Mary Reed McCall

by Secret Vows

Heldred’s breath rasped in his throat. The old man leaned his hands on his knees, trying to force his heart to slow, so that he could continue his work. As he rested, he glanced around, concerned more about the possibility of seeing one of Montford’s soldiers than of crossing any evil spirits that might be lurking in this shadowy crypt.

  Only two generations of Montfords rested here; the others were back in Normandy, whence the current, corrupt brood sprang. As a man of science, he had no reason to fear the reappearance of their disembodied souls. They were all surely damned to eternal hell for the lives they’d led.

  A sudden, fierce pain gripped Heldred’s innards, making him wince and sink to the earthen floor of the vault. Damn his weakness! He muttered and gasped, even as he reached for the bag of herbs around his neck. Taking a pinch of wild cherry bark from his pouch, he ground it between his teeth and swallowed.

  There. The pain subsided; the prickly feeling on his neck faded, and he breathed easier. At least for the moment. But he had to hurry, he knew. The scent of morning already seeped into the tomb, urging him on and reminding him that the sun would bring new guards to replace the night watch. If Montford’s men caught him lurking in the crypt, they would capture him and present him into Lord Montford’s bloody hands.

  Yet he couldn’t leave now. He had to know.

  Heldred’s gaze darted around the dim confines of the earthen vault, searching for the spot. He’d recognize it, once he saw it, of that he was sure. Scuffling his rag-covered feet over the stone and dirt floor, Heldred approached a tomb. It looked like the place. No carved stone figure reposed on its top, so it was either a new burial or the resting-place of a less significant member of the Montford family.

  With a groan, Heldred pushed at the lid of the stone case until it grated off-center a forearm’s width. He lifted his torch with a trembling hand, his lips pressed tight as he prepared to see if the horror of his suspicions was true.

  A clammy vapor rose from the tomb, bathing his face in chill. He held his breath against the fetid stench of decay he expected to follow soon after. But when he peered into the recesses of the stone case, he saw rotted cloth, topped by the grinning head of a skeleton. A few wisps of hair clung to patches of scalp left upon the unfortunate’s head, but it was obvious that this man had been dead for a long time.

  With effort, Heldred pulled the lid shut again and shuffled to another tomb, not far off. This time he paused and scrutinized the area, squinting and trying to visualize the place as he’d seen it in the light, on the day of the burial, when all of the villagers had been allowed to pay their respects.

  Carefully he swung the torch along the edge of the stone, searching for some sign. Curse his sight for failing him now! Why couldn’t he see more? Recognize some clue? The torch sputtered and popped, throwing a flurry of sparks that bounced off the edge of the platform to flicker out on the dusty floor. And then he found it.

  With a gasp, he knelt as quickly as his old knees would allow him, bringing the torch closer to the base of the bier that supported the stone coffin. Scuff marks marred the dirt round the sepulcher, the result of scores of mourners who’d filed past the resting-place of their beloved lady on her burial day.

  This was it. Her tomb. Setting the torch aside, Heldred put his back into his labor, pushing the heavy lid from its mooring with a strength belying his years. The stone grated and scraped, and he felt blood ooze, stinging, from his knuckles, as he dragged them across the harsh surface in his haste to see what lay inside.

  Torchlight flickered from the rough-hewn ceiling as he raised his arm and leaned over to view the corpse. The stench hit him immediately, and he sucked in his breath, holding it and feeling his head reel. His eyes strained, and tears rushed behind his lids, blurring the horrible sight before him. With a growl, he threw down the torch, shoved the tomb closed, and slid down the side of it to crumple in a heap on the floor.

  Grateful sobs bubbled from his chest, and he caught the faint, metallic odor of dirt and blood on his hands as he leaned his forehead into them. When the emotions passed, leaving him empty and dry, Heldred dragged his sleeve across his eyes. A smile wrinkled his wet cheeks. He’d been right, by God. She was alive. That bastard Eduard had done evil in the most terrible way. He’d killed his own sister, and she, not their beloved mistress, lay here in the tomb. The poor Elise hadn’t even been granted her own identity in death.

  A rusty laugh escaped Heldred’s throat, mixing with a joy and hope he hadn’t felt since that awful day. But it wouldn’t be awful in his memory any more. Never again.

  Because his lady was alive, by the saints. And he, Heldred the weaver, was going to find her.

  Chapter 3

  Catherine shifted in sleep, catching herself with an aching jolt an instant before she would have toppled off the edge of Grayson de Camville’s enormous bed. Stiffening as she came to full awareness, she pushed herself up on one shoulder and squinted at her surroundings. ’Twas nearly dawn, by the lead-gray light that seeped in the shutters.

  She’d survived her wedding night.

  Twisting to look behind herself, she saw that she’d moved little from where she’d finally curled in exhaustion hours after Gray had left her last night. The blood-stained linen still lay across the bed where she’d thrown it before she slept, fearful lest someone enter the chamber while it was on the floor and realize the ruse for what it was.

  Now she looked at the sheet with distaste. Though she was thankful for the reprieve it had granted her, the soiled linen represented the lie that had become her life in an undeniable, tangible way.

  Forcing herself to stand, Catherine limped to the wash basin. Her limbs protested against the ache that had worsened over the course of the night. How long had she slept? ’Twas difficult to tell. Still, she needed to perform her toilette before a maidservant arrived who might see her bruises and talk of them to the others at the castle.

  She’d just slipped on a mulberry linen kirtle when the door creaked open. Catherine glimpsed an older woman’s face a moment before it disappeared again behind the portal.

  “Pardon, milady,” her voice came gruff from the hall. “’Tis Mariah. I’ve been sent to attend to you as lady’s maid, if you’ll allow it.”

  “Aye. Come in.” Catherine adjusted the fitted wrist of her smock so that it peeked from beneath the kirtle’s long, pointed sleeve. “I’ve dressed already, but I’d welcome help with my crispinette.”

  Catherine watched Mariah enter the chamber, noticing the sharp expression that creased the small but able-looking woman’s face. She looked to be nearly two score and ten years, with black, silver-streaked curls that framed her face and set off eyes the color of steel. Though obviously roughened from hard work, her hands were gentle as she gathered up Catherine’s hair and arranged the delicate netting of the crispinette over it.

  “Thank you, Mariah. ’Tis a welcome boon to have your assistance. At home I always had to tend my hair myself.”

  Mariah pursed her lips, tucking the last curl in place. “I’ve served in noble households my whole life, and in all that time I never met a lady who fixed her own hair.” She scowled and added, “I’d not have thought Lord Montford the kind of man to allow it.”

  “And yet I’ve spoken true,” Catherine said, startled to find the woman so querulous.

  “Pardon, my lady,” Mariah said stiffly, though her expression remained sharp. “I meant no offense.”

  Catherine nodded her acceptance of the apology, meeting Mariah’s gaze with as much calm as she could muster. ’Twas unexpected, this obstinate regard from a servant. Prickles of warning inched up her back. Could Mariah suspect something amiss? What if she knew, somehow, that Grayson had spent the night elsewhere and because of it questioned the validity of Catherine’s marriage to him? And what if Eduard learned of it as well…?

  A sickening twist gripped her belly. Pushing herself to her feet a bit too quickly, she said, “Thank you for your help, Mariah. ’Twas thoughtful of you to come withou
t my bidding.”

  “I deserve no thanks, milady. ’Twas Lord Camville that asked me to peek in on you, to see what you might need.” Her eyes softened a bit. “Though in truth, I know too well how hard the wedding night can be on young women,” she added, nodding to the bloodied sheet that still lay crumpled on the bed where Catherine had left it.

  “Oh.” Catherine felt a flush fill her cheeks. “Well. I—I should be going down to chapel. It must be nearly prime, and my husband is surely waiting for me to attend mass with him.”

  Mariah simply nodded, the same pointed expression on her face. Catherine felt the woman’s gaze on her, boring into her back until she’d left the room. As she descended the stairway, she tried to shake off the feeling. Mariah’s stare hadn’t been unkind, after all. Just watchful, perhaps. Even penetrating.

  Aye, but that could be dangerous, too, she reminded herself, considering her borrowed identity and evil mission.

  The caution sounded its dull warning, adding to the burdens she’d carried with her since the day Eduard had forced her to take part in his plots. Mariah was the least of her worries right now, she reminded herself. First, she had to face her husband in the cold light of day. Had to use every ounce of her strength to appear serene and calm when she looked into his eyes, rather than as she truly felt.

  In all of her life, even through the years when Geoffrey had pounded the knowledge of her failings into her every night, she’d never loathed herself as much as she did right now. Thanks to her agreement with Eduard, she felt like a horrible spider, waiting to trap her victim in a web of deceit and death.

  With that thought ringing in her mind, she entered the chapel for morning mass. Her husband, however, was nowhere to be seen. Through the course of the service, she somehow found means to let the peace of the atmosphere soak into her, allowing her a few moments of escape from her tortured thoughts. But as soon as she left the cool chapel they converged on her again. She walked faster, letting the sun warm her as she paced herself against their onslaught.

  “Lady Camville!”

  Catherine turned at the sound of the voice. Sir Alban Warton strode toward her, a grin lighting his boyish features. She tried to muster a smile in return; her husband’s friend seemed like a cheerful man who wore his good humor like a favored garment, often and well.

  “Lady, I saw you at mass but had no chance to speak with you. I trust that this morn finds you content?” Alban offered her a slight bow.

  “Aye, sir. And you?”

  “Hale and hearty.” He closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sun. “Ah…the breeze is fragrant and the sky a sparkling blue. ’Tis a day fit for a king, is it not?”

  A more honest smile tugged Catherine’s lips. “It is, sir, though I’d hazard to guess that you find every day as pleasing.”

  Alban laughed. “Quite true. One learns to appreciate the simpler aspects of life when faced with the loss of them.”

  Catherine tipped her head, trying to guess his thoughts. “You refer to the Crusade in Egypt?”

  “Aye. I have many tales to tell of it. Your husband, however,” he added, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “tells every one of them far better than I.”

  “I didn’t realize that you and Lord Camville had known each other for so long.” Catherine nodded to a serving boy who bowed as she and Alban strolled by the herb bed he was weeding.

  “Oh, Gray and I met when we were lads. We squired together, received our dubbing three years later and rode out to face the infidels side by side not five months after that. He’s the one responsible for getting me back to England in one piece.” Alban gestured toward the great hall. “But that story must needs save for another time. Will you accompany me to break your fast?”

  “Aye, ’twill be welcome.” She paused and glanced at Alban, uncertain as to whether or not she should voice her concerns about her husband’s whereabouts. In the end, the knight’s kind expression helped her to make the decision. “Have you seen Lord Camville yet this morn, Sir Alban? I had thought to meet with him during mass.”

  Alban looked surprised, but he masked the expression quickly. “There’s no need for alarm. ’Tis not Gray’s habit to seek daily mass. Your wedding was the first time I’ve seen him in a church since his last sojourn with King Henry.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

  “’Tis of no matter. There’s no shame in knowing less than all about a man you met only yesterday.”

  Catherine nodded, troubled nonetheless. Her husband avoided the comfort of God and church? It boded ill, flaunting against the most basic rules of society. Even Eduard, as sinful as he was, attended mass daily. She’d had to look at his hypocritical face all through the service this morn.

  Just then a cloud shifted from in front of the sun, and the full force of light made Catherine squint. “’Twill be brighter today than yesterday, it seems,” she murmured, almost to herself.

  “Aye,” Alban answered as he escorted her onward toward the hall. “Gray will be pleased that no rain will mar his tournament—less mud usually means fewer injuries.”

  Catherine frowned. “Does he expect many men to be wounded?”

  “’Tis not uncommon.” Alban shrugged. “In mélées bruises and broken bones are to be expected. ’Tis much the same as regular battle, which is why the king doesn’t always view it with favor.”

  “Is my husband not concerned, then, of incurring the king’s wrath with his mélée?”

  “King Henry indulges Gray more often than not. War is a dangerous enterprise, and tournaments serve as our best and only preparation for real battle.”

  Catherine was ready to ask another question, but before she could say anything, a hand gripped her arm, clamping down hard on the worst of her bruises there.

  She stifled a gasp as Eduard’s voice hissed in her ear, “Sweet sister, I’ve had to run a merry chase to catch up with you.” Then louder, for Alban’s benefit, he added, “You left the chapel too quickly for me to bid you good morn.”

  Standing still where he’d been near the door, Alban glanced warily back and forth between them. Catherine struggled to look unconcerned at Eduard’s interruption. “How silly of me not to have waited,” she murmured, “but I was so interested in hearing Sir Alban tell of the tournament today that I paid no attention.”

  “Ah, yes, the mélée. It should provide us with some lively sport, eh, Warton?”

  “Indeed.”

  Eduard smiled, though the look was more predatory than friendly. “I’m hoping to take ransom from Camville on the field today. ’Twould be a fine jest to trounce him so soon after his wedding to my dear sister.” Grinning now, Eduard pulled Catherine against him as if giving her an affectionate hug.

  A muscle twitched in Alban’s jaw. “I wouldn’t wager my spurs on besting Gray. ’Twould be unwise to attempt it.” Then, as if dismissing Eduard, he directed his gaze to Catherine. “You’ll be coming in soon, then?”

  “Aye, we’ll be in directly,” Eduard answered for her. “I plan to eat hearty in preparation for battle.”

  Alban gave them a curt nod and stepped into the hall. As soon as he disappeared, Eduard renewed his punishing hold on her and walked her across the yard. In a few moments they’d rounded a corner of the main building, secluding them in the shadows between the castle wall and the stables. Gripping her shoulders, Eduard shoved her hard against the stonework, forcing a cry from her.

  “Be silent, woman,” he snapped, “lest I assist you in the endeavor with my fist.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Catherine ground out, straightening to level a hate-filled glare at him. “You no longer have the right now that I am another man’s wife.”

  Anger flared hot in Eduard’s eyes, and for a moment, she thought he would follow through with his threat anyway. But he released her. “Aye, your correction is Camville’s pleasure now.” Stepping away, he growled, “Still you must needs answer me. What happened last night with him? What went awry?”

  “Nothing w
as amiss.”

  “Nay? Then why did your husband ride out so early this morn? He saddled his mount and set off as if the devil himself chased at his heels.” Eduard leaned in, digging his finger under her chin. “The mongrel learned you’d been used before, didn’t he, Catherine?”

  She jerked her head from his touch. “He discovered nothing. The sheet was bloodied, and all was as it should be.”

  “Then why the hell-bent ride at dawn?”

  “Perhaps ’tis his habit to ride early.”

  “The morn after his marriage?” Eduard scoffed. “’Tis more like you failed to keep him interested enough to remain abed with you.”

  Catherine kept silent, unable to refute Eduard’s jibe and unwilling to add to his animosity by trying. Pushing herself away from the wall, she clenched her fingers and faced him. “Whether that be true or not, I do not know. But ’tis likely that you and I will be missed at table if we tarry longer. I’m going back to the hall.”

  Eduard looked surprised for an instant. Then he smiled. “Ah, the titmouse has a bit of hawk in her. Marriage to Camville has added some backbone to you, foolhardy though it may be.” Gripping her tightly by the back of the neck, he hauled her close enough so that his mouth brushed against her ear. “Just be wary, sweet Catherine. I know two very precious ways to keep you groveling, and I’ll take great pleasure in using both of them against you if you force me to it.”

  Yanking herself from his grip, Catherine pressed her lips together and pushed past him. She headed for the hall, but Eduard fell into step right next to her, mocking her with a whistling tune that sounded profane coming from his lips.

  As they neared the building, he slipped a brotherly hand under her elbow, and though she wished to pull away, she knew such an obvious movement would be noticed by the many eyes that now witnessed their approach. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from muttering a curse against him under her breath, ordering him to release her.

  Her oath had an effect opposite to what she’d hoped. Eduard let go of her elbow only to reach out and encompass her waist, pulling her tightly and painfully close to him as they walked.