My Lady Imposter

by Sara Bennett - My Lady Imposter

  Wenna sidled closer. “Your... that is, the Lady de Brusac came close to being slit open with a knife.”

  Ralf looked around at Kathryn sharply, and flickered a look up and down before turning away. “She seems unharmed.”

  “Sir Richard went to her rescue, my lord.”

  “A small matter,” Richard said shortly. “Though I doubt the girl was in any real danger— her caterwauling was enough to frighten the hardiest brigand.” He said it sneeringly, and Kathryn’s fingers clenched on the reins as she lowered a flushed and furious face.

  “You’re cut, man!” Ralf cried suddenly. “I hope you paid your attackers in kind?”

  “I was over generous. He lies yonder,” was the grim reply.

  “We are not far from de Brusac now,” Ralf repeated. “Come, we’d best ride on. How fare you, Wenna, my love?”

  “I am unharmed, my lord.”

  Kathryn was surprised how soft the cold voice became, and watched Ralf return her smile before he rode back to the head of the party. With a sigh, she kicked her mare into a trot.

  Ralf’s idea of a short distance was by no means hers. They had two hours of hard riding before, finally, they came upon a slope and, looking down through dark woods, she saw the grey-white towers of a castle rising supplicant to the grim sky. Her castle. De Brusac.

  Chapter Six

  It was drizzling. The outside of Kathryn’s cloak was already damp, and droplets of rain struck at her half-concealed face. They rode down into a hollow, dark with the trees, losing sight of the stronghold for a moment. But they soon came upwards again, along a leaf-dappled road, which led right up to the great, grey walls of de Brusac.

  Ahead, Lord Ralf drew them to a halt, scanning the walls with narrowed eyes. There were no signs of any guards, and the place had a deserted look. If it had not been for the fact that the great gates were closed they might have thought it abandoned.

  Lord Ralf rode back, spurring his stallion to a gallop, and drew up beside Kathryn with a scatter of damp dust. “You will ride with me,” he said softly. “If you betray yourself, or fail me in some way, you will die. Do you understand me, my lady?”

  She met the golden eyes, and knew he meant it. She nodded jerkily and urged her own horse to follow him as they rode back to the head of the line.

  The great grey walls towered before them, silent. Lord Ralf lifted his hands to cup his mouth and cried out in a bellowing voice: “Open your gates!”

  Silence. A horse pressed closer behind them, and Sir Richard’s quiet voice said, “It looks empty, my lord.”

  Lord Ralf grunted. Somewhere above them there was a clang, and then a helmeted head peered down at them from the gatehouse. “Who are you?”

  “Lord Ralf of Pristine demands entry!” Richard cried out, making Kathryn start. A pause, and then the head turned back, no doubt to confer with some more of the same. “I mislike it,” he murmured, and Kathryn turned to look at him. The lines about his mouth were grim, and he frowned beyond her at the walls.

  “Sir Piers is dying,” came the echoing reply from the wall. “What do you here, my lord?”

  “Fine hospitality,” Lord Ralf muttered. Then, “I bring his kinswoman! Open your gates!”

  A pause, and then suddenly the gates groaned and began to swing in, like a great mouth opening. Lord Ralf laughed abruptly, a triumphant bellow, and spurred forward. Kathryn went too, borne on the wave, fear and excitement warring within her.

  If she failed, she would die. And once through the gates there could be no turning back. She must be... she was the Lady Kathryn de Brusac.

  “My Lady de Brusac,” a voice mocked behind her.

  She turned, her face flushed with the cold and her emotions, dark hair spilling out of the hood like night. “I am,” she said, haughty as a queen, and heard him laugh as she spurred on.

  The castle yard was bare. The grim walls of the inner castle rose before them. An armored soldier came running, a pike in hand, and more followed from the gatehouse as Lord Ralf’s entourage poured in.

  “My lord,” the man came to attention. “You’ll forgive my caution, but the brigands become more daring with each day, and most of our number are out hunting them in the forest.”

  “We’ve made the acquaintance of your brigands already,” Ralf retorted coldly, and swung down to the ground. “Where is your master?”

  “In the main tower, my lord.”

  Lord Ralf turned, and held out his hands for Kathryn. She slid down as he steadied her, and stood a moment in the circle of his arms. And then he had stepped away and, retaining her cold hand in his, said, “Come, my lady. We go to meet your kinsman.”

  It was a fine moment, a grand show for the watching soldiers and servants, peeping from a dozen doorways. The guard stepped automatically aside, as they went bravely forward.

  Ralf pounded his fist against the heavy doors closed to them, and a grubby-faced servant swung them back. The hall was grubby too, old rushes and the stench of dogs and rotten food. A single candle wavered upon a sconce, and, under Lord Ralf’s curses, the man fetched it and hurried before them up narrow, twisting stairs.

  An arras, brightly colored, though raggedly cut to fit the space. The servant brushed it aside, and a dog whined from the direction of the hearth. Candles burned brightly here, and the heat of the fire made the air heavy and hot. Kathryn hung back as Lord Ralf strode forward, but his hand closed on her arm and she was pulled forward in no uncertain terms.

  A great bed stood in the middle of the room and, propped up against the bolster, beneath embroidered covers, was an incredibly old man. A yellow face in the shadows, scored with lines. White hair fine as flax, and a black-gummed mouth half agape, eyes open...

  Kathryn could see them glinting. Black eyes, like her own, shining with life, fixed upon her.

  “Sir Piers.” Ralf went down on his knees beside the bed. A claw-like hand stole sideways across the counterpane towards him, and he kissed the livid knuckles. “My lord, I bring good tidings.”

  “Who is this woman?”

  The voice was faint, crackled like hide in the sun. Lord Ralf turned, beckoning her forward. She came in a trance, graceful in the straight gown, the hood of her cloak thrown back to show her black hair and the smooth line of cheek and brow. In the candlelight she was beautiful, and Sir Piers stared as if the angel of death herself had come.

  “This, my lord, is the Lady Kathryn de Brusac.”

  A pause. The breathing seemed to pause too, and then went on, swifter than before. “You jest,” the crackling voice said. “I have no kin. I am the last of the great line of de Brusac.”

  “My lord, I jest not. I wrote you a message. Did you not receive it?”

  “I received no message,” he said shortly.

  “Then I will explain, my lord. You had a daughter. The Lady Alys?”

  “Alys?” The black eyes wandered, at last, to Ralf, and fixed there. “What of Alys? She is long dead; died as meekly as she lived.”

  “I met her once at Court, Sir Piers. I remembered her well. I was impressed by her sweetness, her goodness.”

  “Oh, she was good enough,” the old man sighed impatiently. “Too good for this world mayhap. But she had no substance. Come Ralf, women should have some substance, eh? Where would we be if they were all saints?”

  “She was indeed a saintly woman, my lord. But—” he bit his lip. “Did you see her before she retired to the Convent of St Ursula, Sir Piers?”

  A pause and the eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me this is my daughter’s bastard?”

  “My lord...”he lifted his hands, let them fall.

  “The story comes from the girl’s own lips, and from the nuns. A girl was born to your daughter over seventeen years since, shortly after she entered the convent, and the child was brought up by the nuns. Your daughter, it seems, did not wish to have her shame known, and refused to notify you. I chanced upon the girl when I was in Bristol and saw at once the resemblance to your family and yourse
lf, my lord.”

  “I see it too.”

  “She is like your daughter... your son, too, my lord. Do you not think so?”

  The old face twisted, as if at some great, hidden pain. The eyes returned to Kathryn and fastened there. Ralf s hand on her arm pressed her forward again, towards the bed, and she curtseyed deeply. The withered hand waved her up, stretching for hers. She gave it, trembling, and glanced uncertainly down at the gnarled fingers.

  The black eyes wandered over her, as if uncertain of her reality. “I see the eyes, and the mouth. But still... any wench with such eyes might be taken as one of the de Brusacs, my Lord of Pristine. We are a French family, from the south, who came after William had taken England from Harold. We all have black hair and eyes, and the black passions to go with them!”

  “My lord,” Ralf looked affronted. “I come in all good faith. I –”

  “Enough. I am dying, Ralf. I have no time for the niceties. You know what will happen to my lands when I die. That butcher Plantagenet will take them for his own and his favorites. I have no heirs left. He has already killed my beloved son. I do not want to give him all this. Do you wonder I question the miracle you claim to have found me?”

  “I know how much it must mean to you, my lord, to have an heir,” Ralf said softly. “Both of us hate him equally, I think. The girl is your kinswoman. Look at her! She is yourself in female form.”

  “Aye, she is.” The black eyes closed suddenly. “Bring her again in the morning, when the light is better. I will look again then.”

  “My lord—”

  “Never fear. I will live that long,” he said drily. Ralf frowned, but gestured Kathryn out. She went gratefully, all but stumbling on the threshold. Sir Richard’s hand came out to catch her arm and steady her. He had been waiting there, no doubt listening to every word.

  “Quietly now, my lady. De Brusacs do not run from their fears, they turn and face them.”

  She scowled at him, hating that mockery in his eyes, but Lord Ralf had joined them. “Take us where we may refresh ourselves,” he told the servant sharply. “Move man. The lady is weary and wishes to repose herself.”

  The servant’s eyes skimmed her as they were lowered, insolently, and then he had shuffled past them, candle high. Far above, the stone towers and turrets echoed with the rumble of thunder. A storm was brewing as night closed, and Kathryn shivered. The castle was huge and draughty and dirty. She had no wish to remain in it. Her body ached, her stomach growled. She longed for Grisel’s familiar scolding voice, and jumped when Sir Richard whispered in her ear, “Take a firm hand with your servants, lady. They will resent an interloper, but they will respect you if you are firm.”

  She turned to glare at him, as the servant’s candle receded in the gloom. “I have no intention of doing anything, Sir Richard. I am not staying here.”

  He smiled a little. “Are you not? You have no choice, for the time. Did you think you had only to come and speak once with the old man? You will need to do more than that, if we are to win his lands and castles to our cause.”

  “Your cause?” she murmured. Then, “He hates the king.”

  Richard shrugged. “His son died in one of the interminable French battles. He says the king slayed the boy. He is a bitter man, and Ralf plays upon it for his own gain.”

  “Why do you tell me this?” she demanded loudly.

  “Hush!” He glanced down at her again, suddenly somber. “I am your friend, Kathryn. Remember it. If you have need of me, I will be here.”

  “You?” she repeated in amazement. “Why should you be my friend?”

  “I am instructed by Lord Ralf to protect you against all evil.”

  “I doubt he meant his own,” she murmured.

  “He will not harm you. Not yet. You have not finished what you must do. And the heir must continue to live, must she not, to take possession after Sir Piers dies? No, he will not harm you yet, Kathryn.”

  She hurried after the others, trying to dismiss his words. She could look after herself. She needed no help from such as he. She had no friends here, and needed none.

  Wenna was waiting for her, cold as ice. As if she had never ridden hard from Pristine and been attacked by brigands. There was a serving girl, sly-eyed and untidy.

  “Emma,” Wenna said, “this is the Lady Kathryn de Brusac.”

  The girl’s slow eyes widened a little at that; she made a hasty curtsey. “You will serve her from now on, and obey her orders.”

  Another swift glance, and the girl looked expectantly at Kathryn, who stood uncertainly at the threshold. Wenna made an impatient noise, “Help her to tidy herself, girl!”

  Kathryn submitted to the clumsy fingers, though made complaint over the rough handling of her long hair. Wenna watched with a cold quirk to her lips, and when all was done, took Kathryn aside with: “Well, what did the old man say?”

  She told her briefly, without any inflection in her voice. Wenna frowned thoughtfully at her long, slim fingers. “He hates the king so much, mayhap he will overlook the strange luck of your story, for the sake of that.”

  “He seems very ill.”

  The grey eyes mocked. “He will be dead soon enough, never fear. And then de Brusac will be yours. Curb your impatience for power a little while yet, Kathryn.”

  “Power?” she repeated in puzzlement.

  Wenna smiled coldly. “You will be the mistress of de Brusac. The lady of all the lands and estates adjoining. What think you of that?”

  Kathryn could find nothing to say for a moment, the idea seemed so improbable. She, Kathryn, lady of this place? And for how long? Would Ralf let her live long enough to enjoy her new status?

  The other woman moved impatiently, saying, “Come. We will go down to our supper now. And remember,” sharply, as Kathryn made to move past, “you are a docile, devout lady. Act as one.”

  The hall had been brightly lit, and the table set with trenchers and jugs. Sir Ralf was standing by the fire, staring into the dancing flames, while Richard stood at his side, murmuring close to his ear.

  Like, Kathryn thought in disgust, the devil tempting our Lord. She would not trust him, nor count him her friend. She had already made up her mind about that. She had only herself to depend upon here.

  “My lady,” Lord Ralf cried, when the two women appeared from the stairwell. He came hurrying across, and Kathryn stepped aside, expecting him to take Wenna’s hand. Instead, to her surprise, he came to her and bent low at her feet. She stared at him in some amazement and it was only when she met Sir Richard’s mocking blue gaze over his head, that she realized she was gaping like a peasant.

  “Rise, please, Lord Ralf,” she murmured and flushed wildly. Still, her ill-ease did her no harm. A girl used to convent walls would surely have blushed.

  “Come, my lady. There is a repast prepared,” he said, taking her hand firmly on his arm. “Sit down here, near to the fire. Wine!”

  Wine was brought hastily, and poured. She smiled at the hopeful glance of the page and watched him color. Lord Ralf cut the finest meats for her, and selected the finest pastries out of the poor selection. Her trencher was overflowing. She smiled and thanked him, as she had been taught, but the strangeness of it all was trying to her spirits and she ate little.

  “How long do we remain at de Brusac?” Wenna asked softly, when the meal was almost done. “As long as Sir Piers lives,” was the reply. He glanced over his shoulder, but the servants were out of earshot. Lord Ralf leaned forward. “He seems much alone here, apart from a few men-at-arms. His knights have deserted him and the brigands made his forests their home. I like it not. He has his mercenaries out now, as you heard, trying to rout them.”

  “Mayhap he knew of our arrival all the time, and ordered our attack,” Wenna whispered.

  “A dying man does not bother with such pretence. No, he knew nothing. It is not him I fear. The mercenaries, Wenna, are the danger. Will they accept Kathryn? If not, we must battle them and turn them out. It can and will
be done, if necessary, but...”

  There were weapons high upon the grey walls, just as there had been at Pristine, and Kathryn eyed them across the table. Moldy-looking tapestries hung over doorways, to stop draughts. Dogs gnawed bones by the huge fireplace. Far away, the hundreds of souls who served de Brusac went about their endless business.

  Opposite her, Sir Richard caught her eye. He wore the mocking look she hated. She wondered if he mocked her because his pride rebelled at giving her, a peasant girl, an impostor, his hard-earned allegiance.

  After the meal, one of the pages sang them a ballad accompanied by a dulcimer. This pleased Kathryn immensely, for she had been unused to music played for her pleasure alone. She clapped her hands in pleasure and demanded, in a suddenly unguarded voice, that he sing again. Ralf frowned, and she remembered she was supposed to be docile, but the page had heard and, smiling, began again. The outbursts had charmed her servants, who had thought her poor spirited before.

  Wenna finally rose and, catching Kathryn’s eye, announced her intention of retiring. Kathryn rose too, reluctant to leave the music, and they went up a twisting stair in the wall to their rooms. She had not realized how tired she was, until now, and though the memory of the brigands disturbed her momentarily, she soon fell asleep.

  Wenna was particularly short-tempered the following morning, and when Kathryn could not keep still for her dressing, she pulled her hair and called her a fool.

  “At least I don’t whore for my daily bread,” Kathryn returned pertly, and was as stunned by it as Wenna. The color slowly faded from the other woman’s cheeks. They were already enemies, and now nothing could alter it.

  Lord de Brusac was propped up in his bed, his head supported by an unyielding bolster. His black eyes fastened upon Kathryn as she curtseyed, and he beckoned her closer. Today, the shutter was opened to the morning light, and sunshine spilled coolly across the rugs on the stone floor and the embroidered bed curtains, picking out Kathryn’s clear skin and black, curling lashes.