Badge of Honor - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 10)
Page 7
Michael looked up shyly. “Yes, please do,” he added shyly.
Catherine looked around the room. Most of the inhabitants had now left, with only a few remaining to talk or drink ale. The elderly priest was quietly snoring in the corner. If she was going to be pressed to sing, at least tonight seemed like a good evening to do it. “As you wish,” she acquiesced agreeably, “although please do not expect anything as lilting as Maya’s voice.”
John spoke up with rich enthusiasm, “I am sure whatever you sing will be wonderful.” The other two nodded in eager encouragement.
Catherine stood and moved over to the far wall, where a small, wooden travel harp hung high on a copper hook. She reached up for it with her right arm, then winced as the wound pulled at her sharply, reminding her of how much healing she still had to do. There was a movement beside her, and Jack was taking down the harp, a quiet smile in his eyes. Warmth swept through her heart, and she nodded her thanks, flustered, turning away instinctively to break the gaze. In a moment she was moving over toward the fire, tugging a small stool into place as she reached the edge of the ember-rich hearth.
It was not long before the others had come to join her, pulling their own seats close. Jack waited until she had settled down onto her stool before carefully placing the small harp into her arms and lowering himself at her side.
The flames were fading into embers now, and a warm darkness had fallen on the room.
Catherine pitched her voice low so that it would carry only to her group of friends. “I am not a court singer, nor trained on harp intricacies,” she admitted to them with a wry grin. “I would keep my patrol companions entertained when we were out on the road, playing songs that we could relate to.”
Michael’s eyes brightened with interest. “You went out on patrol? What areas did you visit?”
Her face fell as she thought back to her friends, to the many long travels they went on together, all gone, all in her past. “I would rather not talk of that,” she admitted softly. “Let me share myself through my music instead.”
She ran a few passages on the harp, rippling her fingers with ease along the strings.
Jack watched her with quiet interest. “I am surprised the sound is much more earthy and rich than Maya’s,” he commented to Peter. “I would call Maya’s instrument light, almost tinkling. This one seems full and deep.”
Peter nodded in agreement. “Part of it is the harp’s construction,” he explained, “but much of the sound’s character comes from the intention of the artist. Catherine, you will find, is very different than Maya.”
Catherine ignored the interplay; she made a few small tweaks to the tuning, then nodded in satisfaction. A deep breath, and her fingers were in motion. The song was low yet strong, a melody about the depths of the forest and the darkness of the night. She sang about twilight pools and misty paths.
She lost herself, engrossed in the song, in the memories of her homeland. The verses touched her very soul. She found her breath almost catching …
She wandered mossy pathways
seeking one elusive peace;
A pregnant, furling hush where voices
mercifully cease …
She looked up, and Jack’s eyes were on hers, deep, understanding, immersed in her visions. Her fingers almost faltered on the strings, so powerful was the connection, and she looked away, willing herself to focus on the melody.
When the song faded off into silence, it was almost like coming out of a dream to find herself surrounded by her friends. The group smiled and toasted her quietly, not wishing to disturb the spell.
The ale mugs were refilled, the logs settled into a quiet bed of glowing embers, and she sang. Her longing and sorrow poured out of her as she played. As the minutes passed her emotions eased into an acceptance, a release of the angst that had wrapped her in its tense grip.
A bell rang, and she looked up in surprise. It was prayer time already. The trio of lads glanced at each other guiltily, then rose as one, offering murmurs of farewell before moving out through the main door. Catherine rested her hands on the strings, watching the three go with mixed emotions. She knew that Peter and Jack still had many questions for her. She was bone weary; she was in no shape to tackle the answers tonight.
Before they could speak, she pushed herself slowly to her feet. “I am sorry, but I am feeling quite tired. I think I shall turn in.”
“Good night,” offered both men in unison, standing to see her off. Catherine felt tempted, looking in their eyes, to stay and unshoulder her many burdens into their tender care – but she knew she could not. Reluctantly, she turned and headed off to bed.
Behind her, she could hear them begin a quiet discussion.
Chapter 7
Catherine smoothed the heather-purple dress down over her chemise, laying the emerald spiral medallion on top with fondness. The combination of colors brought to mind the dappled field of wildflowers which stretched beyond her keep, and a sense of homesickness drew around her for a long moment. She shook the feeling off. She was set on her path, and would see it through as best she could.
She settled the silken white ribbons more firmly into the intricate braid of her hair, noting with satisfaction that her black eye was finally starting to fade. The long sleeves and high neck of her outfit covered the many remaining bruises and scrapes. She smiled at herself in the mirror, and the woman who returned her gaze, while lacking the bright, attention-getting glitter that Maya showcased, did glow with a timeless, honest beauty. She hoped that it would be enough for …
She blushed crimson as she realized that it was not Lord Epworth who came to mind, not the cowardly aging statesman whose face rose before her, but Jack, with his warm eyes, his attentive concern, his intelligent care. It was he that she wanted to be drawn to her, to take her into his arms.
She shook the feeling off with harsh discipline. She was here to be courted by Lord Epworth, and she would focus on that task to the best of her ability.
She put down the mirror with resolution, and in a moment she was moving slowly through the wide hallways, stepping into the noisy hubbub of the dining area, looking across at the head table. The men were there, of course, side by side, and when they looked up in welcome warmth coursed through her heart.
The walk across the large room was far easier for her than it had been the previous morning; her injuries were finally healing in earnest. Jack’s eyes did not leave her once as she drew close, and she found herself pinkening under his long perusal. She came around to the seat the men had left between them, taking Jack’s offered hand as he helped her into her chair. His fingers were steady, warm, and she felt a reluctance to release them when she was in her place. She deliberately busied herself with reaching for a roll, with drawing the soft dill butter across it.
She scanned her mind for something innocent to talk about, to shake away the longing which was infiltrating her heart, stretching its tendrils into every corner of her being.
“I was watching you and Peter spar from my window this morning,” she admitted with a smile, taking a bite of her warm roll. “You two are quite good.”
“Thank you,” responded Jack, nodding congenially. “That means a lot, coming from you. I imagine you have trained with some of the best in the land.”
“Peter seems to favor the high guard,” considered Catherine, her eyes glancing over at her friend, “but your style is more … mixed.”
Jack chuckled. “You are being gracious,” he agreed with a smile. “Peter’s father was a crusader and taught him classic sword positions from when he was a young child. I am afraid my own training is much more haphazard. I use what works.”
“It appears to work rather well,” teased Catherine, taking down a drink of mead. “I counted you achieving seven hits to his five.”
Peter gave her a gentle nudge. “Hey, I had six,” he argued.
She shook her head. “That last one was weak; it caught his cross-guard,” she informed him, the corners of her
mouth turning up in a grin.
Peter looked to Jack, and he shrugged, nodding in agreement. “You seemed so pleased by the move, I did not have the heart to tell you,” he murmured to his friend.
Peter’s eyes sparkled, and he looked back to Catherine. “I think I will have your room moved,” he threatened merrily. “Maybe something overlooking the stables.”
She swatted him with the back of her hand. “You shall not,” she challenged him. “Leave me my simple pleasures in life.”
Jack gave her a toast. “You have sharp eyes,” he praised. “Not many would have spotted that situation.”
She nodded to him, caught by his gaze. “I enjoy swordplay,” she admitted quietly. “Watching you in action was a real pleasure.”
He smiled in return, and her heart stopped. She was warmed by his gaze, by the closeness of his presence. She flushed, looking away quickly. She was becoming far too fond of Jack - a man who might shortly become her stepson.
Her stomach twisted into a gnarled knot, and she reached for her mead, drinking it down in a long draw. Would he soon come to hate her? In a very real way, her presence would drive as a wedge between him and Lord Epworth.
“How is your foster father doing?” she asked, her throat tight. “Have you talked with him?”
Jack touched her gently on the arm, and she looked up at him. His gaze held understanding and reassurance.
“I do not mind his decision to remarry,” he admitted frankly. “Do not trouble yourself about that. I am grateful he took me in when I was a youth. I do not expect anything more.”
His face became serious. “As long as it is your choice, I will support you fully and do all I can to ensure you are happy in our family.”
“Thank you,” offered Catherine hoarsely, her face heating.
He turned, taking a long drink of his own mead, looking down into the mug. “It would be interesting to have a woman around who could help referee my swordplay,” he offered, contemplating.
“I suppose that is not something you find in the average woman your father courts,” she replied hesitantly, unsure if this was meant as a compliment.
“Not in any other woman,” he countered, his eyes coming up to hold hers, his gaze full, heavy.
A flush filled her body, there was an answering heat in his eyes. The danger in the situation billowed around her with palpable force. Then he had turned again, taking a long moment to track down a servant, to get a fresh round of mead served out. When he looked back, his face was more even, and he offered a half smile.
“I am sure where you come from, there are many women just like you,” he commented quietly. “Susan, and Marcie perhaps.”
She turned her head away, his casual comment striking her hard. The thoughts of her beloved friends, women she would never see again, added to her sense of loss and longing.
“Please, I cannot talk about them, not right now,” she bit out, her throat tight.
Suddenly a hush fell across the room, and all eyes turned toward the main door. A tall, slender man in his late fifties strolled regally into the room. He was dressed in long purple robe held together at the neck with an elaborately jeweled bronze clasp. His hair was trimmed short and was peppered with grey, but his eyes were sharp and alert. The room was filled with quiet salutations of “Lord Epworth” and a wave of bows and curtseys swept across the area.
“Welcome, my friends,” called Lord Epworth genially, smiling at his many companions. He shook hands with Father Berram and gave a hearty hug to Sir Magnor. He spent several minutes talking warmly with Maya, who coquettishly fluttered her eyelashes in response. Turning, he spotted Jack, Peter, and Catherine at the head table and headed toward them. Jack stood up and smiled fondly at his foster father.
Lord Epworth pulled his foster son into a solid, hearty embrace. “Jack, it is wonderful to see you,” he exclaimed. He held him for a moment, then released him. “We have a lot of catching up to do,” he added. “I will look for you later, when I am more settled in.”
Jack nodded. “I am at your service,” he agreed. “I am happy to see you returned safely from your trip.” His gaze gentled, and he lowered his voice. “It could not have been an easy one; you seem quite weary.”
Lord Epworth almost seemed as if a mask slipped away for a moment; his face grew older, more tired. “It was a long voyage,” he agreed somberly. In another breath the moment had passed, and his presence and enthusiasm had reasserted itself into his posture and movements.
Lord Epworth turned to Peter next, and clasped his arm warmly before drawing him into an expansive hug. “Peter, how have things been around here?”
Peter smiled in welcome to Lord Epworth. “Everything is in order, my Lord. The debate has begun smoothly,” he offered. “We are all grateful you have returned to us safely.”
Lord Epworth nodded, and next turned to Catherine, who stood between her two friends. She curtsied deeply at his gaze, holding the curtsy and keeping her gaze downcast. Lord Epworth’s voice became melodic. “Ah Catherine, my little child, you are even more beautiful than your mother had led me to believe. I am especially pleased to find you here in my home.”
Catherine took in a deep breath. She had heard that Lord Epworth had arrived earlier this morning, and had done her best to make herself presentable for him. She had made a promise to herself to do the very best she could in fulfilling her family’s expectations of her.
Still, being faced with the actual man that she would have to bind herself to for the rest of her life was hard to bear. Hearing him call her a “little child” - she had to fight the instinct to tense and comment on it. She felt Jack and Peter’s presence beside her. On one hand, it gave her strength, to know that they were there to support her. On the other hand, it made her realize just what she was giving up in life.
She realized suddenly that Lord Epworth was waiting for a response from her.
She stood from her curtsy, her hands demurely clasped behind her back. She looked up to his chest, to the gaudily jeweled bronze clasp, and then willed herself to meet his gaze.
“My Lord, on behalf of my family in Bowyer and myself, I want to thank you for your kind invitation for me to visit.”
Lord Epworth’s eyes scanned her from head to toe, his mouth curving with pleasure. “When your mother spoke to me of getting you to safety, I was quick to let her know I could arrange that. My sole thought was for the protection of a friend’s only child. Now that I meet you in person after all these years, it seems your presence will be a wonderful addition to my entourage. Greetings, lovely little girl!”
Lord Epworth stepped forward, and Catherine realized that he was planning to give her an enthusiastic embrace in welcome, similar to the bear hug he had given his foster son. She could not betray the extent of her injuries. In panic she swept her left hand behind her to find the edge of the table hold on to, to brace herself. Her hand instead swept against Jack’s hand.
Lord Epworth began to squeeze and there was no time to seek another option. She clasped her hand against Jack’s and felt his matching grip immediately close over hers, holding her tightly. Lord Epworth’s arms pressed around her upper back, and he pulled her in hard. Her body screamed out in agony, and the wound in her right shoulder throbbed as if it would split open. She clung desperately to Jack’s hand, behind her back, and wrenched her eyes shut.
The agony-laced embrace lasted a lifetime.
At last Lord Epworth pulled away, and Catherine quickly released Jack’s hand. She exhaled her breath slowly, hoping that the sound she made came out more like a sigh than a whimper of pain.
Lord Epworth did not notice anything amiss, and stepped back to again look her over with satisfaction. He smiled with pleasure, then turned to talk with Peter. “I need you to catch me up on events; let us head to my study,” he instructed, his voice falling into the cadence of an order. The two men walked out of the room together at a quick stride. The crowd settled back down to eat, excited chatter surrounding them.
Catherine shook her head to clear it, but it was if she was standing in a dense fog, not able to see anything around her, not able to hear a sound. The ache in her shoulder resonated at a mind-numbing throb. Jack was speaking to her, but she could not make out what he was saying. Without a word she turned and walked out of the dining hall, her feet automatically taking the slow, steady path past the herb garden, down the long row of crocuses and over to the bridge at the back of the pond.
She barely took in the beauty around her or the warm spring sun shining down on her. She could only see the path her life was taking. She would be joined for life to a man who treated her like an infant and whose cowardice went against everything she held dear. And yet there seemed no turning back.
The wound on her right shoulder gave an even sharper stab of pain; she automatically raised her left hand to massage it idly while she stared down at the pond.
“Is your shoulder troubling you still,” asked Jack with concern. He was standing at her side, his dark hair riffling in the breeze.
Catherine looked up in surprise; she hadn’t heard him following her or approach. “Thank you for your support back there,” she responded by way as an answer. “I did not mean to squeeze your hand so hard.”
Jack chuckled softly. He looked down and flexed his right hand a few times. “I am sure I will survive,” he replied with a smile. “I am glad I could help, if only in that small manner.” He looked down at her shoulder. “You are sure the wound is not damaged further?”