“You honor me, milady,” he said formally, coming to stand before her. She reached down and tied one of the laces from her gown around his upper arm.
’Twas a Norman custom, one she’d only heard of. Catrin couldn’t have said why she’d had the sudden impulse, or why she’d given in to it. It appeared she’d done it properly. But now she felt a fool, until she chanced to look into Nicholas’s eyes.
He seemed pleased by the gesture. Capturing her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. “Are you ready?” He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then closed her fingers over it. “For luck,” he repeated, before he turned and took up the reins.
The warmth engendered by Nicholas’s touch lasted until they crested the last rise and Ashby came into view. Outlined against the orange and pink of the setting sun, it looked harsh and forbidding, a typical fortress. A fortress under siege, she thought. The drawbridge was up and, as in the fields along the way, she didn’t see anyone outside the walls—or on them, for that matter.
Nicholas led the mare to the very brink of the moat, practically gagging at the noisome stench rising from the murky water. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn back after all, he thought as he surveyed the crumbling walls of his ancestral home.
This was the specter that haunted his worst nightmares, the embodiment of all he’d never be because of his father’s shame? His boyhood memory was of an awe-inspiring citadel, standing so high above him he was unworthy to set foot within its gates. The image faded away like a morning mist, leaving only a curious sadness in its place. Ashby had gone the way of the family honor, it seemed, becoming tarnished and shabby around the edges.
But like his honor, Ashby hadn’t disappeared completely. With luck, there was enough left of it to restore it to its former glory.
Heartened, he raised his head proudly and scanned the empty battlements. “Open the gates for Lord Nicholas Talbot,” he bellowed.
And waited.
The mare shifted restlessly behind him. He turned to see how Catrin fared and discovered that somehow, despite her pain and weariness, she held herself straight and tall. She was a vision of queenly grace. Only someone standing as close as he would notice the strain in her eyes, and the way her nose twitched as she inhaled the foul air. He watched her proudly. She was a true lady.
Was there no one alive within the shabby walls? Impatient, Nicholas watched Idris frisk about as if he were a pup, darting around them, then veering away to race over the open land surrounding the keep.
If only I could run off my frustrations so easily, Nicholas thought.
The sound of steel scraping against stone brought Nicholas whipping around. Tilting his head back, he saw a man move into view between two battered crenels above the portcullis.
“What do you want?” the man snarled. “Best to go away—we got no use for the likes of you.” He leaned forward and spit over the wall.
“I am Lord Nicholas Talbot, the master of this godforsaken place. Lower the drawbridge that I might enter.”
“Get ye gone. You ain’t Lord Nicholas,” he scoffed. “That misbegotten whelp’d never dare show his face here.”
Nicholas had heard enough. He drew himself up to his full height, pulling the aura of command about him like a cloak. “If you don’t open the gate—and soon—I will find some other way to get inside. And when I do—” his fingers caressed the hilt of his knife “—I will show you what this ‘misbegotten whelp’ learned from mercenaries and infidels.”
“Ye don’t scare me—ain’t no way you’re Lord Nicholas, ye scabby oaf.” More scraping heralded the arrival of another man. “What do ye want, Clarence?” the guard asked impatiently. He looked back over his shoulder.
“Clarence, show yourself,” Nicholas ordered. Clarence was the man he’d sent to Ashby in his stead. Perhaps now they’d make more progress.
Clarence ignored the summons. “Go on,” the guard said. He swung at the unseen man. Clarence suddenly appeared, the guard jerking him closer to the edge of the wall by the tunic. “Tell him he ain’t who he says, so’s we can get back to rollin’ the bones.”
If he weren’t already so aggravated by his reception, Nicholas might have done violence when he saw Clarence. The man had hidden his weakness well in London, it seemed, but now his round face was ruddy with drink.
Clarence lurched forward until he appeared in imminent danger of falling over the wall. His eyes widened suddenly when he saw Nicholas, and he grabbed wildly at the crumbling stone to keep from tumbling forward. “Shit.” His face turned an odd shade of green. “We’re all dead men now.” He leaned his head over the wall and disgorged the contents of his stomach, then disappeared from view behind the crenel.
Although they weren’t in his path, Nicholas leapt back, pressing the mare back with him. “Christ,” he growled. “Damned drunken sot.”
He turned and glared at Catrin when he heard her stifled giggle. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, her gray eyes dancing. “’Tis just that it’s so ridiculous.” She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, enticing his gaze to the movement of her unbound breasts beneath the thin material of her gown.
Reluctantly dragging his gaze away, Nicholas picked up the reins and spun to face the castle. “Lower the drawbridge and open the gates,” he bellowed. A ponderous creaking signaled that this time his orders had been obeyed. The drawbridge thudded into place amid the earsplitting squeal of rusty chains. Beyond it, the portcullis rose jerkily into the gatehouse.
About to set foot on the bridge, Nicholas looked down at the splintering wood and nearly balked. They’d be fortunate if they weren’t forced to swim across the moat after all, he thought, grimacing at the notion of falling into the putrid swill below.
But they had little choice. So far as he knew, this was the only way into Ashby. “Best say a prayer,” he told Catrin. Setting his shoulders, he led the mare onto the planks.
Moving swiftly—he didn’t intend to remain on the span any longer than necessary—they made it across without mishap just as the portcullis ceased its noisy ascent. Nicholas felt an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades as they passed through the dim passageway, the mare’s hoofbeats echoing hollowly on the cobblestones. He almost expected to see his uncle, the former master of Ashby, awaiting him in the bailey, ready to boot him out the gate again.
But the spectacle that met them when they emerged from the long corridor into the sunlight bore no resemblance to the scene from the past etched upon Nicholas’s memory.
It was far, far worse.
Ian sent up a prayer of thanksgiving as he rode into the clearing surrounding l’Eau Clair. Padrig was still alive, though Ian feared the boy clung to life by a thread.
Shifting in the saddle, he sought once again to move the lad into a more comfortable position. He’d carried Padrig in his arms on the brief journey back to l’Eau Clair, listening to his raspy breathing, feeling the fiery heat of his feverish body even through the layers of fabric that separated them.
Padrig had yet to regain his senses, a fact that concerned Ian. Had he lasted till l’Eau Clair, only to lose the battle now? He prayed the lad would improve, would awaken and survive.
And not just for Catrin’s sake, although that was of prime importance to him. Padrig was a brave lad, with a bright future ahead of him, should he live.
Ian cursed his sister’s impulsiveness, even as he prayed for her safety. She had endangered more lives than her own, and for what reason? Boredom? The chance to show him that she would do as she pleased? Disappointment weighed heavily upon him; Catrin had been raised to protect those within her charge, not to be capricious with their well-being.
The lad’s safety had been in his keeping, and he’d failed in his duty to protect him.
Gillian and a slew of servants hurried into the bailey.
“Wait, Gillian,” Ian snapped when she reached up to examine the blanket-wrapped bundle he held. Rannulf dismounted and caught his wife up in his arms, setting
her on her feet a short distance from Ian’s mount.
“Let me bring him into the keep first,” Rannulf said. Suiting action to words, he lifted Padrig from Ian’s grasp.
Ian slipped from the saddle and, placing an arm about Gillian’s waist to help her, followed Rannulf up the stairs into the keep.
“Bring him into the anteroom behind the hall,” Gillian directed, shrugging out of Ian’s grasp as they entered the huge room. Clapping her hands, she directed the maids to bring hot water to the chamber, then set off after her husband, moving swiftly and with a surprising grace, considering her burden.
“Come along, Ian,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll need your help before I’m through.”
Ian sprawled in a chair by the fire, a goblet of his favorite spiced mead clasped loosely in his hands. Gillian had treated Padrig’s injuries and dosed him for the fever several hours earlier. They could do little now but wait, and hope the lad came to his senses soon.
Considering that he’d been awake and able to speak when they found him, Gillian didn’t believe his swoon was so deep that he’d sleep much longer now that he was in out of the cold and damp. Although he hadn’t yet awakened, several times he’d come close, and his breathing seemed much better. As for the fever, it had already eased. He should recover, with time and care.
But time was a commodity they did not have. Days had passed since the attack, plenty of time for the bandits to have spirited Catrin away—or done worse. Ian chafed at the inactivity of waiting for Padrig to awaken.
If it didn’t happen soon, he’d strike out on his own.
Rannulf slipped into the room and closed the door. Motioning for Ian to remain seated, he moved to stand beside the bed. “He hasn’t stirred?” he asked, staring down at Padrig consideringly.
“Nay. Nothing more than a few moans,” Ian said. He poured mead into another goblet. “If he doesn’t wake soon, we’ll have to go back out and continue looking. I’m not certain he’ll be able to tell us anything useful, but…”
Rannulf tucked the blankets beneath Padrig’s chin, then dropped into the other chair by the fire, accepting the mead with a nod of thanks.
“I sent Dai back out to look,” Ian told him. “He’ll keep searching for Catrin and the others. I’ll wait a bit longer for Padrig—then I plan to go out looking, as well. The chance we’ll find them unharmed is slim, I’m afraid.”
“Gillian found blood on Padrig’s tunic,” Rannulf said. “Not his, but it looks as though someone was badly injured.” He sipped his mead. “We’ll find her, Ian, I promise you.”
“How is Gillian?”
“She’s anxious about Catrin. Her concern for your sister has completely outweighed her fear of giving birth.” Rannulf shook his head. “I’d heard that pregnant women have strange ideas. Gillian has believed all along that she could not deliver this child without Catrin. Now her main concern is that we find Catrin and that she is well, but I swear she’s determined not to give birth until we find your sister.”
Ian rose and replenished his drink, then wandered to the unshuttered window. “It’s nearly midday.” He stared out at the sky. “’Tis in God’s hands whether the lad recovers or not, though with Gillian caring for him, he’s luckier than most. But there’s nothing we can do for him now.” He set his goblet on the table with a thump. “I’m going back out to look for them. If you’d rather not come with me—”
“Are you mad? If I don’t go, you’re apt to find my wife trailing along behind you,” Rannulf said with a wry laugh. “Wouldn’t that be a sight?” He continued more soberly, “Of course I’m coming. I’ll do everything within my power to find them.” He stood. “No sense in waiting any longer. If we leave now, we can cover a wide area before dark.”
Ian turned to look down at Padrig. The boy’s breathing and color seemed more normal.
Rannulf joined him. “He’s a tough lad to withstand so much. He’ll make a fine squire.”
“I hope you’re right.” Ian took one last look at Padrig before he left the chamber.
But he couldn’t escape his fears so easily. He knew the memory of that pale, battered face would haunt him until he found Catrin.
Chapter Seventeen
Catrin sat atop the mare, stunned by the filthy, ramshackle scene before her. The outside of Ashby had been shocking. But this—this looked like the portal of hell.
Not ready to sort out the chaos, she focused her attention on Nicholas. Watching him now, she was sorry she’d laughed at Clarence’s crude reaction. Nicholas had enough to deal with at the moment without that.
All she could see of Nicholas was his back, but even that limited view told its own tale. The shoulders beneath his grimy mail were taut with tension, his spine so straight she wondered it didn’t snap.
She doubted his response had any connection with the reasons he’d stayed away from Ashby the past four years and everything to do with the filth and depravity littering his keep.
Groups of people—servants by the look of them, both men and women—clustered about the bailey in various stages of dress and cleanliness. One quick glance at the raucous frolicking revealed drinking, dicing and wenching. Did no one do an honest day’s labor here? And how did they happen to arrive in the midst of this? Perhaps ’twas a feast day she didn’t know about, or a special celebration of some kind.
But she couldn’t believe either reason was true, and a moment’s thought didn’t reveal any other excuse for the neglect and debauchery surrounding them. No explanation could defend this state of affairs. ’Twas past time someone exerted control over these people. Since Nicholas hadn’t done anything yet, she would have to take up the reins of responsibility.
As Nicholas continued to stand there, Catrin noticed the sheer volume of noise seemed to ebb. People were becoming aware of him, ceasing their revelry to turn and stare. But despite their attention, no one came forward to take the horse or greet them in any way.
She’d seen enough of their disregard for their master’s presence. Granted, she and Nicholas didn’t appear overly impressive at the moment, but he had stated his name, and the man on the walls had confirmed his identity. Furthermore, anyone with eyes to see couldn’t fail to notice Nicholas’s air of command.
Even chance strangers seeking shelter for the night should have received more attention than this.
But hospitality appeared to be in short supply at Ashby. If none was offered, Catrin decided they would go after it themselves.
Disregarding the throbbing ache in her back and the trembling weakness pervading her entire body, Catrin summoned all the arrogance at her command—no small amount, she thought with a wry twist of her lips—and leapt into action.
“You there,” she said, her voice loud in the growing silence. Biting her lower lip against the pain, she slid down from the mare with as much grace as she could muster, then stood tall and straight. She pointed to a shabby youth hovering nearby. “Yes, you. Come here and take your master’s horse to the stables.”
Mouth agape, the boy stared at her for a moment, then limped toward them. Nicholas’s expression was not welcoming; the youth hung back, looking as if he’d bolt at any moment. “Go on,” she urged, making it clear with her voice and demeanor that she’d brook no disobedience.
He looked at her again, taking her measure. “Aye, milady,” he mumbled, bobbing his head awkwardly in acknowledgment. He cast a defiant glare at the others still gathered about. Then, hand outstretched, he moved a step closer to Nicholas. “Take yer horse, milord?” he asked, his voice more steady. Nicholas gave him the reins and he led the mare away, his mouth curved in a gap-toothed smile.
Catrin ignored Nicholas’s scowl, sending him a challenging look and silently daring him to interfere. Since he responded by folding his arms and gazing at her expectantly, she felt free to proceed.
“Where is the seneschal?” she asked, speaking loudly enough to be heard by all. When no one replied she scrutinized the crowd, one eyebrow raised in
question. She paused on a face every so often, simply to underscore her power.
Just as she was ready to scan the throng again, one of a bevy of unkempt women lounging near the gatehouse stairs stepped forward, dragging a groaning man with her. “This be Clarence, milady, but he ain’t much good to ye now, is he?”
“Ain’t much good, period,” another woman said, inspiring a burst of laughter from the others.
The woman holding up Clarence released her grasp on the front of his tunic. He crumpled into a heap at her feet, belching loudly as his head hit the muddy ground. Moaning, he closed his eyes and lay unmoving.
Catrin motioned the woman closer. At this point, she didn’t dare ask more of her legs than to hold her upright. “What is your name?”
“I’m called Tildy, milady.” Smiling ruefully, she tugged her loosened bodice into place. “Beg pardon, milady.”
“You seem a strong woman, Tildy. I’d wager you’re capable of a hard day’s work.”
“Hard night’s work, more like,” a male voice called out from the midst of a large group to Catrin’s left. The laughter that greeted his remark faded quickly when Catrin turned and glared.
Tildy scowled at the man, then gave Catrin a grateful look before answering. “Aye, milady. Used to work in the laundry, I did, carryin’ and scrubbin’.”
“Good. You’re just the person I need,” Catrin said. “I want you to find two or three others who don’t mind working—if that’s possible in this place,” she added with a scornful glance about her. “Lord Nicholas and I each require a chamber, and we also need a decent meal as soon as one can be prepared.” Her gaze was drawn back to Clarence, still sprawled on the ground. “And find someone to take care of this offal.”
Two men immediately hauled the seneschal up and carted him away. Perhaps there was hope for Ashby yet, with a bit of guidance. She raised her voice. “I’m sure everyone else can find something useful to do until Lord Nicholas has refreshed himself. You may wait in the hall after the evening meal for your orders,” she said, dismissal in her tone as well as her words. Amid a buzz of mumbling, the groups began to disperse.
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