by Claudia Dain
Marie had no answer for her mistress, at least none that she dared voice. It was true. Times had not been good, but it was not Greneforde that she thought of; it was Cathryn herself.
"And when you are this knight's wife and he is lord of Greneforde, what then, Lady Cathryn?" Marie whispered, her heart in her eyes.
Cathryn turned again to the yarrow plants, the flowers still amazingly white and delicate, though soon to turn brown, the leaves lacy and green, long and slender. Alive and taking nourishment from the soil in one moment, and the next plucked to serve the needs of those who inhabited Greneforde, for yarrow served those who bled and those who could not draw air into their lungs, even those who shivered with fever. But yarrow had first to die to heal the people of Greneforde. And Cathryn, pushing all memories to the bottom of her thoughts, lived to serve Greneforde. Running her hands over the leaves, letting them slide through her loosely closed hand, Cathryn answered her young servant without raising her dark eyes.
"Then Greneforde will be safe, Marie, for as long as he can lift a sword and mount a warhorse."
Yea, Greneforde would be safe, Marie thought as she watched her mistress leave the herbs and proceed to the kitchen, but what of Cathryn?
What could be done to dignify the castle in its present state was being done. None wanted it said that Greneforde did not greet its new lord with head held high. John the Steward was supervising the preparation of six hens, two ducks, and half a pig; the herbs used in cooking were becoming scarce, but there was still enough parsley and primrose to be respectable, and when Lady Cathryn arrived with a small bag of cloves she had hidden away, there were smiles all around.
The bustle of activity, from the beating of the tapestries to the replacing of the rushes, from the sharpening of the plows to the mucking out of the stables, all infused Cathryn with a ripple of energy. Greneforde was coming alive again, coming alive in anticipation of a new master, and the sight gladdened her.
Finding that John had the meal well in hand, she rushed across the yard and up the stairs to her chamber. Cathryn walked quickly and quietly across the room to the massive polished chest that contained her worldly possessions and carefully opened it. The small knife that had always rested on the top, the knife that her father had given her as a parting gift, had been absent for three months, and she surprised herself by thoughtlessly reaching for it. Pushing aside the memory, she worked through the trunk, considering first one bliaut and then another. The absurdity of her behavior suddenly struck her, and she rocked back on her heels in silent laughter; to choose the worn cendre which made her look as appealing as a cold hearth or the faded castor gray? How did it happen that all her clothing was of a grayish cast? Shaking her head ruefully, her plaited hair brushing the floor with the movement, Cathryn decided that the least odious was the undyed wool. Shaking it out, she checked it for damage. Happily, it was in good repair and did not look too plebeian; the black cord edging gave the soft white of the wool a crisp look. It did not add much to her appearance, the lack of strong color seeming to draw the warmth from her complexion, but it was clean and did not look to be the sort of thing a servant would wear. It was the best she could do. She did want to look pleasing to the man who even now approached to marry her, though she could not think why. They would marry no matter how he found her, pleasing or no; it was the king's command. It was how Greneforde looked to him that mattered, after all.
Arranging her clothing with nimble fingers that shook almost imperceptibly, Cathryn stood for a moment fingering the heavy fabric. Below, she could make out the sound of footsteps on the stair. Someone, she could not distinguish who, was calling to Albert as he manned the tower gate, and Albert called back in the negative. William le Brouillard had not yet arrived. But he soon would. Gradually, almost cautiously, she moved to the wind hole and looked out at the courtyard stretching away to the curtain. Alys was stretching to reach an apple high on a tree in the orchard, the basket at her feet only half-full. Tybon was whisking a comb through the long coat of the only remaining inhabitant of the stable, fussing over her as if he were a powerful warhorse and not a tired mare. From the corner of her eye she watched Marie slide along the shadow of the kitchen, her eyes downcast and her shoulders bunched up to her ears, looking for her, Cathryn was certain. She smiled, touched more deeply than she should be that someone cared so tenderly for her. Yet for Marie's peace of mind, for all the people of Greneforde, she dared not admit that the coming of le Brouillard frightened her.
He would arrive at any moment; it was unlikely that his messenger would have preceded him by more than half a day. By nightfall she would be wed, and on the heels of that... She could follow that line of thought no further. He could be any manner of man, one who took without giving, one who would strip Greneforde of its struggling life and leave for richer holdings. She did not know, could not know until she had looked into his eyes and taken his measure, and the not knowing consumed her. One thing she knew: she would protect Greneforde in any way she could until she discovered the caliber of the man King Henry had contracted for her.
She did not think of protecting herself.
Breathing deeply and straightening her shoulders, she walked down one flight of steps to the lord's chamber. It would be the chamber of her new husband. The bed was dressed with the best Greneforde had to offer. A fire had been laid. The wash-stand was ready with fresh water. Not looking at the bed again, Cathryn nodded curtly in approval and left the room. It was past time to check the progress of the meal.
* * *
Alys carried the apple basket into the kitchen and plopped it on the dirt floor.
"The trees are truly naked now," she announced.
John looked at her over his shoulder and remarked softly, "They have given up their bounty for the best of causes."
"I would not have her disgraced in any way that we can prevent," Eldon declared, speaking for them all. "The new lord and his men will eat and eat well, even if we do not eat at all."
"We will eat," Lan offered as he cut into the pork, "but it could well be stew."
Alys wiped her hands on her apron before she began preparing the fruit for baking.
"A hot meal is always welcome," she remarked in her straightforward way.
"Will a new lord be as welcome?" Lan asked.
"With a new lord comes the means of procuring more meat," John responded. "He shall improve our lot, for which we shall be grateful."
"Perhaps," Lan persisted, his knife hacking into the flesh of the pig, "but perhaps not."
"Nay," John interjected, kindly but firmly, "there will be no questioning, no speculation, no doubting as to that. A new lord comes and he will be welcome. Think on our lady: an orphan at the dawning, betrothed at the first meal, and a wife before close of day. Nay," he repealed more forcefully, "not a whisper will pass your lips of 'perhaps not' for the sake of Lady Cathryn, if no other purpose will serve."
Lan said no more after that, stricken that his careless tongue could have caused Lady Cathryn to bear a heavier burden than the one she already bore. John's words had been well spoken and well received by all who toiled in the kitchen preparing a feast from next to nothing to celebrate the coming of King Henry's man. John's warning had been well timed, for Cathryn entered the kitchen just moments later.
Watching her as she checked the progress of the oatmeal pudding bubbling in the cauldron or debated with John the precise amount of precious clove needed to spice the pork, they drew comfort from her composure. She was the keel to their boat, keeping them from floundering in panic and fear. But until today, their boat had been rudderless. William le Brouillard would change all that. Watching her, Alys could scarce believe that in hours she would be wed, so calm was she. Watching her, Eldon knew with growing confidence that the Lord of Greneforde would protect the land and the people from attack. The image began to solidify for each of them that having a lord again would mean hunters to provide meat and men to scan the horizon from the curtain walk; their world, u
pended for so many years, would be set right again. Cathryn's visit had achieved its purpose.
And then, from the walk, Albert's cry bounded off the walls to echo through the courtyard, an echo that seemed to reverberate in Cathryn's very soul.
"He comes!"
All eyes turned to her, all preparations halted; the sweat running down the column of Christine's neck, the blood dripping from Lan's knife, the rolling boil of the cauldron, the rapid blinking of Eldon's light blue eyes were all magnified and crystallized for her in that moment. It was an eternal moment, a moment when time ceased. It was the moment between freedom and bondage, maidenhood and marriage. Nay, she inwardly scolded, it was the moment between vulnerability in a hostile world and safety, hunger and a full belly. That was what she must remember, what she must believe. With her next words, eternity ended.
"He comes," Cathryn repeated and then she smiled softly, "and I shall go to meet him."
With measured tread, she turned and left the kitchen, standing for just a moment on the threshold. The sounds of frantic activity resumed with the force of unexpected thunder and she smiled. Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the gray wind that swirled within the enclosure, enjoying the cool wetness of the air in her nostrils. Truly, she was enjoying every moment as if it were her last. Today she would marry. Her bridegroom even now approached, and she would wed by order of the king. The thought careened in her head like a stone in a barrel until she nodded firmly, setting her scattered thoughts to rest. With strictly enforced peace holding her terror captive, Cathryn marched across the courtyard.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marie, huddled against the stone of the great tower, her eyes unseeing circles of summer sky in an ashen face. Stepping into her line of vision, Cathryn made a quick motion with her hand and Marie was gone, gone to hide in the shadowed corners of the great tower. For a moment, a small moment, Cathryn wished for someone to give her permission to hide away from the coming encounter, and then that rebellious wish was cast down with a firm nod.
"Open the gate," she called calmly to Albert. "The lord of Greneforde is come."
Cathryn stifled the overwhelming sense of vulnerability that assailed her upon seeing that open gap in the wall. She could hear a horse approaching. Squaring her shoulders, she waited, alone in the wide courtyard of Greneforde, for William le Brouillard.
Chapter 3
The gate in the tower that rose in solid splendor over the river Brent opened as William approached. It strengthened his impression that he was home. In the future, he would have a solemn talk with the keeper of the gate, for it was foolhardy in the extreme to open Greneforde wide to an unidentified knight and his retinue, though his men were far behind him. Even Rowland, who rode with him, had been left behind as he had urged his horse to greater and greater speed the closer he drew to Greneforde.
Riding into the courtyard, William drew up suddenly, and for the first time in many days, Greneforde Castle left his thoughts entirely. Mayhap it was not such a hardship to marry.
She stood alone, the wind pressing against the soft white of her bliaut and causing her rich brown cloak to flutter out behind her. She was as golden and slender as a single flame. Hair of light gold hung in ribboned plaits to fall to her knees. She had delicate features, her nose delightfully small, her lips gently full, all covered in skin the color of palest honey. Amidst the delicate golden glow of her, dark brown eyes stood out, looking almost black in the paleness of her skin. It was then that he noticed the scar that marked her, skimming the fringe of one dark brow. It was recently earned, if he could trust the pink that colored its center. She had the coltish look of a woman not yet matured to the role, and yet he had been told she was full-grown; the heavy white wool of her gown fell without any familiar break or bulge of obvious womanhood.
She was Cathryn of Greneforde.
In that moment of discovery, he wanted her just as fervently as he wanted Greneforde. He had not wanted a wife, but he wanted her. Soon he would have her. The king had offered her to him and he had agreed; the king had commanded her to marry and she was Henry's to command. Aye, she would be his. There was no turning away from this alliance, this bonding; by day's end, he would have her.
She stood alone and suddenly he grew suspicious. He had ridden in alone, without his men, and he could see none of the men of Greneforde. It would be a perfect trap, did she choose to spring it, though she would be a fool to stand against the king. Henry was not Stephen, a king to turn away when those he ruled rebelled against his will. Mayhap she did not know the fiber of the man who now ruled England.
"I am William le Brouillard," he declared without raising his helm, "sent by Henry the Second to secure Greneforde and marry the Lady Cathryn."
His stony monotone was hardly encouraging, but Cathryn smiled slightly and replied, "Welcome, William le Brouillard, Lord of Greneforde."
Rowland charged into the courtyard, his horse blowing clouds of pearl into the air and his hand going immediately to the blade at his side. Quietly he spoke.
"I see no men-at-arms, William."
William clasped the hilt of his own blade, gripping the handle with mailed fists. Not one link of mail would he remove until he was certain no treachery was afoot. With his helm in place, his eyes scanned the curtain walk and the portals of the outbuildings. "Where are your knights, your squires, lady?"
Though she could not see the scowl that framed his eyes, she could hear the harsh edge to his voice.
"Dead, my lord," she answered quickly. "All dead."
William's eyes swung back to hers, and he asked her brusquely, "How long?"
"The last knight pledged to me died three months ago, my lord," Cathryn answered in a strange monotone.
Kendall, Ulrich, and the others were riding into the yard, the clink and squeak of their coming almost drowning out the softly spoken words of Lady Cathryn. Her eyes had left him as she searched the faces of the men who rode with him, eyes that seemed to seek the measure of each man they touched, and then he saw her face brighten.
Strangely he was annoyed. Following her look, he realized that she was staring at Father Godfrey with a look of keen anticipation. Did she hunger for the wedding then? If so, why not look at him thusly?
With his men about him, fully armed and ready, William relaxed his guard. Whether her men were dead or not, he and the knights who followed him would take possession of Greneforde. It was the simple truth that he had never been bested in battle.
It was also the simple truth that he wanted, suddenly and quite urgently, for Cathryn to see the man she would call husband. He wanted her attention. He wanted all of it. He wanted her eyes to be as riveted to him as his eyes were to her. Releasing his grip on his sword hilt, William lifted off his helm with one hand.
When the new lord of Greneforde removed his plain iron gray helm, Cathryn followed his movement, more pleased that he was not so prepared for battle than eager to see his face. When she did see him, he very effectively arrested her attention.
His hair was black and curled and cut short in the manner of the Norman French. Black brows, thick and sweeping, arched over abundant lashes that encircled eyes of polished gray. A straight nose, blunted at the tip, pointed to a wide mouth. The skin of his face was the color of rich cream and shaved, also in French fashion. If not for his thick neck and his obvious bulk, he would have been beautiful. As it was, he was striking.
Though he had removed the helm that had hidden his face from hers and so assumed a less aggressive posture, still his gaze as it held hers was silently challenging and unrepentantly proud. Her eyes did not waver from his; she did not blink or flush or shift her feet in the face of his challenge. And he was challenging her, though she could not fathom why. Her composure would not allow him to see her confused reaction to his beauty, which was causing her inner parts to heave and roll without mercy. He was lord here, but he would not so easily be lord over her. She was no fool to be bested by simple good looks. Greneforde he could have, as h
e would soon have her by all that was legal and binding, but her thoughts and her heart were her own and would remain so. Greneforde would be his; Cathryn would not, and if she was clever, he would never know that she eluded him. Male pride crashed against the strength of willful submission to roll over her as harmlessly as waves roll over sand.
And so she faced him, this man who would be lord over her by day's end.
Cathryn curtsied deeply to the waiting company.
"Greneforde welcomes you," she said clearly, though her voice never rose above normal pitch. "We will see to your comfort if you would dismount."
William, watching closely for her reaction to him and nonplussed that she seemed only momentarily disconcerted, now looked and saw that men had materialized out of the shadows. There were not many, but then, he did not know if these few represented all Greneforde had to offer. Certainly those he saw were nothing remarkable. In fact, the more closely he looked, the more he was sure that the only thing noteworthy about the men who came forward with such hesitation was that they were filthy. Clothes that looked better suited to be rags draped their spare bodies; lack of good cloth he could understand, but not the lack of washing, not with a river so close at hand.
Rowland studied William's face, his eyes shining with mirth, but when he spoke his tone was well modulated.
"How does the lord of Greneforde find his villeins?"
William grunted softly, removing the mufflers that sheathed his hands.
"I find them in need of washing," he answered in a quiet rumble.
"Will that be your first duty as lord? Preparing baths for your people?"
William shot Rowland a frigid glance, but said good-naturedly, "'Twould not be time ill spent, not when I will be in such close proximity."
Rowland smiled and dismounted, handing his reins into the grimy hands of a hunched-over man long past his prime. He watched as the man carefully led his mount away into the stable; for all his dirt, he seemed capable.
