by Tamara Leigh
A quarter hour later, she watched from her chamber window as Montagu and his men departed Strivling to begin their northward journey to subdue those who continued to defy England’s usurper.
“Where are you, King Henry?” she whispered. More importantly, where was his queen, Margaret, a woman who Hildegard had said was more worthy than any man? Was she still in France where she had fled nearly a year past?
Catherine dropped her face into her hands, but she did not cry lest she disgrace Hildegard’s memory.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
These men are liars. They pledge themselves to King Edward, just as they did two years past, but still they are loyal to Henry. Do not give them your back.
Those were the words with which Montagu left Collier. And though he knew he would do well to heed them, he would do better to guard his back from Rudd Walther. As Montagu had accepted the mercenary’s offer to lead the contingent left at Strivling, Collier knew he would get little sleep these next weeks.
With the last of Montagu’s army disappearing in the distance, he turned and strode over the drawbridge. In the outer bailey, he paused to better assess the damage. Though he had no idea how much coin was in the purse Edmund had given him—or its worth—it would likely take every bit to simply begin rebuilding.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t pick up the phone and start calling contractors. In this age, it was a good deal more complicated. To clear the debris and repair the walls, he would have to pull labor from among the castle folk and villagers. A source of materials—wood, stone, mortar—would have to be found. Then there were wages to be paid that would take more than the stroke of a pen. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have to file paperwork and obtain permits, nor deal with unions and building inspectors. Not all bad.
“Sir Collier,” Walther slurred.
Squinting against the sun, Collier located the mercenary where he stood on the wall-walk before a section of crumbled battlement. “Sir Rudd.”
“The men await your orders.”
Collier looked to those Montagu had left behind. The king’s man had been generous, choosing only soldiers of presence and good arms to stand watch over this fallen stronghold. Then there were Strivling’s soldiers who were divested of their arms until they proved loyal to the Yorkists. With empty hands and little purpose, they loitered.
Collier nearly smiled. “The debris needs to be removed from the inner and outer baileys.”
“And my men?” Walther asked.
“They will do the work—alongside Strivling’s men.”
Walther’s face contorted. “They are soldiers, not common laborers!”
“Those are my orders, Sir Rudd,” Collier said, knowing if he didn’t assert his authority he might lose it altogether.
Blood poured into Walther’s face. “Who will defend King Edward’s right should these people rise up?”
Collier considered Strivling’s men-at-arms and the knights amongst them. Their faces reflected none of Catherine’s anger. They were weary of war. Providing their lady didn’t rouse them, it was unlikely they would rebel.
“Do you question my orders, Walther?”
“You know I do.”
Collier raised an eyebrow. “If you are unable to fulfill your duties, I can relieve you of them.”
The look in the man’s eyes warned that were they alone, he would take great pleasure in relieving Collier of his life. Meaning if Collier wished to stay alive in this bloody century, among many things, he would have to work on his swordsmanship. “Well, Sir Rudd?”
Walther’s silence weighted the air a moment longer, then he said, “Work shall begin immediately.”
Collier turned toward the keep. As the villagers had yet to be allowed to return to their homes outside the walls—rather, what remained of them following Montagu’s siege—he would have them work alongside the soldiers. Then he would see about valuing the coin he had been given.
Staring after Gilchrist, Rudd gripped his dagger’s handle. He had not severed his loyalty to the Lancasters and come over to the side of the Yorks to act nursemaid to foot soldiers. He had done it to become a lord—to sit at table above others and command the lives of many.
But his chance at Highchester had slipped through his fingers. Even if ill befell Morrow in the weeks ahead, the opportunity would not come his way again. Hence, he would have to settle for one of the barony’s lesser castles.
For this reason, he had offered to remain at Strivling. Providing Morrow returned a baron, Rudd intended to be first under consideration to keep a castle for him. And the fewer contenders, the better.
There was going to be another death at Strivling.
“Where did you get those?”
The demand brought Collier’s head up from the ledgers he had been studying.
Catherine stood before the dais. She looked anxious, and he was fairly certain he knew the reason.
“The steward retrieved them for me.”
“For what reason?”
“So I might educate myself as to Strivling’s income and expenditures.”
She blinked. “You know numbers?”
He had forgotten that during the middle ages the average person was unable to perform such simple tasks—especially those of lowly birth and women. Catherine probably could not do so herself.
“I can compute. And believe it or not, I can read and write.” Of course, making sense of these numbers and this writing made him feel illiterate.
She glanced at the ledgers. “As happens during times of war, they have not been kept current.”
“You refer to the eight hundred pounds that are unaccounted for?”
“Eight hundred pounds!” Her incredulity was almost believable. “I doubt the old baron ever had that much in his coffers.”
“He did.”
“You have looked to see how much remains?”
The steward, a muttering fellow with bitten-to-the-quick fingernails, had brought Collier the coffer containing all of five pounds. “Yes, and eight hundred pounds is missing.”
She moistened her lips. “If you are correct, it was surely spent on defense against the usurper—else Montagu or Morrow stole it.”
He had considered those possibilities, but since the last entry was dated the day Montagu had begun his second siege of Strivling and showed there was an excess of eight hundred pounds, it didn’t hold. Too, when he had questioned the steward, he had learned that when Montagu ordered the coffer opened, it had contained only the five pounds.
“Money is not all that’s missing,” Collier said. “Who do you think took the rest of it?”
“The rest?”
“I assume your betrothed’s father had silver plate…gold…jewels.” All of which could boast a greater value than the missing coin.
It seemed with effort she held his gaze. “So the Lord of Strivling did, but as to its whereabouts…” She shrugged.
“Where is it, Catherine?”
Her eyes widened. “You think I took it?”
“That is the most logical conclusion.”
She gasped. “You accuse me of thievery!”
He stood, descended the dais, and halted before her. “Listen to me. There is nothing you can do to change the course of this war. Edward will be king no matter how you plot against him.” Not necessarily true, he silently conceded. It was possible her survival would effect change that would bring England back under Lancastrian control, but that he couldn’t allow to happen.
She thinned lips that had been full, warm, and wanting last night before he had reminded her of who she was—rather, who she was not. “You err, Gilchrist. King Henry will wear his crown again.”
True. In 1470, Henry would regain his throne, but six months later, Edward would take it back. Within a month, Henry would be dead.
“Where were you going last night, Catherine?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave her head a shake that loosed auburn hair from its braid. “I may be forced to wed you, but that
does not mean I answer to you.”
Squelching the impulse to sweep the hair out of her eyes, he said, “I want you to stay out of the secret passages.”
“And if I do not?”
“Then you will be corrected.” How, he hadn’t the faintest idea.
“I fear you not!”
Collier caught her arm as she swung away and pulled her back. “It’s for your own good.”
“My good? Ha!”
“Catherine—”
“Though you are too lowly born to be acquainted with propriety, Gilchrist, I have a title you would do well to remember. I am Lady Catherine.”
He drew a calming breath. “As I am Sir Collier.”
“Only whilst the usurper sullies the throne.” She jerked free.
Collier watched her disappear down the corridor leading to the kitchens. Unless he found a way past her hate and distrust, being married to her would not be easy. In the meantime, it was imperative he uncover where she had hidden Strivling’s wealth to prevent her from smuggling it into Lancastrian hands.
Returning to the table, he lifted the quill from its ink pot. And longed for a ballpoint pen. Such a bloody mess!
Catherine did not like herself very much. Anger had made her taunt Gilchrist over his birth. Though Hildegard had occasionally spoken ill to those beneath her station, Catherine had thought it insensitive—in some instances cruel. However, Gilchrist’s birth seemed only one of a few attributes open to attack.
True, he was a treacherous Yorkist, even if he hardly behaved as one, and he had sought to seduce her last eve, but beyond that…
Pushing thoughts of him aside, she halted before the storeroom and set her hand on the door. And hesitated. If she disappeared now, she would likely be discovered missing. Worse, the tide was not right. Her task must be completed soon, though—before Gilchrist got any nearer the truth.
Holy rood, she silently cursed, I should have burned the ledgers. She had intended to, but amidst all the confusion of the siege, she had not.
“My lady?”
She spun around. It was the slow-witted child whom Catherine had taken it upon herself to watch over. “Aye, Sara?”
“I be returned from the outer b-bailey. Was takin’ drink to the folk, a-and…”
Catherine offered a smile of encouragement. “Take your time.”
Sara breathed deep. “They got Strivling’s soldiers laborin’ right alongside th-the villagers.”
Further punishment and humiliation.
“And also them that M-Montagu left behind.”
Catherine blinked. “Lord Montagu’s soldiers are clearing the bailey?”
Sara bobbed her head. “Aye, my lady. Most strange, hmm?”
Gilchrist must have ordered it, for she could not imagine Walther doing so. And the soldiers would not have taken it upon themselves. But why? Did Gilchrist not understand the differences between the classes—men who fight, men who work, men who pray?
“Thank you, Sara.”
As the girl hurried toward the kitchens, Catherine mused that Gilchrist was unlike anyone she had met. Who was this man she must wed to protect her family? What was his secret? And why had he set men trained in arms to do the work of laborers?
Upon returning to the hall, she found he had resumed his seat. Dark head bent over a ledger, he flipped a page, studied the entries, and dipped his quill. And in that moment, she forgot her purpose in returning to him.
Such a mystery he was, this man who appeared the most formidable warrior on his feet and the most studious man of letters poring over ledgers. So which was he? Warrior or scribe? Considering his lack of sword skill, a scribe who wished to be a warrior seemed the best answer. But the fit was still wrong.
Of a sudden, he looked up.
She might have fled if not for the amusement in his prompt, “Lady Catherine?”
Gathering herself back together, she said, “Why, Sir Collier?”
A smile moved his mouth. “Why what?”
Carefully measuring her steps, she advanced. “Why have you set soldiers to do menial work?”
“Ah. The sooner the castle is cleared of rubble, the sooner it can be rebuilt. You object?”
Did she? Only in that he overstepped bounds set hundreds of years ago. She ascended the dais. “’Tis not usual for men of arms to perform the tasks of commoners.”
He returned the quill to the ink pot, sat back in the chair that had once been filled by Hildegard in the person of her husband, and clasped his good arm over the injured one. “As the soldiers have nothing better to do, I see no reason they should be idle while others work.”
Catherine set her palms on the table and leaned in. It was a mistake, the sight and scent of him reminding her of the night past when she had been closer. But she did not withdraw lest he guessed her thoughts and how much he disturbed her.
“If you do not know it”—her voice sounded as cinched as the drawstring that had held up her men’s breeches—“a soldier’s lot is to guard and protect, not perform common labor.”
“Since the fighting men are responsible for the state of Strivling, they can help clean it up.”
Whence did such thinking come? “You make no sense.”
“Sense or not, that is how it will be.”
She straightened. “’Tis as Morrow says—you do not fit.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “I wondered how much of that conversation you listened in on.”
“I assure you, ’twas not intentional.”
“Of course not.” He pushed back his chair.
As he rose, she glimpsed an expression of pain and asked, “Why did you refuse the physician’s offer of medicine?”
“Trying to make sense of me, my lady?”
“Someone must.”
“And who better than the woman who is to be my wife, hmm?”
“Why?” she persisted.
“Would you believe religious convictions?”
Now he made less sense, but before she could further question him, he descended the dais and started toward the stairs.
“Where are you going?” she called.
“The restroom.”
“Rest room? Surely you do not intend to sleep—in daylight?”
He halted before the stairs. “Bathroom, indoor outhouse, whatever you people call it.”
Was he a bit mad? “You speak of the garderobe?”
“That’s it.” He took the stairs two at a time.
Nay, he did not fit at all.
Once he was gone, she picked up a parchment on which he had inked figures and words.
“Scribe, indeed!” she muttered. Not only was his handwriting appalling, but he could hardly spell. Among his numerous mistakes was seed for what she surmised to be sed, meat for meet, and wood for wud. Too, his control of the quill was poor, here and there leaving blotches of ink.
Guessing he attempted to project the cost of supplies, she summed his numbers and arrived at the same total. Lowly born, yet well versed in numbers and somewhat versed in letters. The man who was to be her husband had much explaining to do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
England
Present Day
“Come on, man!” James pounded on the door.
Silence.
“Open up, Collier!”
Still no answer.
James looked to the housekeeper, an older woman with silver hair that would be unremarkable if not for the dark lock off center of her brow. “How long did you say he’s been in there?”
Eyebrows gathered above sparkling eyes, she said, “Three days, sir.”
He tried the knob again.
“Upon your brother’s return home, all seemed well, then shortly after I gave him his mail, I heard him up here shouting and throwing things. It didn’t last long, and he’s been quiet since, excepting when I inquired after him through the door and he told me to leave him be. But as I told you when I phoned last eve, he didn’t answer when I checked on him before retiring for the night.�
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James’s relationship with Collier being adversarial, he had put her off, at first thinking it a game his brother played. But Collier wasn’t given to such—unlike his older brother who rarely let pass an opportunity to mess with a person’s head. Still, James had denied the housekeeper’s request that he drive into the city in the middle of the night, assuring her Collier had left without her knowledge. However, upon awakening this morning with a sense something was wrong, he had been unable to talk himself out of what he knew he would regret and driven into London.
“Nor has he responded this morning,” added the housekeeper—Matilda, wasn’t it? “And the door remains locked.”
What had so enraged Collier he had let loose his infuriatingly controlled emotions? His loss of Strivling Castle three months back? More, why the silence beyond the locked door?
“Should I call the police, sir?”
Telling himself that would only make a mountain out of what was surely a molehill, once more subjecting the rival brothers to junk food news that splashed their names and images across the tabloids, he said, “No need to waste their time,” and silently added, nor more of mine. Then he sized up the door and motioned the woman aside.
“What do you intend, Mr. Morrow?”
Once more she annoyed him—the first occasion being when she had admitted him to the house and noted he wasn’t as tall as his younger brother. Not that it wasn’t true. He stood three inches shorter than Collier, but he was hardly short at six feet one.
He jutted his chin at the door. “I intend to open this. Now please stand back.”
When she complied, he set himself at the door. It took three shoulder slams before it burst inward and he stumbled inside. Regaining his footing on carpet that crackled, he reached to his throbbing arm. And stilled as meaning attached itself to the scene rushing at him.
“Merciful Lord!” Matilda gasped.
The crunch and snap beneath his shoes were shards of porcelain and glass, casualties of a nearby lamp and a framed photo of a pretty woman—only two of numerous objects toppled, broken, and strewn across a carpet scattered all around with scraps of colored paper. But what seized his regard was the figure before the hearth.
