by Claudia Dain
"I want you," she said in a whisper.
William smiled in satisfaction. Strangely, she was not the least offended by it.
"Then here is the cure: the best and most proven method for curing insatiability of any sort is overindulgence." Cathryn's eyes widened as she leaned into his caressing hand upon her face. "Aye, wife," William said into her dawning comprehension, "you will be given a steady and abundant diet of me. I will fill you to completion and you will be satisfied."
"This cure will not work," she said with a smile.
"Because it is Frankish?" William asked with a slight frown.
"Nay, William," she said softly, "because I will not be cured of you."
Her dark eyes glowed her love and passion for him, yet he was ever conscious of Rowland. Leaning down to her, William kissed her softly and sensually on the lips for a brief moment and then let her mount fall behind. It was folly to have baited her that way; if he'd let his body have its way, they would have tumbled from their horses and rolled upon the path like two animals. If Cathryn kept looking at him the way she was now and saying such provocative things, he just might tumble her anyway.
"I suspect you say such because it is a French cure," he teased when she was well away from his hand.
"I say such because I have a French husband," she answered very quietly, looking at his back.
He heard her. He made no reply, but he had heard. And he smiled in full satisfaction.
"We must make camp," Rowland called. "There are no houses near or monasteries where we might be welcomed for the night. I am sorry, Lady Cathryn, that you must sleep upon the ground."
Thinking of her conversation with William, she had little expectation of sleeping on the ground, but she said nothing to Rowland.
"Nay, be not sorry. It is high adventure for me," she called back happily.
Rowland, knowing what he did of her, should not have been surprised by her answer, yet he was. She was a woman of remarkable character and resiliency of spirit. William had been given a gift most fine when he received Greneforde and its lady.
Yet there was danger. Lambert lurked and could not stay his hand much longer. Tomorrow, late, they would reach the king. If an attack was made, it would be better neither too close to Greneforde nor too close to court.
Rowland watched as William pulled off the small cart path they followed. There was an abandoned and derelict remnant of a shepherd's hut just visible in the waning light. The wind had kicked up with the passage of the sun across the sky and the weather was brisk. Cathryn needed shelter in which to rest, even such shelter as this.
William looked back, and Rowland nodded his approval. Rowland watched as William's eyes lingered on his wife. He was decided with that look. Once settled and fed, he would circle the area for signs of recent human passage and he would sleep, however lightly, in full view of the night sky. Let William and Cathryn have their privacy.
The meal was cold—venison, bread, wine—but it was rich fare on such a cold night, and the company was sweet. William would allow no fire, but the night sky was clear and bright with stars. Even in the gloom of the hut, through the open wind holes and the large hole in the roof, Cathryn could see the silvery gleam of his eyes.
She knew that she would taste of "the cure" tonight.
Rowland wiped his fingers on a scrap of cloth that had been a part of their bundle and rose quietly. William watched him expectantly.
"I will go now," Rowland declared, "but I will be near."
William and Cathryn watched him go with inhospitable eagerness, with no words offered to delay his leaving. Rowland took no offense; in fact, he smiled. Those newly married were not known for their manners.
A gust of wind heralded his passage into the darkness of the doorless doorway, and then he was gone. Cathryn looked at William, a smile of anticipation lighting her features.
"How do you fare, wife?" he asked, keeping his distance from her. "Did the venison suit your tastes?"
"Yea, 'twas most succulent," she answered demurely.
"And the wine? I note you did not consume your usual portion, but a bare two cups," he prodded. "You are not ill?"
Never again would she need wine to bolster her courage to face the rigors of the bedchamber, and well he knew it, but she would play this game with him and not be found the loser.
"Nay, I feel quite well," Cathryn answered easily.
"No malady afflicts you?" he asked just as easily.
"'Tis strange the meaning you French twist onto a word," she said to the air, "but, nay, I lay claim to no malady."
"With no malady, there need be no cure," he said in a low voice.
"Again the twist, but I say again that I cannot be cured. What say you, husband—will you attempt the impossible?" Cathryn challenged.
"Yea," William answered, rising to his feet, "I attempt any and all."
Cathryn rose with him, ready to accept his embrace, gleeful that she had not risen to William's bait but had instead taunted him into rising to hers. Her back was to the doorway as she stood, and William had taken only one step when she felt a blade pressed against the line of her jaw. William stopped and drew his sword free in one motion, yet he did not proceed beyond that. The blade was sharp that pricked Cathryn's flesh.
Cathryn felt the knife shift against her throat, and the man holding her from behind came into view.
The night was black, but the stars were bright in that cloudless sky. She saw him clearly.
"Nay!" she whispered, the blood chilling within her at the sight.
"Yea, Cat, I have not forgotten you, as you can see. Would I be vain if I assumed that you have not forgotten me?"
It was Lambert, his massive ring gleaming in the cold light of the night. His ring caught her attention as the knife could not. She had so many memories of the hand that bore that ring. It was that hand, that ring, that had scarred her brow and that marked her still. Cathryn reached up a tentative hand to feel the ridge of the scar. Yes, it was there still. He had marked her.
Nothing had changed.
Lambert was here, touching her. His hand was heavy, so unlike William's. He stared at her, his eyes so pale a blue as to be almost white, paler than a winter sky, so different from William's stormy gray. Lambert. He was back. He was touching her. He had her.
And there was room in her mind for none other, not even for herself. There was no thought of the jeweled knife that was within easy reach of her hand. She had no defense and would offer none.
The cold descended not from without, but from within, as if the eternal and irreversible coldness of all the dead that had ever died rose from within some secret part of her to welcome her to their number.
She embraced the cold willingly.
She went with them eagerly, for who could harm the dead?
And William saw her swift and icy retreat into herself and feared for her. This danger was greater than the knife at her throat; this was the death of her spirit.
"Still the quiet cat, but that is one of your virtues. Cat," Lambert said with silken insincerity. "'Tis well you still have it. You have so little virtue left."
The sound of malignant snickering pricked something within her, and she turned to the sound. As if through a long tunnel, she saw that William was being held by two of Lambert's men. Two swords were pressed against him, each against his torso. He was unarmed. William made no move, no sound, but his eyes never left her face. She scarcely noticed. But some small voice inside of her remarked upon the fact that those two knights were dirty. Very dirty.
A shiver of laughter shook her. She was mad to notice such a thing, for it did not matter. Could anyone be as dirty as she?
"You still tremble for me, Cat." Lambert grinned. "You have not forgotten."
No, she had not forgotten, though she had thought so for a small span of hours, but that had been a dream and this was waking. William was the dream, and she looked at him with eyes of glassy stillness, eyes empty of thought and of emotion, and then sh
e looked away as she felt Lambert's hand trace with heavy precision the curve from breast to hip. She knew what was to come and she could not bear for William to witness it. In looking away, she closed the door on William and locked it.
Lambert would have her; she could only pray that he would take her where William could not see her degradation. Somehow that mattered more than anything. She could almost accept his invasion of her body, almost...
She did not understand that her cold submission was evidence of the dying of her spirit. But William understood.
He had never seen her so cold, so detached from her surroundings; she was becoming detached from herself. She was distancing herself from him with every breath she took, shunting him to one side along with all the newly found warmth that he had kindled within her. This withdrawal was blindingly swift and mortally deep. She would not survive this.
William, silent in battle, never voicing a cry, watched the woman who shared his soul being pushed to the hard-packed dirt of the hut.
"Cathryn!" he said hoarsely, pressing against the points of the blades, unaware that they pierced him, unaware that his blood stained his tunic before running in a fragile stream to the floor.
Guichardet and Beuves dared press him no further. Lambert had claimed the right to kill le Brouillard, as he had claimed the right to his wife, yet they knew no other way to keep him immobilized.
"Cathryn," William repeated, "he has no claim on you!"
The swords pierced deeper into the muscle that banded his ribs, unnoticed. Guichardet and Beuves looked at each other in growing discomfort. How to stop a man who did not heed a sword in his side? Guichardet enjoyed a moment of rueful self-congratulation; had he not said again and again that le Brouillard was a knight to reckon with?
"You have been given to me by God and by king and I will not relinquish you, wife!" William shouted, demanding that she hear his words and know their truth.
Beuves and Guichardet threw down their useless swords in tandem and grabbed William's arms to keep him back from his wife. And then William knew that they would not kill him, at least not yet, and that gave him the advantage, for he had no compunction about killing them at any time.
"Fight for yourself as I fight for you!" he commanded her. "Wife!"
And, as if through a deadening fog, she heard him.
She was William's wife. She belonged to him. She did not belong to Lambert.
Lambert's meaty hand was upon her skirts, pulling them up, the air chill on her skin. With her hand, she grabbed his wrist to stop him.
Nothing that she could have said or done would have shocked him more.
Cat did not resist, not after that first time when he had cuffed her and sent her brother to his grave. He had cured her of fighting him.
And when Lambert did nothing to her in his shock, Cathryn gained courage. She pushed against his bulk with her arms and kicked at the hand that was held motionless against her leg. Lambert came out of his shock. What had worked once would work again. Mayhap Cat had forgotten a few things. He would remind her.
With brutal force, Lambert lashed her face with the broad back of his hand.
Her head rang with dizzying pain for many seconds, and she stopped her resistance. Lambert chuckled his satisfaction and drew her skirts up to her hips. The rush of air on the juncture of her legs cleared her head quickly enough and she lunged, trying to throw him off.
She had not seen the blow coming, though she had expected it. With the strike, knowledge burst upon her with such blinding clarity that it rivaled the force of the blow; Lambert could not kill her. To kill her would be to lose all chance at Greneforde. If he would not kill her, then she had nothing more to fear from him; he had already done his worst. Again and again she had endured his worst. She would not endure it even once more.
William was only steps from Cathryn, yet they seemed leagues apart, and the battle that Lambert had initiated with his entry into the hut had lasted no more than two dozen heartbeats. It seemed to William that they were caught on the threshold of eternity. Lambert had swung back his ringed hand and cuffed Cathryn as casually as a man would cuff a begging dog. The sight of her dazed expression burned into his mind. He would not forget. Lambert would not live long enough to remember.
William drew free the knife that hung from his belt with swift and deadly silence. He turned and jabbed downward toward the open and vulnerable point where mail did not quite cover throat.
Guichardet fell dead, his windpipe severed.
Beuves backed up a step, releasing his hold on William. This man was more than he had planned for. Guichardet was dead. To be dead was not what they had discussed when planning to retake Greneforde.
The look in le Brouillard's eyes when he turned from Guichardet, the blood a vivid red line on his blade, caused a mortal heaviness within Beuves. This man would kill him. There was no fury, no rage, no blood lust in those gray eyes. There was just cold death. His death.
Beuves turned to run, running not from the act of dying—all men must face that, and there was no escape—but from death personified in that cool and solemn face before him. Only the dark and fathomless eyes showed any sign of life: the tormented life of the damned. Le Brouillard's face was enough to drive him into insanity.
Before even one frenzied step was completed, Beuves fell dead, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his neck. Rowland appeared behind William through the open wind hole, the bow in his hands.
"Your pardon, William. I strayed too far afield."
He did not say more—indeed, he had said that much on the run—and William did not bother to answer. They both raced to where Cathryn lay near the portal of the hut, Lambert straddled over her, her skirts akimbo. He had struck her once, the side of her face already showing a swelling darkness, but it was Lambert who was howling in pain. Cathryn, certain only that he would not kill her, was taking her revenge.
Her thumbs were pressed against his eyes and she applied pressure relentlessly. Lambert had thought to pry her off. He could not. He had thought to beat her off. She was not to be dissuaded for so paltry a price.
It was William who ended their battle. With killing ferocity, he kicked Lambert off of his wife, robbing him of breath in the doing. Following, holding his sword ready, William waited until Lambert lay still and dazed. When Lambert could see and understand his death in William's face, William did what no knight did to another: he gave Lambert no chance at gallant battle. William slashed downward with his sword, beheading Lambert where he lay.
Rowland stood to block Cathryn's view of what was happening. It was well he did.
With cold disdain, William kicked Lambert's lifeless head into a far-off corner, and then, the gleam of that brutal ring catching his eyes, he hacked off Lambert's hand and kicked that into the same corner to keep morbid company with its head.
Lambert was dead.
That was the last thought William would ever give to Lambert for the rest of his days.
Rowland, knowing William well, knew that Lambert would no more occupy William's thoughts than a dead mayfly. Cathryn and her welfare would consume him, and so it should be. Rowland lifted what remained of Lambert of Brent and tossed the body out of the wind hole. With calm detachment, he located the hand and head and got rid of them in the same manner. Once outside, he would gather the parts and bury the man who had reached once too often for Greneforde. The other two nameless knights would be buried with him, unshriven and unconfessed. They would be joined together throughout eternity, whether they wished to be or no.
William was only dimly aware of Rowland's movements in the hut. His entire attention was focused on Cathryn. She had gone far inside herself to cope with this latest abasement. He was greatly afeared that he had lost her forever. She lay now as one in a heavy swoon. She had not stirred when he had kicked Lambert from her. If she had noted his death, she made no sign. Blood ran in a slow line from her mouth, and she made no move to wipe it.
He was completely unaware that he bled
from two small wounds to his rib cage. His thoughts were all for her.
She was gone from him; he could see it. There was no recognition in her dark and lovely eyes. There was scarcely any sign that she lived, except for the heavy rise and fall of her chest. She had battled, this wife of his, battled her greatest and most feared foe. She had done well. She had heard him in her fear, for it was when he had commanded her to fight that she had fought.
She had heard him.
William felt the beginning of hope flower in his mind. If she had heeded him before, she would heed him again. It would be so.
But how to reach her?
Lightly, he almost thought he heard the God of all whisper softly. Yes, he must not smother her with care or she would die with the weight of it. There was one way in which to reach Cathryn, one way that had proven itself time and again.
"Up, wife!" he commanded in gentle reproof, "you must learn not to roll in the dirt the day before you meet England's new king."
Cathryn sat up before the words had completely left William's mouth, and then their meaning registered in her mind. Up, she must get up. William had said so. And why? Because Lambert was dead.
Lambert was dead. She had fought him. William had killed him. William le Brouillard had not relinquished her, as he had promised her countless times that he would not.
She believed him; after all, he was a man who had no history of losing.
Slowly a smile wrinkled her eyes and turned up her mouth. She wiped the blood with the hem of her bliaut and touched with tender fingers the swelling near her eye. She was covered in dirt and bruises and dried blood, but she was looking at him with all the richness of her character shining out of her dark eyes. She had never looked more beautiful to him.
His Cathryn was back from that dark place inside herself where she hid when threatened. She had gone far, but she was back.
"I will vow," Cathryn said, raising herself to her feet by slow degrees, "that the king did not know how fastidious you are when he sent you to me." She stood straight and pressed her hands to the small of her back, sighing heavily before pinning William with her gaze. "I say this with all affection—your love of water is become a burden to me."
