by Claudia Dain
And now John smiled as he stood in the quiet hall. This man who had come as stranger and lord to Greneforde just yesterday was no longer an enemy to be swiftly outmaneuvered. On that point John was in swift retreat. No longer would he stand as a shield of protection between Cathryn and her husband, whether Lady Cathryn liked it or not.
* * *
At that moment the lady in question was standing with her husband in the chill winter rain, his grip upon her arm as firm as if he held a battle-ax. She liked it not.
"And this is English rain," she said crisply.
To her surprise and irritation, William laughed and slowly released her arm to the care of its proper owner. He looked her over, from top to toe and back again, his gaze lingering the longest on her face. She did not avert her eyes. She only masked them from behind, leaving him nothing to see but his own distorted reflection.
"You are a cool one, lady wife." He chuckled warmly, his voice deep and throaty. "Yet not so cool as I first believed."
She knew then, though she did not understand how, that she had lost ground to him. She must lose no more.
"'Tis a raw day to be standing abroad, my lord. I am, indeed, quite cool," she responded cryptically.
"Yea, Cathryn"—he smiled—"I give you no argument. 'Tis a raw day."
Turning away from the amusement she saw on his sculpted face, Cathryn ambled away from him. He ambled with her, his long stride easily matching hers.
She was miserable in her discomfort, and he knew it was more than the weather that had her in such a state. She was miserable because she was with him, and it annoyed him. Why should it not? Yet she amused him and he could not fathom why. It would be foolish to enjoy her company, that he knew well; others had enjoyed his wife's company before him.
Cathryn could not be trusted and he did not trust her, nor would he ever. She had betrayed him before she had ever laid eyes upon him. She had given herself to another man, accepting his arms around her golden slenderness and his seed within her hot sheath. No, he would never trust her, but they were lord and lady here, and she was best suited to give him answers.
He would simply have to try to smother the pleasure he felt in her company.
"The hall, I was told," he began politely, "was begun in the reign of Henry the first?"
"Yea," she answered, and stopped her forward motion, "on the foundations of a bailey built in Saxon times. 'Tis an old place, with ancient memories," she supplied in a soft voice, her eyes taking in the line of the rampart.
"A well-chosen site," he offered in compliment.
"Yea. And much desired... in years past," Cathryn finished a little rapidly, not wanting his thoughts to be led in that direction.
"And present," he added gallantly.
Choosing not to respond directly, she continued, "'Twas rebuilt of stone by my father's father during the reign of Henry, and my father built the tower gate before he left on pilgrimage."
Cathryn and William stood in the center of the courtyard, and he held his tongue as he looked about him. Cathryn saw what he saw. The orchard was small; three trees had died of disease in recent years, and she was unsure if they had checked its spread to the rest. The stable, its roof sagging, was empty of fine horses, unless one counted the many that William had brought with him as his portion. The tower gate was strong, but the wooden wall that surrounded Greneforde Tower was not stone, as was the current fashion. Greneforde had not fulfilled the promise of its youth, begun so long ago in the time of her grandfather. Like a proud mother, Cathryn rose to her home's defense.
"Before my father left, the buildings were in good repair and we had food aplenty. He had even ordered glass for the wind holes in the hall."
William did not stop her. He turned to look at her, her gaze focused on a time when her home had been strong and vibrant, and he saw the longing for those days in her dark eyes. Nay, he did not stop her. He knew what it was to lose a home, in whatever manner.
"The hall was hung with six tapestries of excellent workmanship and glowing with brilliant thread," she said softly. "My father's bed was thick with coverlets of fur and silk, and the curtains were of damask—a most fine, warm bed. He had contracted for the painting of the ceiling beams in colors of red and yellow when..." Her voice faded, and she stared at the muddy ground at her feet.
William dared not disturb her progress through time. This was his first glimpse of the woman beneath the ice of control that sheathed her, and he did not want this flickering of emotion to die. He knew without knowing how that the cold would be intensified in its wake.
She looked up again, this time not at the hall but at the tower her father had built.
"The tower was already more than half-completed when my mother died. My father allowed it to be finished, but his heart was no longer here. His heart and soul were on his pilgrimage, and he would not rest until he set out to touch the sand that had borne the weight of our Savior. He died there," she whispered. "I believe he knew he would."
Clasping her hands tightly together, Cathryn said flatly, "And pilgrimages do not come cheaply. Nay, the cost is dear."
After a lengthy silence, and only when he was certain she would not volunteer more, William asked, "How many years has it been since he left?"
Cathryn did not look at him, nor did she give any indication that she had heard him speak until she finally answered, "It has been six."
William reeled inside himself at that. Six years she had been alone, bearing the sole responsibility for Greneforde and all its people. Six years of intense civil disorder and mayhem. Six years, and she but a child of twelve at the onset. He looked at her with compassion. Truly, her burden had been heavy and cast upon her at too tender an age.
"You have done well, Cathryn," he praised, his voice warm.
She jerked slightly and looked at him with wide eyes, as if she had forgotten that he existed or that he stood but a pace from her side.
"Nay. I have not," she said coldly, and looked away.
And he could not argue the point with her. Greneforde was near starving. The fields were overgrown. The village had been sacked and burned. She had been no virgin when he claimed her. She had not, by God's Holy Writ, done well.
But his compassion would not die so easily.
She had whet his appetite for information, and he would have that appetite appeased with news from Rowland and Ulrich. And John the Steward. Yes, John would soon receive a lengthy visit from the Lord of Greneforde. William would know the history of Greneforde, and he would know it to the full before he lay again with Cathryn in their spartan bed.
"The seed I have carried with me cries out for land to be buried, in," he offered pleasantly, turning them both from their black thoughts. "Will it thrive in Greneforde soil?"
"Yea, it will take root and grow and flourish here, if you can keep it safe from warhorses and thieves and roguish knights," she answered mildly.
William smiled and offered Cathryn his arm. "Show me your fertile fields, Cathryn, from the height of the curtain walk, that we may best determine the proper sitting of the crops."
Cathryn laid her hand upon his arm the barest degree, unwilling to slight him when he was being so cordial, yet uncomfortable at the contact. Carefully restricting his stride to hers, William escorted Cathryn to the walk and they looked down upon the bare destruction of the fields.
"They are war-ravaged," she supplied by way of apology.
"As is all England," he agreed with courtesy.
"Greneforde has had need of you, William le Brouillard," Cathryn said impulsively, keeping her eyes on the horizon, unwilling to reveal the deep truth of those words to this near-stranger.
"I am here," he said solemnly, looking at her profile, so golden and delicate in the gray chill of the day. "Greneforde's needs shall be met in me."
She had no answer, no response to that. She could not think of one with her heart beating so full against her ribs and the air suddenly so chill, for were her hands not as cold as new-fa
llen snow? It had been said time and again that she and Greneforde were one. Did he include her in his promise? For the first time, she wished it to be so. If such was the case, then her dual identity with Greneforde would not be so heavy a weight to bear, however lovingly she bore it.
Breaking the heavy stillness in the air between them, William said lightly, "In truth, I have been much in need of Greneforde. Those seeds of mine have traveled far in search of a home, as have I."
There was so much truth in those casually spoken words, and she sensed it, even if she had not known that he had lost his family lands as a youth.
Seeking to aid William in easing the weight of emotion between them, Cathryn spoke also of the seeds he cherished. It was one topic that was not a potentially volatile one and in which they both had a genuine interest.
"You are an unusual knight to be so interested in farming when making war is both pastime and profession for one of your station," she offered with a slight smile.
"It is not so unusual to become fascinated with the production of food when you have spent years searching for it with an empty belly," he answered with a smile that made her forget the light rain that veiled them.
Truly, he was fair of face and limb, and truly, she had not been cursed with him as husband.
"Walking the Way of the Cross has changed you much, I vow," Cathryn remarked.
"And how, lady, do you think me changed when you knew me not at all before and but little after?" William challenged softly. It was not the softness of gentleness; nay, it was the expectant quiet before thunder.
"I..." she stammered, confused as to his abrupt change of mood, "you, you do not seem an average knight, my lord."
Again she had blundered, but she could not fathom how or in what fashion to extricate herself.
William's voice was as cool as the rain, his eyes as sharp and cold as the sword. "Lady, do you indulge in wifely flattery or are you speaking from a storeroom of experience?"
Cathryn closed her eyes against the pain. So. She had her answer. He suspected her of wild fornication, and he had a fine and unassailable foundation for his belief. The worst of it was that she could not fault him for the accusation, as his proof was so damning. She had been caught unprepared for his assault. That was most foolish of her. No matter; it would not happen again.
Standing in frigid isolation before the heat of his anger and suspicion, Cathryn drew her dignity about her. It did not warm her as well as a cloak, but it covered her just as completely.
"Neither, my lord."
She would offer nothing more; indeed, she had given him more of herself than she intended when he had taken her from the hall. Moving with fluid grace, Cathryn descended the stair and crossed the courtyard to reenter the great tower.
William made no move to detain her or to accompany her. He did not want to be anywhere near her in his present anger.
And, though he was loath to admit it, he enjoyed watching her move.
Such would it ever be with her. They could reach neutral ground and sue for peace, yet they would not attain it, for he could not forget that she was a woman who had accepted his vow and his touch when she knew that she was impure. That she had known the most intimate touch of another man, mayhap many men, the bonding that was reserved for a man and a woman pledged before God, rankled him more with each hour that he knew her. Yet he would not relinquish Greneforde, though the cost was high and rising as he came to know her better.
Her heart was not with him, was clearly sheltered against him in favor of another. To spend his lifetime with such a woman... Yet he had learned something from their most recent exchange of verbal blows: Cathryn was not as coolly unemotional as she pretended. He was beginning to believe that her admirable composure was the result of practiced effort.
He was a motherless dog if he did not like her the better for it.
Chapter 9
Dinner had just begun, the first course but barely served, when Rowland entered the hall. He was back from his search for details concerning the history of Greneforde... and Cathryn. This William knew. Ulrich had come to him earlier, just before the meal, to relate that he could make no inroads into the Greneforde mind. The people were cordial to him, easier with him than they had been with men who had achieved the accolade, but they had revealed nothing. Wisely, Ulrich had not pressed, not wanting to give away his purpose, no matter how earnestly he sought to prove his worth to William. For that wisdom, he had been sincerely praised. It would serve no good purpose for the people of Greneforde to think that their lord was not dealing from an open hand. But Rowland had a gift for understanding more than was said. Rowland would have news.
Cathryn and William, sitting in polite animosity and together for the first time since their conversation earlier that day on the wall, watched as he strode toward them. In truth, Cathryn had never seen Rowland look so grim. Nor had William.
Rowland seated himself next to Cathryn, his rightful place as William's closest friend, and began to eat. He did not appear to be enjoying his meal. In truth, he looked as though he would choke on each and every bite. His looks, dark as they were, were only for William; for Cathryn he spared not a glance. It was as if she were only air, of no substance. Or as if he would make her so if he but could. In such a strained atmosphere, Cathryn lost her taste for food. She reached for her wine-filled goblet.
Cathryn endured the first two courses in silence. By the time Ulrich had filled her goblet for the third time and the venison was being carried in by John, she summoned breath to speak.
"Rowland," she said, "my lord and his knights have earned the gratitude of all Greneforde this day. It has been long since we tasted of fresh meat. I give you my thanks."
Rowland, as skilled in diplomacy and chivalry as William, did the impossible: he said nothing. He did not acknowledge her words, her thanks, or even her presence. Rowland stared at William, his dark eyes shimmering with an inner fire.
William's mood worsened.
Cathryn reached again for the wine.
William's hand upon her arm stopped her. With a reluctance he could feel, she rested her hand upon the linen cloth, her goblet just out of reach. She would not use that means of escape again. Not today. Not when he was using all his warrior's strength, skill, and discipline to fight the desire to lay her beneath him again.
It tormented him that he wanted her so. She was a beauty—he could admit it—but she was as sly and deceitful as a serpent. Untrustworthy. Impure. Undisciplined. He could not want one such as she, yet the delicate line of her nose, the slender column of her throat, the fine, golden smoothness of her hair told him she was none of those things. To look at her, he could believe that she was pure and worthy and innocent. When he looked at her, he wanted to possess her and protect her in the same instant. When he lay between her harlot's legs, he wanted to shout his betrayal to God and have God take His vengeance upon her. That he yearned still to lie with her was his agony.
Greneforde was the object of his yearning and had been for so many years that he could not recall a time when he had not pursued her, though he had not known the name of his future home until just days ago. Greneforde was home and legacy. Greneforde would be his children's heritage and their birthright. Children... to lie with Cathryn...
Nay! Greneforde was the object of his desire, only Greneforde. He had not sought a wife, and certainly not a ruined wife. Ruined as she lay in the arms of... whom?
William gulped his wine in silence. Cathryn, whose arm lay entrapped by his mighty hand still, did not watch him, though she could feel the waves of his anger until they washed over her in a crimson tide. Her husband's anger was a quiet thing—as quiet as the slice of sword through flesh, and just as fatal to her heart. This she knew, though she did not know how. Perhaps his anger was the deadlier of the two, for with a sword thrust, there was warning. With William, there was just the strike.
As his anger and his torment rose, so did the chill from the center of her heart, until he pounded aga
inst the rock-hard walls of ice that she had called forth to shield her. If his anger, the cause of which she did not know, rebounded against her, it would strike walls of thickest ice, and she would be safe within their innermost core.
It would be so. There was no other course for her, and it was a familiar path.
Father Godfrey, seated at William's other side, understood the present situation. Knowing William as he did, he knew that his unease at his marriage had grown since last evening, and that he must have sent Rowland to cover his flank. It was always so between them. Their friendship went back years and was beyond question or doubt. Rowland would have beaten the ground itself for information in his effort to protect William. Rowland knew what had occurred in Greneforde. That knowledge was written on his face, and it was knowledge he was desperate to impart to William.
Godfrey sighed and sipped his wine. In truth, he was also eager for William to know what had befallen Greneforde and Greneforde's lady during the past years. The words would be bitter to hear, yet he believed that William would be able to come to terms with the truth; he would never be at peace grappling with the suspicions that plagued him now. And, as much as Cathryn objected, he also believed her husband's discovery of the truth would do her no lasting harm. No, it would be of benefit to her, if her husband understood the desperate times that Greneforde had barely survived.
"Rowland," Godfrey interjected into the oppressive silence of the high table. "Lord William will not enjoy his meal, a meal so long awaited by all, until he hears the words crowding your tongue. Go. I will stay with the Lady Cathryn and entertain her with stories of battle until your return."
