by Shea,Lisa
Jack did not respond, and Catherine had a sense that he had understood the reference. She knew she should change the topic; move onto less dangerous ground.
Apparently Jack had the same thought. “I have a question for you,” he offered, his voice tinged with curiosity. “You indicated when we first met that you had been deliberately misled about me. You had been told that Southerner and Jack were two separate men. Well, then, tell me more about Southerner.”
Catherine chuckled, thinking about how to respond. “It is not very flattering,” she gently teased. “You are sure you want to know?”
Jack smiled in return. “I am sure I can take the blow to my ego,” he responded readily.
Catherine moved across the clearing to the fallen tree, settling herself down onto it with a long, relaxed sigh. It really was quite beautiful in this area. She ran her hands along the trunk’s rough bark, enjoying the weathered texture. The sun was warm, in a spring like fashion, and a gentle breeze caused the branches to shimmer all around them. A peace settled over her.
“Come, sit with me then,” she offered, smiling up at Jack.
He hesitated for a long moment, scanning the area with a contemplative look, then he nodded, moving to take a seat at her side.
She leant back, soaking in the sunshine. “You want to know about Southerner,” she agreed thoughtfully. “Well then, I remind you that you were warned.” She looked out over the snowy landscape, thinking back to what she’d been told during the many council sessions. Her voice fell into the measured diction of recital. “Southerner apparently had a tragic family history. His parents were slain in a bandit raid on his village. He was left all alone when only fourteen. This loss affected him immensely. He became a fearsome swordsman, but his mind was unbalanced. He trusted no one. He wished to remain completely alone.”
She kept her eyes on the horizon, thinking back. “On our patrols, we were warned to steer a clear circle around him. It was not that we were afraid of him killing us all, necessarily. We had been told that if we enraged Southerner by violating his privacy, he could easily take it out on an innocent villager further along the path. We were informed that this had happened several times in the past. We respected his desire to be alone and had no wish to trigger a murderous rage.”
Catherine thought for a moment, adding, “I suppose I thought of Southerner as an injured wolf, lost without his pack. It was not that he was evil ... but his pain made him unpredictable.”
She looked over at Jack to see how he had taken this tale. To her surprise, his eyes were shadowed and troubled. He looked up and held her gaze, and she realized he had been wounded by her words.
“Jack...?” she asked with concern, suddenly ashamed of having been so forthright and glib.
Jack gave himself a little shake, and his laugh sounded forced. “It seems they chose to mix in truth with fantasy, as is the case with most rumors,” he commented, his voice tight. “It is indeed true that my parents were slain by wolves’ heads, and that I was left alone. I have worked hard to gain skill with a sword partially as a result of that attack.”
His voice became serious and firm, “However, I swear to you that I have never hurt an innocent person, and certainly would not do so simply because my privacy was violated. You have to believe me.”
Catherine put her hand gently over his, softly squeezing his fingers with her own. “Jack, I already know that they lied to me about you being two people, not one. I have no doubt that the deception did not stop there.” She gave a small smile. “Besides, I would hope that I am a good enough judge of character to know you are not a man to hurt innocents, based on our conversations over the past week.”
Jack put his free hand over hers, holding her gaze. “Thank you,” he replied quietly. “That means a lot to me.”
He took a long, deep breath, and then let it out again. “Well, go on. What was the tale they spun for Jack, then, if Southerner was a half-crazed hermit?”
Catherine blushed deeply and looked down, drawing her hand away to clasp both together in her lap. “Maybe it is better if I do not tell you this one,” she admitted in concern. “I am afraid you will find this story to be even worse.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come now,” he replied with a wry smile. “They have already made my family tragedy into a twisted story. There can hardly be anything worse than that.” He added, half under his breath, “If you do not tell me, my mind will invent a hundred stories far more dastardly than what you were told ...”
Catherine put up her hands in surrender. “Very well, you win,” she gave in. She took a deep breath, looked over into Jack’s complex, grey eyes, and found that she could not hold his gaze and tell this tale. Again she chose to look out over the rolling hills, with the dark grey of the cathedral resting in the center of the landscape.
She lightened her voice in the sing-song style of a fairy tale told to wide-eyed infants. “Jack is of course the foster son of Lord Epworth, of the Cathedral at Worcester, far, far away.” Jack chuckled at the effect and sat back to listen. “Apparently Jack loves to play the soldier. From outward appearances is very much the man of action. He wears high-quality leather armor and carries a finely balanced sword at his side.”
Her voice became rich with drama. “However, Jack is a lackluster dreamer. He invents people he has befriended, places he has explored, and battles he has been victorious in. In real life, Jack has abandoned his friends several times when he was needed. He has left his post because he was bored. He prefers elaborate deceptions to actual hard work.”
Catherine felt rather than saw Jack’s sharp perusal of her, and she took a deep breath to continue. It was best to just get it all out in the open, and then discuss it once it was said. “Apparently this play-actor Jack also built up the image of an ideal woman in his head, which he told to everyone who would listen. She was about five foot seven, to properly align with his height of just over six feet. He was very much about appearances. She was slender yet toned, with long dark hair cascading to her waist. She could speak English, Welsh, and French, useful for travels in all parts of the nearby lands. She needed to be of proper lineage, because station and caste were very important to Jack.”
She chuckled wryly and looked down at her hands, blushing. “In short, my council warned me that Jack would become immediately infatuated with me, and that he would attach himself to me like a starving leech. They warned me that should I even make the slightest contact - saying hello, allowing our glances to meet - that Jack would insinuate his way into my daily life. He would be impossible to get rid of and I would be miserable for the rest of my life as a result.”
Jack stood immediately, his face pale. “My lady, if you think -”
Catherine was on her feet in an instant, turning to face him. “No, no” she insisted gently. “I do not at all think you are this man they described. If you have spent time with me, it is because I wished it. I do not feel that you have been untoward in any way.”
Jack appeared hesitant, looking into Catherine’s eyes while lost in thought. He spoke softly to himself, “Yet once again, it seems that they mixed in ...” He shook himself and asked, “So what do you make of these council statements?”
Catherine ran a hand through her dark hair and slowly shook her head. “Obviously they were taking a great risk in lying to me. They were not making up tales about a dead historical figure. They were building deceptions about an actual, living person who I might run into. In fact, they were building these lies about the relative of the man they expected me to marry. That would be a huge gamble.”
She bit her lip, sensing a dangerous territory ahead, but she pressed on. “It means that the danger posed by the truth was worth that risk. They were hoping that I would be wed to Lord Epworth before I discovered the reality.”
Jack nodded in agreement, his voice tightening. “It was not just that they wanted you to think ill of me,” he added quietly. “They deliberately created stories for each character that would fi
t perfectly with what you saw at a glance. In both cases, the story painted a situation so dire that you would not even want to initiate contact with me. Even a casual friendship would not happen.”
Catherine took a step closer to Jack, looking up into his eyes. The keen look in his made her involuntarily offer a wry smile. It was suddenly crystal clear to her what the council had feared happening.
The fact that her family had gone to such drastic lengths to keep them apart made Catherine’s heart beat even more quickly. She had already felt drawn to Jack, with his loyal defense of the acolytes and his wisdom and intelligence here at the cathedral. To know that her council felt he was such a perfect match to her own desires ...
Catherine’s voice was hoarse when she spoke. “It is too late to close the box,” she admitted, marshaling her emotions. “I cannot erase you from my mind. Still, I will go forward with my appointed task. I must reconcile myself with my directed fate. I must try ...”
Her throat closed up. She wanted to turn her head away, but could not bring herself to do so.
She saw the pain in Jack’s eyes, but he nodded slowly. “Yes, of course,” he agreed, his voice husky. “It is ... your duty.” He cleared his throat and looked out over the glistening landscape.
Catherine’s heart ached; his nearness was a physical sensation drawing her in. She could not bring herself to move or to speak further. What was there to say?
It was Jack who finally broke the silence. “We should head in,” he suggested quietly, his voice remote.
Catherine nodded, and the pair walked slowly back down to the cathedral.
Catherine focused her efforts on spending time either with Lord Epworth or in solitary pursuits for the rest of the day. Jack did not meet her eyes at dinner, and it was easy enough to allow Lord Epworth to control the conversation. Maya delighted the room with her romantic ballads for several hours, and Catherine let herself get lost in the music.
When Maya had finished, the listeners dispersed. Lord Epworth stood at her side, and she obediently rose, putting her hand on his proffered arm. He escorted her quietly to her room, nodding in farewell as she pushed open the door and walked inside.
Catherine was not sleepy. She sat on the bench by the window, staring out at the night sky. She wanted desperately to know how the debate had gone today; she missed the quiet hours she usually spent talking with Jack and Peter. She knew she had no choice. She needed to cut back on time spent with Jack. It was all too clear to her that she was falling for Jack, and that was a relationship she did not have the luxury of encouraging.
Her mind whirled for hours; it was late before she was able to climb into bed and fall into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 9
When Catherine awoke the following morning she was surprised to see the sun high in the sky, the courtyard beyond her window quiet and empty.
She scolded herself wearily as she climbed out of bed. There were few enough days of admiring the crocus blooms as it was, without missing a morning of them! She went through her injury check, pleased that the cuts and bruises were mending well with the help of Peter’s salves. She pulled on a fresh white chemise, then slipped the moss-green dress on top of it. She put her head through the chain of her pendant, then took a few moments to quickly braid back her hair before descending the stairs to the main dining hall.
Lord Epworth and Jack were already at the head table when she entered the room. She walked over to join them, nodding with a smile for her host. Lord Epworth beamed at her, but Jack’s gaze was troubled. A wave of guilt washed over her. It was her duty to ease gently into this family, not to rip it apart.
The breakfast was delicious as usual, with buns and raspberry jam being a highlight of the meal. Catherine found herself eating three of them, much to Lord Epworth’s vocal amusement.
When the meal was over, Lord Epworth stood, and Catherine and Jack moved to their feet along with him. Lord Epworth spoke fondly to Catherine. “I have some legal situations to work out regarding my pending relocation,” he apologized with a smile. “It is boring tedium that I will not subject you to. As an apology, however, I have brought a present for you.”
Catherine demurred. “You really do not need to do that, my lord. I have no need of presents ...”
She caught out of the corner of her eye the two large baskets that a young page was bringing over to the table. In them were heaped piles of crocuses, the blue and purple petals already fading and browning.
Catherine’s face froze in shock. A quick calculation told her that they must have cut down every crocus in the garden to fill the baskets. They had killed every bloom, every flower, every last harbinger of spring.
Lord Epworth was still talking. “I thought you could sprinkle them in a bath or decorate your room with them,” he went on magnanimously. “I will have George here bring them up to your room for you to decide.”
He put a hand under her chin. “Oh look, your eyes are welling,” he cooed tenderly. “I knew you would love my present. Have a wonderful day, my dearest little one.”
Before Catherine could think to speak or protest, he wrapped her in a tight bear hug, squeezing her until her right arm nearly exploded with the pain. Finally he released her, gave her a gentle pat on the cheek, and strolled haughtily toward his study.
Catherine was surrounded by a thick curtain of throbbing fire. She turned and strode out of the room, across the cobblestone courtyard, and beneath the shadows of the front gates. Her shoulder was a blaze of red hot agony, and her vision was blurred by tears.
She made it to the small stream in the woods that the cart path paralleled before she dropped to one knee, sobbing silently. The searing pain of her shoulder, mingled with the complete lack of understanding in her future husband, spiraled her down into a whirlpool of despair.
A number of minutes passed before she regained control of herself, slowing her breathing back to normal. She made a cup with her hands and splashed the stream’s water on her face, washing away the tears.
* * *
Jack drew to a stop as he came into the clearing, taking in her shaking shoulders, the weary way in which she brought the water up to her face. A knife twisted in his heart at what she was going through, and in a moment he was moving to her side, dropping to one knee.
There was so much he wanted to say, but he knew that he could not. At last he rasped, “I am so sorry,” the words woefully inadequate for the emotion which thundered in his chest. He put down the bundle of cloaks and weapons that he carried in his arms. “It was too late by the time I found out what he had done.”
He started to ask how she was, but one glance at her eyes caught the words in his throat. “No, obviously you are not fine,” he added quietly. “Is it the overall situation, or did he inflame one of your wounds?”
Catherine gave her face another splash of water and slowly brushed back her hair with her wet hands. She sat back on her heels, not looking up at him. “My shoulder is giving me trouble,” she admitted with a grimace. “I think it needs to be looked at.”
Jack looked at each of her shoulders, then focused more closely on the right one. “This one, here?” he asked with concern. “I see a growing red stain; the blood is coming through. We need to get this cleaned up before you go back in if you are going to keep your injuries secret.”
Catherine paused, indecision clear on her face. Jack met her gaze. “I already know that you were seriously injured. Peter made that plain. Either you let me help you here, or you somehow try to get to Peter to work on it without anybody else noticing your state.”
Catherine was silent for a long minute but at last she nodded. “All right,” she agreed slowly. “However, remember your promise. Not a word to anyone of what you see.”
“I swear it,” vowed Jack with serious resolve. He wondered again why she was so insistent on secrecy. He wished she would trust him, would share her sorrows with him to shoulder.
He nodded his head toward a flat, grey stone. “Please sit on
this rock by the stream. That way I will be able to clean the wound if it needs it.”
Catherine draped the skirt of her dress around her and sat on the long, smooth slab of stone. She pulled all of her hair over her left shoulder so that it would be out of the way. Jack sat immediately behind her and first unlaced the back of the green overdress. He undid enough of the laces so that both shoulders fell down to her elbows, revealing the full white chemise beneath. Catherine let her right hand hang loose so that he could work on that shoulder, pressing her left hand to her chest, holding the fabric of both dress layers there.
“Go ahead,” she stated quietly.
Jack hesitated a moment, then carefully unlaced the more slender ties of the delicate white chemise. His face paled when he saw what was beneath the lacing. Peter had not been exaggerating when he described Catherine’s injuries. Her back was a mass of welts, cuts, and bruises - the purple and blue colors fading, but giving clear indication of what she had gone through.
He slid the sleeve down her arm and found a white cloth bandage wrapped around her upper arm that had slid loose. A long gash sidled down her bicep - the sides of the wound neat and clean. Blood was oozing from where the gash had been pulled apart by Lord Epworth’s strong hug.
Jack looked at the wound for a moment, then moved to Catherine’s right where he could work on the arm and talk with her.
“Catherine, this is a sword wound,” he commented simply.
Catherine chuckled wryly, meeting his gaze steadily. “Yes, Jack,” she replied evenly. “I was in fact there when the wound was made.”
“How -”
Catherine made to hold up her left hand, then realized she was holding her dress closed with it. “No questions, remember?” she reminded Jack. “What I need for you to do is to mend the wound, not to discuss its origins.”
Jack hesitated a moment, then gently untied the white bandage cloth. It had matted blood on it as well as traces of the salve Peter had used. He rinsed it out thoroughly in the stream, then used it to attend to the wound area. When the injury was clean and dry, he wrapped the cloth back around Catherine’s arm, his movements as gentle as possible.
