by Shea,Lisa
“I am listening,” she finally offered, fighting to keep the weariness at bay. It was not only her body that was exhausted, but her soul. The grief of the last few days was catching up with her. She looked at Jack, at the familiar lines of his face, at the gentleness of his eyes, and wondered how she could steel herself against believing in the lies he was about to tell her.
Jack carefully lowered himself to one knee, keeping his arms at his sides, his eyes full on hers. His voice was soft, low, and echoed with a sincerity which tore her heart in two.
“Catherine, I swear to you, neither Peter nor I had anything to do with the horrific acts of these past nights,” he vowed. “The men you were ambushed by a few nights ago - the ones who were dressed in Peter’s family colors - they were imposters.”
Catherine made no effort to hide her disbelief. “This is the story you have thought up? Imposters? Surely you and Peter could have done better than that in the two days you have had.” She took a step forward along the sandy shore of the pond, giving a frustrated kick at the soft surface. Her voice went hard. “I was there, Jack. I saw them - and him - with my own eyes.”
Jack nodded quietly, his eyes steadily on hers. “The men that you saw, the ones in his livery. Did you recognize them?”
Catherine shrugged. “Certainly, they were familiar. I must have seen them when visiting his family home at some point.”
Jack’s head gave a gentle shake. “Perhaps you have seen them somewhere else, somewhere recently,” he countered, his focus growing serious. “Perhaps at the Worcester Cathedral?”
Catherine stopped in her tracks, her gaze lost far in the distance as she searched back through her memories. “Maybe ... the man with the blond hair ...”
She turned suddenly to face him. “The musicians. They were the musicians who played for us. The frog faced drummer, the small singer with the blond curls.”
It could just be true.
With harsh discipline she shook her head. This was exactly what she knew would happen. They would invent some wild story which had just enough plausibility in it to seem possible. She would cling to it, in her desperation, and she would be lost.
Fury shot through her that they would play her like this. “That proves nothing,” she snapped. “Peter could easily have brought those assassins in to Worcester to prepare them for their task at hand. If anything, this proves even more strongly that they were in league with you and him.” She paced angrily down the side of the pond, tension building between her shoulders.
Jack’s voice remained low. “Think of the musicians you saw at the Cathedral. Then think of the men you saw at the ambush. Were any missing?”
Catherine had had about enough of this. She spun to snarl at him. “How do you know so much about the ambush, then? Were you there?”
Jack shook his head and his eyes dropped, heavy with guilt. “Not only was I not at your side, defending you, but I was not even guarding the three boys. While I was away from camp, talking with Peter, Walter was being murdered. That is what I was doing at the time of your ambush - I was failing you both.” His face twisted in pain as he relived the torments of that night.
Catherine froze with shock, and she half started toward him before reining herself in with an effort.
Walter was dead.
“God, not Walter,” she whispered. “The lad was innocent in all of this, a sweet, gentle -”
She turned away, looking out across the pond. When she spoke again, it was with a hoarse sadness. “I never dreamt that anybody would have known his connection to the Bowyers.”
Jack looked up in surprise. “So he was related to your clan? We racked our brains to figure out why he would have been slain. The lads swore that he was not in any way associated with your family.”
Catherine felt the ghost of a smile come to her lips, but it did not reach her eyes. “Only a few knew of Walter’s lineage. I suppose it does not matter now, if it is told. He was the bastard child of my cousin Raymond; a youthful indiscretion with a local dairy maid.”
Walter’s laughing face came up before her, and she pushed away the tears. “The maid died in childbirth, and the child - Walter - was sent off to be fostered with a miller’s family who already had several children. It was thought that Walter would live his life out there in quiet anonymity, posing no threat to my cousin’s ambitions. Only a few of us knew.”
The thought reverberated in her mind. Indeed, barely any had known of that situation, of Walter’s true parentage. “If the attackers knew about Walter, then they must have been working with someone high up in the council. Even a well-connected enemy would have had trouble knowing about Walter’s past.”
The thought of an assassin slaying Walter firmed her resolve. The lad had been left in Peter and Jack’s care – and somehow he had been killed. Was this further proof that the two men were involved in the heinous actions of that long, dark night?
Her eyes moved to hold Jack’s again, and a darkness entered her soul.
“The fact that Walter was slain in your own camp hardly exonerates you,” she pointed out, pushing the point with ruthless attention. “Maybe you yourself plunged the blade into his -”
Jack reacted viscerally, leaping to his feet, his face hot with anger. “Never. I would never have allowed Walter to be harmed in any way, and the thought of hurting him myself -”
His voice failed him.
Catherine let out a deep breath, reading the truth of this in Jack’s face. She nodded, but her heart still twisted with doubt. “Maybe what you say is true, that Walter was marked for death without your knowledge. That does not rule out your involvement in the other attacks.”
Jack deliberately knelt down again on one knee, rolling his shoulders to release some of the stress that had settled there. He looked up at her again, his eyes pleading with her to listen. “Think of the men at the ambush,” he insisted again. “Were all of the musicians there?”
Catherine thought back to the evening of the ambush. The group had met up with her seemingly by chance, and she had been thrilled to meet with members of Peter’s extended family. She had recognized them as familiar, and they had entertained her with several stories of Peter when he was younger.
She ticked off each band member in her head. The drummer - stocky, dark hair, bloated face. An incessant talker who seemed to like the sound of his own voice. The harpist - thin, tall, with hands that were always in motion. The singer, seemingly the leader of the group, rather small, with blond curls and predatory eyes.
She looked up suddenly. “The flute player was missing. The red-head. The one who -”
Her voice faded away at the realization.
Jack nodded slowly, his eyes holding hers. “The one who looked like Peter.”
He had looked like Peter.
Catherine remembered now, how she had commented on that very fact at the cathedral. They had seemed almost like twins. And that flute player had been absent when she met up with the group so conveniently on her trail north.
Jack’s gentle voice eased into her thoughts. “The reason I know about the men from the ambush is that their corpses were brought in by cart to the Christ Church, just after we had our talk with you in your room. That is why I stopped hammering on your door. We saw the way they were dressed, and we recognized them as the musicians from my foster home. The flute player had been expertly made up to look like Peter. The resemblance was quite uncanny.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Although I still find it hard to believe that you could have been fooled thoroughly. Peter is like a brother to you - surely his voice -”
Catherine chuckled dryly and looked away, faint hope glimmering in her soul. “He kept in the shadows, saying that he was ill and did not want me to catch his sickness,” she replied wryly. “He spoke only in raspy sentences. He said that his throat was on fire; that he could barely talk.”
Jack gave a short laugh. “You seem to have put an end to that problem - the corpse we saw had his head only bar
ely attached to his body. Your work, I imagine?”
Catherine almost found herself trusting him when she brought her gaze back to meet his. “I was wondering how Peter had survived that wound. I saw it with my own eyes; I saw my sword take the man down. Surely nobody could have survived that blow. But when Peter appeared, with the scarf around his neck ...”
Jack waited for a long moment. “There is an easy way to prove this to you, for once and for all,” he offered slowly. “A much quicker solution than returning to the cathedral and having them dig up the bodies from whatever dirty grave they tumbled them into.” He paused, and then continued. “Come hold your sword to my throat, and take me hostage. Then allow me to call Peter in here, to show you his untouched neck.”
Catherine stood stock still, considering Jack’s offer. It was one thing to face both men when she was the only one armed, in the safety of holy ground. It was quite another to take on both of them out here in the forest. If they were lying to her, then this surely would be the trap they would set.
And yet ... she looked into Jack’s eyes, into those depths she had come to know and trust these past few months. She could not go on alone for long. Without someone to guard her back, it would only be a matter of time before one night’s sleep became her last.
It was her only choice.
Still, it took all her effort to bring herself to speak. “Remember the sharpness of my blade,” she warned him, before drawing her sword. “Any move will be your last.”
She felt as skittish as a young doe as she slowly walked to stand behind Jack’s kneeling form. He did not so much as move a muscle at her approach, although she could see the lines of tension in his jaw. She was alert for any sign of motion, any sense that he was turning to grab at her sword arm, but he remained perfectly still as she lowered her arm and carefully pressed the edge of the blade against his neck.
It seemed that her senses were heightened, that she felt every slight movement he made as he breathed. The familiar aromas of leather, of musk, of the oil he used to care for his blade all rose in a comforting sensation, and she found herself leaning against him slightly, almost against her will.
Beneath her, it seemed that Jack was caught by the same spell. She could feel him almost tremble, resisting the urge to move.
“Bring down Peter,” she ordered gruffly.
Jack’s voice called out rough but calm. “Peter, come down to the pool for a moment.”
They stood in this tableau for a few moments, then the sound of crunching underbrush came to them from the direction of the campfire. It moved closer, and in short order Peter stepped out into the moonlight from the woods.
His eyes flashed in alarm when he saw Catherine standing behind Jack, the sword held close under his chin. He looked between Jack and Catherine without speaking, and dropped his hand to his belt. In a moment he had released his scabbard and sword. He took two steps forward, clearing them.
Jack spoke to Peter in a slow, clear voice. “Peter - show Catherine your neck.”
Peter nodded in understanding. He pulled his leather tunic off over his head, tossing it aside. He then unlaced the white under-tunic to the center of his chest. He pulled both halves clear of his neck area, and took several more steps away from his sword. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he stood there, waiting for Catherine to approach at her own pace.
Catherine knew this was the moment of decision. She could not ask for Peter to come closer without putting herself at risk. She could not leave Jack without being at risk. She could hardly stay here forever, nor could she leave these two - the two men who might be the only help she could trust to stand by her side.
Taking a deep breath, she made her choice. She stood back from Jack, removing the sword from his neck with one smooth motion. In a few steps she was clear of him, and also some distance from Peter. Neither man moved. She looked slowly between the two men, her gaze searching.
“I swore to myself not to believe any story you presented - that it would undoubtedly be full of deceit,” she ground out. “Yet ...” She found herself slowly approaching Peter, hoping against hope that this wild story could actually be true. Her eyes focused on his neck.
She realized that she saw no mark at all on his skin - not the slightest wound to indicate that this was the man that had cut her. Neither Peter nor Jack moved a muscle while she approached her old friend. Both held perfectly still, perhaps even holding their breath.
Catherine was within an arm’s length of Peter now. This was the moment of truth. If their intent had been to draw her in, one more step would put her beyond help. They would easily overpower her and she would be ended.
She looked up into Peter’s eyes, seeing the friendship and caring that had been there for so many years. She looked again at his neck. It was smooth and untouched. She took that next step, and brought her hand to touch, tenderly, his throat. “Oh, Peter,” she groaned, her voice breaking.
She dropped her sword and threw her arms around Peter in a hug, feeling the motions as he slowly, carefully brought his own arms down to hold her in a gentle embrace. The grief and horror of the past few nights flooded over her - all of her childhood friends slain, her family gone, the ambush in the night. She fought the tears, but despite her best efforts, they flowed down her cheeks, and she was tired beyond all reckoning.
She felt rather than heard Jack come over to stand beside them. She forced herself to regain control, and after a few moments she took a step back, wiping her eyes.
She looked between the two men. “God’s teeth, to have you back again,” she got out between breaths. “Not having you two to turn to made everything else beyond unbearable.”
Jack held her eyes with his own. “Catherine, you have my word on this. Never doubt our loyalty. We are here. We have always been here. We always shall be.”
Catherine took a deep breath and gazed at her friends. In some ways they were so different - Jack’s dark hair, Pete’s lighter features. Jack’s quiet somberness, Pete’s quick openness. However, in the ways that really mattered, they were quite alike. Both were loyal, both were steadfast. She had always seen that in their actions, and she could see that now in their eyes.
A wave of exhaustion hit her and she staggered.
Jack was at her arm in an instant, supporting her. “We can talk more after you eat,” he assured her. “Let us return to the camp and -”
A loud scream split the night, coming just west of the main camp area. In a flash, all three had retrieved their swords and were sprinting at top speed toward the sound.
Chapter 20
To their surprise, only John was in the camp area, looking around with wild, sleep-filled eyes. A second cry sounded again, from further to the west. All four ran in that direction, pushing roughly through brush and new saplings. In only a few moments they came to a small clearing. The elderly priest was kneeling in its center, cradling the bleeding form of Michael in his arms. The cooking knife was sticking out of Michael’s chest, and the stream of blood from the wound had pooled beneath them.
Peter and Jack immediately went to Michael’s side, gently moving the priest away from the body. They tore away the clothing around the wound, and Peter made a dam with his hand to hold back the blood as they quickly evaluated the situation. Jack examined the wound, looking to see how deep it was and what had been struck internally. Catherine circled slowly around the edge of the clearing, looking carefully at the damp ground. John and the priest stood huddled together, wide-eyed at their prone friend’s plight.
Peter packed cloth around the wound, doing his best to be gentle even though there was no movement at all from the prone body. The blood flow slowed; Michael’s face paled and stilled.
Peter laid a finger at his throat to feel for a pulse. After a few moments, he dropped his head in sadness. He placed his hand on the knife’s hilt for a moment, then, with a smooth draw, he removed the knife from Michael’s chest, laying it by his side. He laid a hand gently on Michael’s head, saying a quie
t prayer.
John burst out crying, turning to bury his face in the old priest’s chest. “Not Michael, too!” he gulped between tears, his voice ragged. “Not both of them!”
The old priest gently comforted the boy, his wrinkled face contorted with sadness. He tucked the book he was holding into his belt pouch, the better to wrap his arms tenderly around John.
Jack looked up at Catherine, fury and grief mingling in his expression. “Was Michael a Bowyer too? How could this have happened again?”
Catherine shook her head. “No, he was not part of our clan. I know Michael’s family; they were scholars from Amesbury. I have no idea why someone would have gone after Michael. This makes no sense.”
Peter gently gathered Michael’s body up in his arms, and stood. “None of this makes any sense, Catherine,” he reminded her quietly. “All I know is that we should push on to St. Albans immediately. We must get the priest and John to their destination, and to safety. Apparently someone is trying to kill them before they can do that.” He strode toward the main clearing, with John and the priest following close behind.
Catherine paused, then looked over to Jack. She spoke softly, so that the others would not hear. “I have my horse with me, about a half mile away. I will catch up with you soon.”
“No!” Jack’s response came quickly and with ragged emotion. “I will not have you alone in this forest. There is a group bent on killing you, perhaps killing all of us.”
He saw her face flush, and pressed on. “I know you value independence. Believe me, if anybody understands that, I do. However, remember why you refused to go with Lord Epworth. You wanted to protect your friends, to stand by them. Let your friends stand by you now. If you want to avenge your family, to care for those who remain, you need to start by protecting yourself and accepting assistance.”
Catherine’s eyes flashed in frustration, but she took a deep, steadying breath. “We do not have much time, but you are right. I do need to learn to trust you ... to not solely rely only on myself.” She tossed her head as she held his gaze. “Fine, then. Take a look around the clearing. There are not any footsteps except our own. Not one. The killer is a member of our group, or Michael committed suicide.”
