by Barbara Bard
Henry sat back in his chair and sighed. “I have little appetite these days, Catrin. Not since Henry died.”
“He would not want you to waste away,” she said. “Please eat.”
Henry ate a few more bites to please her, then pushed his plate away. “I cannot. Alban, what progress on my demands for soldiers?”
Sir Alban set his fork aside. “Your Grace, I sent messengers out this morning as you ordered, and already I am receiving replies from your vassals. Outside our own levies, which number over two hundred and fifty men at arms, we have over thirty knights arriving with theirs. Your more powerful vassals, both the Marquesses of Summerland and of Folkshire, have sent messengers that they will gather their forces and await your command.”
“Excellent.” Henry nodded, happy. “And my allies?”
“The young Duke of Breedmont has acknowledged your alliance with his father and stands ready to aid you, should you have need. I have not yet heard from the Earl of Kesterton, but I have no doubt that should we be attacked, he will join forces with you.”
Henry smiled. “He and I have been staunch friends for years. We fought side by side during the war, Catrin.”
“Yes, Father. I know. He is my uncle, after all.”
“So he is. Your sainted mother’s brother.” He smiled again. “You look so much like her, Catrin. I know, I know, I tell you that far too often, but I cannot seem to help it. Even after all these years, I miss her.”
“She is still with you,” Catrin said, gazing at the pie she could not finish. “In your heart.”
“I know, child. It is not the same thing.”
“I would like to marry for love,” she murmured. “The way you and Mother did.”
Henry chuckled. “Well, our marriage was born of an alliance, as most marriages must be. We were fortunate enough to find that we could love each other, when many husbands and wives merely tolerate one another. Some even despise each other.”
Catrin shivered involuntarily when she recalled Lord Gilbert’s threat to lock her away and visit only long enough to get her with child. “You were very lucky indeed.”
“And she gave me two wonderful, beautiful children,” Henry added wistfully. “Yes, I was blessed, certainly.”
Treading carefully, Catrin asked, “Have you given thought to – a husband? For me?”
“Eh?” Henry eyed her curiously. “Well, naturally I have, Catrin. I am merely waiting to see what will benefit us, and you, the most.”
Knowing how he felt about the Thorburn clan and the Scottish in general, Catrin hesitated to tell him about her growing love for Ranulf. He would fly into a rage, she had no doubt. “Would you ever let me choose my own husband? For love?”
“Catrin.” Henry patted her arm. “I love you, you know that. As much as I would want for you to marry your heart’s desire, such is not for you. It was not for your mother. Nor would it be for your own son or daughter, someday. We of the nobility must marry in order to gain wealth, titles, alliances.”
Catrin nodded, gritting her teeth. “Then I am indeed a broodmare to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“Please do not look at it that way,” Henry said, his tone earnest, almost pleading. “When the time comes, I will make the best choice possible, with a man who will treat you well. Not a man like Hargrove, who would offer you only cruelty. Perhaps love will grow between you and you husband.”
“It is not the same thing, Father.” Catrin stood, half blinded by anger and fear. The Duke would never agree to let her marry Ranulf, even if such an alliance could potentially benefit the Whitewood estates enormously. “I am already in love with someone else.”
“Who?”
“Ranulf Thorburn.”
Chapter 21
The long ride back to his estates did little to cool Gilbert’s rage. His mount, and those of his escort, labored under the driving spurs that forced them to gallop nearly the entire distance. He did not care if he killed the beast, such was his fury. As his horse thudded wearily across his drawbridge, he bellowed, “I want Sir Jarrett in my chambers, now.”
Dismounting his exhausted mount in the bailey, he threw the reins to a bowing groom and strode rapidly across it to the castle. Sir Jarrett Simpson, his chief advisor and close friend, had heard his roar and awaited him in the vast entryway to the castle. A stocky man of Gilbert’s own age with flowing white hair and piercing blue eyes, he wore a dark blue mantle over a green tunic emblazoned with the Hargrove emblem.
He bowed low as Gilbert approached. “My Lord?”
“Come with me.”
Gilbert led the way up the stairs to his lavish apartments, and curtly dismissed his man servant. Pacing furiously around his primary sitting room, his blood flecked spurs jingling, he snapped, “I want war.”
Clearly taken aback, Sir Jarrett said, “Uh, with whom?”
“Henry of Whitewood.”
“Oh, no,” Sir Jarrett said, his jaw slack. “What happened, may I ask?”
Walking to a table that held various bottles of alcohol, Sir Jarrett poured a strong dollop of whiskey into two mugs, and took one to his master. Gilbert accepted it after blinking at the proffered cup and drank it to its dregs in one long swallow. Sir Jarrett took the cup from him and offered Gilbert his own.
“He insulted me, that is what happened.” Gilbert continued to pace, raw energy coursing off him in waves. He sipped rather than gulped at the second cup, but his rage defied the whiskey’s effects. “I brought him his precious daughter, but he refused me her hand.”
“And you want to go to war with Whitewood over it, My Lord?” Sir Jarrett asked. “The king will never permit it.”
“He will not know until it is too late.”
“My Lord, I must advise against this,” Sir Jarrett said, his tone calm. “You cannot win against Whitewood. He has too many powerful allies.”
“So do I,” Gilbert snarled, spinning on him. “I will ally myself with the young Duke of Breedmont.”
“He, like his father before him, will renew the alliance with Whitewood, My Lord. Please, I beg you, reconsider this course. It can only lead to your destruction.”
“Send to the Duke,” Gilbert said, still pacing, still furious. “Tell him I wish to talk of an alliance. I will pry his loyalty away from Whitewood, I swear it. Once I have it, I will wage a war on that bastard, the likes of which he has never seen. And I will take Catrin to wife.”
“And if he refuses, My Lord?” Sir Jarrett asked. “What if he remains loyal to Whitewood?”
“I will decide what to do then. Go.”
Sir Jarrett bowed, then headed for the door. Gilbert stopped him before he went through. “And send me a wench, a pretty one. Preferably a virgin.”
***
After sating his lust, and abating his fury on the young girl’s body, Gilbert lounged in his bed, naked, thinking. Evening had come and gone, and full night had fallen. A few candles lit the chamber, pushing the darkness back and suited his mood perfectly. Pondering Catrin, he mused on her fiery nature and the pleasure he would have in taming her.
Glancing at the nude wench beside him, the bruises he inflicted on her pale flesh and the terror in her eyes, he chuckled. “Did I hurt you, my sweet?”
She continued to stare at him without speaking. Growing bored with her, he shoved her from the bed. “Leave me. And tell a servant to bring me food and ale.”
Rising from her knees off the hard tumble of the bed, the wench quickly clad herself in her torn clothing and fled the chamber. Gilbert watched her go, then lay on his back to stare up at the heavy bed hangings. Mentally counting his men at arms, his vassals and knights loyal to him, he realized that Sir Jarrett was right – unless he gained a powerful ally such as the Duke of Breedmont, he could never hope to win against Whitewood.
“That leaves less savory methods,” he mused aloud. “Black Charlie is not the only slimy snake in the wood pile.”
Thinking of the outlaw made him think of Ranulf Thorburn, now south
of the border and also hunting Lady Catrin. Though he scarcely admitted it to himself, the thought of Ranulf scared him to his very core. Too restless to lie in bed, Gilbert rose and clad himself in his trousers. Barefoot, he stepped on the thick hides covering the flag stone floor and crossed to the window.
Leaning on the sill, he gazed out over the black moors, at the moon rising amidst the stars. “Damn you, Thorburn,” he muttered. “Damn you to hell.”
The man was out there, somewhere, not in his castle in Scotland where he belonged. “You are interfering with my plans, you bastard, and that I cannot permit to continue.”
A knock at his door heralded the servant with his food, interrupting his thoughts. “Come,” he called.
The servant entered, bowing over the tray in his hands. After placing it on the table, he bowed his way out again. He had barely seated himself to eat his meal when another knock came at his door. This time it was Sir Jarrett.
“My Lord,” he said, bowing. “I have sent a courier to the Duke of Breedmont and hope to have a reply by tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Gilbert replied, his mouth full. “You still think he will refuse to align himself with me?”
“I do.”
Standing at attention, his right hand on the jeweled hilt of his sword, Sir Jarrett appeared the fierce warrior Gilbert knew him to be. No tourney passed without the knight winning his jousts. They had met as youths, and Gilbert considered himself fortunate to have the man in his service.
“I also agree,” Gilbert said, gulping his ale. “Breedmont and Whitewood have been allies for time out of mind.”
“Thus, you are abandoning your declaration of war against Whitewood?”
Gilbert grinned. “Not exactly. I will simply take my fight with him underground. At first light, I want you to find the man who took over Black Charlie’s band of outlaws.”
Sir Jarrett’s brow rose. “They were not all killed with him?”
“I do not think so,” Gilbert replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “His influence was fairly extensive, and he must have had a second in command. Even brigands had their hierarchy.”
Sir Jarrett nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps I can make inquiries at The Lucky Hog in Linfield.”
“That would be the best place to start. If you find him, convince him to come here. I want to talk with him myself, find out what sort of man I am dealing with.”
“And what do you expect he can accomplish that you yourself cannot?”
“Assassinate the Duke of Whitewood and bring me Lady Catrin.”
Chapter 22
Following Donal’s lead, Ranulf and his clansmen rode hard into the Lowlands toward the village of Spencer. It lay roughly twenty leagues almost straight west of the peak where they sought refuge from anyone who may be searching for Scotsmen after the fight in the alley in Linfield. Though they rode through Scotland, Ranulf kept a sharp watch for anyone following them.
Sparing the horses as best they could, Ranulf still set a fast pace, hoping to reach the village in two days of hard riding. He and his band reached the gates of the town just before they closed for the night. He turned in his saddle to his clansmen.
“Me, Donal and Ian tae go in,” he said. “The rest ‘o ye make camp atop that hill. Keep a sharp watch oot, and we should return by tomorrow.”
As his band rode away, he led Donal and Ian through the tall wooden gates in the wall surrounding the town. Much smaller than Linfield, it held only two inns to choose from, and Ranulf followed Donal’s gesture toward one of them. “The Gold Crown be the better, laird,” he said.
“Dae ye ken where this frien’ ‘o yers lives?” Ranulf asked, guiding his tired horse toward it.
“Aye,” Donal replied. “But I dinnae guess he wi’ open his doors after dark. Best we find him come dawn.”
“I wi’ agree wi’ ye there.”
The common room was half filled with villagers and travelers as they walked inside, Ranulf breathing in the scents of hot pork, fried peppers and onions, fresh bread and ale. Like himself and his companions, many seated at the tables bore swords and daggers, but none eyed them curiously as they sat down at a table.
The place was clean, and lit with tallow candles and rush lights, and a bright fire burned on the central hearth. The innkeeper himself came to take their orders for food, ale, rooms and stabling for three horses.
“I wi’ hae me lads care fer yer beasts noo,” he said, wiping their table clean with a cloth.
“Thank ye,” Ranulf replied as the man hurried away. He glanced at Donal. “Whet yer frien’ dae noo fer a livin’?”
“If I remember right, he opened a carpenter shop,” Donal replied. “He be guid wi’ wood, and it would’nae get him hanged.”
The innkeeper returned with their food and ale, and said, “Me lads dae be takin’ yer horses tae the stable, laird.”
Nodding, Ranulf filled his plate with the hot roast pork, lentils in butter, bread and gravy, and started eating. “Nay, wi’ a wife and bairns, he wi’ need an honest livin’. He be Scottish?”
Donal shook his head, his mouth full. “Sassenach. But he married a Scottish lass.”
“Hidin’ from the Sassenach law in Scotland. Smart lad.”
After paying the innkeeper his fees for the rooms, food and stabling, Ranulf wearily walked up the stairs, his saddlebags over his shoulder. He took one of the rooms for himself, while Donal and Ian would share the other. But he found himself too restless to sleep, Catrin preying upon his mind.
Even though he knew Gilbert of Hargrove would take her safely to her father, Ranulf still worried. “I wi’ come fer ye, lass. I like ye tae much tae let ye gae noo.”
Deep in his heart, Ranulf knew he had fallen in love with Catrin. “Ye be me perfect match, me bonnie lass,” he said into the dark, smiling as he remembered her unquenchable spirit, the fire in her lustrous honey eyes. “I dae mean tae marry ye, somehow.”
***
Donal’s outlaw acquaintance was at his carpentry shop shortly after dawn as Ranulf, Donal and Ian rode up. His small house stood next to the overlarge shed he worked in to build tables, chairs, benches, and other items the people in the town, as well as the local laird, needed in their homes. Busy with a lathe, he glanced up as the three dismounted.
“My old friend, Donal,” he said, gripping Donal’s arm in a welcome greeting, but his expression remained wary as Donal introduced Ranulf. “Lord,” he said, his tone respectful as he accepted Ranulf’s arm. “What can I do for you? Somehow, I do not think you rode all this way to order furniture from me.”
Ranulf shook his head. “Nay, frien’, James. Ye heard aboot Henry ‘o Whitewood’s murder?”
James nodded. “Rumors, mostly, that a Scottish lord killed him.”
“Me brother.”
Paling, James took a step back. “Now I knew Henry, but I left that life before he died. I had nothing to do with any of it.”
“I nae here tae lay blame, lad,” Ranulf said. “I dae need to ken where yer other friens’ be hidin’. Chaddie and the others.”
“Why? Are you planning to kill them?”
“Nay. Me brother be innocent, ye see. I mean tae clear his guid name, and I need yer friens’ tae gie me answers.”
James eyed him sidelong. “What sort of answers?”
“Who did Henry argue wi’ that night? That be one. What be the motive behind killin’ Henry fer another?”
“Henry liked to be with outlaws and brigands,” James said slowly, rubbing his chin. “He gambled heavily, and it is said he owed someone a lot of money.”
“Dae ye ken who?”
“No.”
“Wid yer friens’ ken it?”
James shut his jaw, his eyes narrowed as he gazed at Ranulf. “Lord, I may have left that life behind, but I cannot turn on my comrades. We have our own code of honor – we do not snitch.”
Suspecting the man would not willingly give up the location of Chaddie and the others, Ranulf pulled five go
ld crowns from his pocket and held them up in his palm. James’ jaw dropped.
“That there wi’ set ye fer life,” he said softly. “I swear tae ye, I mean yer chums nae harm. I wi’ ne’er tell the Sassenach where they be. Me oath oan it.”
James nodded. “As long as you also promise to not tell them who told you, lord,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I so swear.”
“In Scotland, just north of the border,” James said, his eyes on the gold. “There is a series of caves on the coast, near the beach. They are just south of the village called Wooten. We would hide there until the English sheriffs stopped looking for us. If Chaddie and the others know who killed Henry, then they would be there, hiding.”
