Barbara Bard
“Except, it is not to mine.”
Gilbert feigned hurt. “You do not wish to marry me after I pulled you from the clutches of that black heart Charlie? And of that monster Thorburn? Tsk.”
“I neither like you nor trust you.”
“Do not be naïve, Lady Catrin. When marriages are arranged, it is seldom to the benefit of the females involved.”
She grit her teeth. “I am just a broodmare, to be sold to the highest bidder.”
Lord Gilbert shrugged, smiling sardonically. He drank from his cup. “It is a man’s world, Lady Catrin.”
“My father has yet to agree,” she said, lifting her chin. “He may not.”
“I have already asked him. He said he would consider the matter.”
Her grin was feral. “That is not a contract or agreement.”
“Not yet.” His grin matched hers.
“Somehow, if you do manage to convince my father to give you my hand,” she said, her tone soft, “I promise to make your life a living hell.”
Lord Gilbert tsked again, smiling. “Hardly that, Lady Catrin,” he said, smiling at her with kindness. “Once you are my wife, I can do with you as I will. Even, say, lock you in a tower in my castle. I can visit you often enough to get you with child, even if it means tying you up and taking you by force. The world will soon forget you ever even existed. And I will certainly inherit your sire’s wealth, titles and estates, once your dear father passes.”
“Never.”
“It will come to be, my dear, soon to be wife,” he replied easily. “I will marry you, one way or another.”
“You are forgetting something,” Catrin said. “Once I tell my father all this, he will never consent to give you my hand.”
“Did you not hear me, Lady Catrin?” he asked, his eyes wide, innocent. “I said, one way or another. That includes without your father’s consent, if need be.”
***
Despite her fears and worries over Lord Gilbert’s proclamation that he would marry her, Catrin slept soundly in the private quarters he had given her. She threw the bolt across the door to prevent him from entering as she slept. She would not put it past him to rape her in the night, thus claiming her as his without the benefit of a clergyman. Dreaming of Ranulf, she cried out for him, weeping tears that crusted under her eyes as she slept.
Waking as the sun streamed in through her narrow window in Gilbert’s castle, she rose from the comfortable bed. Stretching, languid, yet still feeling as though she could sleep for days on end, she walked, clad only in her kirtle, to stare out of it. “Ranulf,” she whispered. “I miss you.”
Below, Lord Gilbert’s men assembled in the castle bailey, girting themselves in chain mail and arms, saddling horses. Her escort. At least she will be away from Gilbert and his evil intentions. Ranulf was right, she admitted as she slowly washed in a basin of cold water, and dressed in her dirty, travel stained gown. Lord Gilbert was not a man to be trusted. The dead shepherd was proof enough, and now she had more evidence from his own mouth.
While despising being in his company, she consented to eat breakfast with him. She half listened to him talk of his own wealth and estates, the number of men he could raise should the king call for them, his influence with King Edward himself. Not impressed, Catrin ate quickly, then followed him out of the castle. Within a few hours, she would be home – and safe.
“I sent a messenger to your father,” Lord Gilbert said, rising from the table. “He will know you are on your way home.”
“Good,” Catrin replied, also getting up. “Might we leave immediately?”
He smiled, obviously amused by her impatience to get away from him. “If you wish. But know that your illustrious sire will no doubt agree to my suit. Once he does, we will be married immediately.”
Her gut clenching in anger and the desire to shoot him full of arrows, Catrin walked ahead of him out of the castle. The escort waited for them, already mounted, bowing from their saddles. Feeling grateful when one of them leaped down to lace his fingers together to help her mount, Catrin adjusted her skirts as Gilbert swung up into his own saddle.
“I have no fear that Thorburn will come south of the border, searching for you,” Gilbert said, riding beside her as the band clattered across the drawbridge. “No doubt, he still lurks in his castle. Perhaps his unslaked need for revenge will choke him.”
Catrin smiled sweetly. “You go on believing that, My Lord. Right up until Ranulf guts you.”
He gazed her with some surprise. “You like him. Why? His brother murdered yours. He kidnapped you.”
“I am beginning to believe his brother did not kill Henry,” she said, keeping her eyes ahead of her. “Ranulf will soon find the true murderer.”
Gilbert snorted. “There is no one else. Kyle Thorburn killed your brother, my friend, and was properly hanged for his crimes. I believe you and Ranulf both are delusional.”
“Why are you so determined to believe that?” she asked. “It is almost as if you do not want him to find the real killer.”
“He can go plug sheep for all I care,” Gilbert said roughly. “Henry’s murderer died by hanging. There is nothing else to say about it.”
Happy he was annoyed enough to cease talking to her, Catrin rode on, trying not to fret over what her father would say once Gilbert brought her home. I know he does not like Hargrove, he has said so many times. Surely, he would not agree to marry me to a man he despises. Though she tried to believe that, Gilbert seemed so positive the Duke would agree.
Secretly planning to her escape, should her father do the impossible and say yes to his suit, Catrin busied her mind by mulling over ideas and routes as they rode. On through the morning they cantered and had her riding companion been someone other than her mortal enemy, she would have enjoyed it. The day was pleasant and warm, the scent of the heather tickling her nose. Rabbits scuttled away from the thunder of their horses’ hooves, the light breeze like fingers through her hair giving her a false sense of freedom.
For surely she was more of a prisoner in Gilbert’s hands than she ever was in Ranulf’s.
Gazing ahead, Catrin narrowed her eyes at the sight of a rider galloping toward them. “Who is that?”
“One of my men,” Gilbert replied, shading his eyes with his hand. “I sent him ahead to scout the area. I am guessing he found something.”
The man at arms, wearing a steel helmet and chain mail, saluted Gilbert at the same moment he reined in his horse. “My Lord, dead men, seven of them, less than a league away.”
Chapter 17
From the heights of a tall peak on the moors of northern England, Ranulf stared down at the village of Linfield. For the area, it was a sizeable town, under the protection of the Duke of Whitewood as part of his vast estates. Ranulf had been there a few times before, and suspected the answers of who truly killed Henry of Whitewood would be in that village.
He glanced at his companions. “Jist Ian and me,” he said. “We dinnae want tae draw attention tae uirselves. The rest of ye stay here. This peak be high enough that ye see anyone approachin’, keep yer fires and heads low. Raid a heifer or two tae keep ye fed, but dinnae leave here until we come back.”
He listened to the murmurs of, “Aye, laird,” watching the nods, and felt satisfied no one would find them up here. He only planned to be gone a day or two at the most. Hoping he would find Aswin and Duncan in the town, as well as answers, he and Ian mounted their horses.
Riding down the back side of the peak, Ranulf and Ian planned to come around its base, as though having just ridden from Scotland. He knew there was no hiding the fact that they were Scots, but despite the enmity between England and Scotland, there were many English and Scottish passing back and forth across the border.
“Whet dae ye think tae find ‘ere, Ranulf?” Ian asked as they rode.
“Henry ‘o Whitewood’s friens,” Ranulf answered, keeping a sharp watch for attackers. “I dae believe the lad that murdered him knew both him and me brot
her.”
“Why dae ye think that?”
“‘Twas tae easy to pin the blame oan Kyle,” Ranulf replied, eying a merchant driving a wagon loaded with turnips in through the wooden walls of the town. “He were there, as was Henry and the killer. They knew each other, I grant ye. I seek witnesses as tae who that third fella was.”
“And ye need tae find Aswin and Duncan,” Ian said.
“Right ye be. I jist hope they are nae headed back home noo.”
The armed guards at the gate of the wooden palisade surrounding the town waved them through amid the merchant wagons, peasants, monks, yeomen and men at arms both going and coming from the town. Ranulf recognized other Scots from their brigandines and swords, but he knew none of them. “I expect we should start wi’ the taverns,” he said.
Walking their horses down the narrow dirt avenue that constituted the main street of Linfield, Ranulf caught sight of several painted signs that spoke of taverns, as well as those of shops belonging to butchers, jewelers, seamstresses, cobblers, wheelwrights and blacksmiths. Peasants in their woolen homespun clothes walked through the street, rubbing shoulders with tonsured monks as apprentices hawked their master’s wares in strident voices.
Reining in behind a wagon, a tarp covering its contents, Ranulf and Ian dismounted, tying their horses to post rings. The sign over their heads read The Lucky Hog, with a crude picture of a pig playing in mud. Leading the way, Ranulf went inside with Ian following on his heels. The place appeared to be half filled with men, despite the early hour.
Taking a table near a corner where he could study the place and its occupants, he glanced around. Dimly lit with tallow candles, the tavern stank of old beer, unwashed bodies and sweat, and he noticed a cat scurrying past with a rat in its jaws. The rushes on the floor badly needed a change, and Ian grimaced at the remains of old cheese on their table before scraping it off with his sleeve.
“I dae hope we find uir answers before we hae tae spend much time here,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
Ranulf eyed the other inhabitants who drank their ale from pewter mugs and spoke in low tones. All appeared well armed, with glints of chain mail peeking out from leather tunics. “These be nae Duke’s men,” he murmured. “Me thinks they be outlaws, brigands.”
“Then mayhap we be wastin’ uir time here, laird,” Ian commented. “Surely Henry ‘o Whitewood nae dae his drinkin’ here.”
Ranulf half shrugged. “Ye ne’er ken aboot such. We hae a drink and ask a question or two, then move oan.”
After a time, in which Ranulf had begun to think they would not be served, a wench wearing a dirty smock and apron came to take their orders. “Two drams ‘o whiskey,” Ranulf told her. “And ye ken the Duke ‘o Whitewood’s son?”
The wench shook her head, her flaxen hair falling in oily tendrils over her shoulders. “Yea, suh,” she said in a small voice. “I seen him in here, drinkin’ with his friends.”
Discreetly, Ranulf pulled a few silver coins from his belt pouch and showed them to her. “These be fer ye, lass, if ye can tell me who they be. Be they here, noo?”
Shaking her head, the girl flashed a glance over her shoulder. “No, not now. I once heard him say the name Chaddie to one of them.”
“Dae ye recall whet this Chaddie dae look like?”
She shrugged. “Dark hair, scar on his cheek. Like yours.”
Glancing around to make certain they were not observed, Ranulf poured the coins into her palm. “The whiskey, lass, if ye please.”
Offering him a tiny curtsey, the wench hastily shoved the coins into a pocket in her apron, then hurried to fetch their drinks. Ian’s brows rose as she watched her vanish behind the bar.
“I cannae believe uir luck,” he commented.
“Luck?” Ranulf shook his head slightly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps the Duke’s son dae like to be wi’ the rough sorts ‘o men.”
Ian frowned. “But this nae be the sort ‘o place yer brother Kyle wid frequent.”
“Aye, he wid,” Ranulf replied. “He dae like taverns ‘o all kinds. I dae suspect he were in the same place the night Henry was killed.”
“Can we find that place?” Ian asked. “After such time has passed?”
“I dinnae. But we hae tae try.”
When the wench returned with their whiskey, Ranulf flashed her a few more silver coins as she placed them on the table. “Nae, lass, dae this Chaddie still come tae drink here?”
With another glance over her shoulder, she nodded. “Usually at dusk, but not every day.”
“Thank ye, lass.”
After she took her coins, as well as those for payment for the drinks, she hurried to attend to other patrons who had raised their mugs in request for refills. Ranulf sipped his whiskey, grimacing with distaste.
“This nae be good Scots whiskey,” he commented. “I be hungry, but I nae wish tae eat in this place. Let us be oof.”
Leaving their half-drunk cups on the table, Ranulf and Ian left The Lucky Hog and untied their horses. Mounting up, they rode further down the street, watching for a tavern or inn that appeared more savory than the place they had just departed from. Noticing merchants walking into and out of an inn called the Blue Rose, Ranulf pointed it out to Ian, who nodded.
Once again, they tied their horses out front and went inside, finding it far more wholesome and cleaner than The Lucky Hog. It smelled of roasting meat and freshly baked bread, with clean rushes on the floor and no cats with rats that Ranulf could see. Taking a newly scrubbed table, he and Ian sat down. The place was nearly full with diners and drinkers, and serving wenches hurried back and forth from the kitchen with platters.
Once again, Ranulf doled out silver coins and discovered Henry of Whitewood often stayed at the inn, eating his meals with his friends. While he received no other names, he did discover that a black-haired man with a scar on his cheek often accompanied him. Ranulf ordered hot food for the both of them and sat back with satisfaction.
“Noo we jist find this Chaddie lad,” he said.
Ian nodded. “Might nae be difficult,” he replied. “Noo we ken whet he looks like and where he likes to gae.”
After receiving their meal, Ranulf ordered a room and stabling for their horses, handing over the necessary coins. “Guid thing I got plenty ‘o gold from Hargrove,” he commented, grinning.
The fare they received for their money was good and plentiful, and Ranulf ate his fill of hot beef and bread, with savory cheese and stewed apples. Upon finishing their meal, the two of them led their mounts around to the back and turned them over to the stable grooms to care for.
Taking their saddlebags to their room, Ranulf took a few gold coins from the leather pouch, and several silvers and coppers, then retied his bags. The room held two small, narrow beds, and Ranulf slid them under the bed, out of sight. “That be a lot ‘o gold tae lose tae a room thief,” he said. “And it be tae big tae carry.”
Walking out into the street, Ranulf and Ian strolled down it, taking in the sights and sounds of Linfield, keeping a sharp watch for a dark-haired man with a scarred cheek. Stopping into two more taverns they found only shaken heads when they asked about the Duke’s son, or a friend of his with a scar. Upon departing their third disappointment, Ranulf gripped Ian’s arm.
“Look there.”
Across the busy street, Aswin and Duncan stood on a corner, an alley behind them. Aswin met Ranulf’s eyes, then jerked his head toward the narrow opening between a butcher’s shop and a tavern. Then, the two casually walked into the alley.
Letting a wagon drawn by two mules pass by, Ranulf and Ian crossed the street, dodging a few men at arms on trotting horses. Glancing around to see if any eyes watched them with obvious scrutiny, Ranulf and Ian followed the others.
Ranulf gripped their arms in greeting. “Right glad I be tae se ye,” he said. “Hae ye found anythin’ useful?”
“Aye, laird,” Aswin replied. “We hae the names ‘o Whitewoods friens’, but they seem tae hae vanished into t
hin air.”
Chapter 18
Gilbert gestured to the man at arms who had discovered the dead men, “Show us.”
Quickening their pace into a hand gallop, Catrin could not help but worry that Ranulf had come south from Scotland with too few men around him and had been killed. He is too good and canny a fighter to be killed that easily. Perhaps because she now had feelings for him, and he was out of her sight, she would always worry about him.
Ravens burst upward from the shallow valley in a black cloud as Catrin and Gilbert, their escort behind them, galloped down the hill into what remained of a camp. Smoke trailed upward from the skeletons of three small fires, the stench of the dead reeking into the mid-morning sky. Catrin wanted to cover her face to keep the stink out of her nose, but she would not show weakness in front of Gilbert.
