Margo Maguire

Castle Kettwyck
Late summer, 1072

“T
aken?” ’Twas the dignified Lady Beatrice, sitting across from Kathryn de St. Marie, who’d spoken. “If the barbarian Scots took me, they would have to kill me before I would ever show my face in civilization again.”

A shiver ran down Kathryn’s spine. Surely Kettwyck’s new walls were sufficient to keep any raiding Scotsmen out. And there were many strong
and powerful Norman knights present for the festivities here at her father’s holding.

Still, they were very near the border, far from the safety of the Abbey de St. Marie where she and her sister, Isabel, had spent the last ten years. Were they vulnerable here at Kettwyck? The fortress was not yet complete, and Kathryn had seen workmen adding mortar and stone to the walls that very day. She dearly hoped this welcoming banquet was not premature.

“What they do to captives is unspeakable,” added Lady Alice, Kathryn’s mother.

“
My
daughter would certainly know enough to throw herself from the nearest cliff before returning to society. She could never come bac—”

The old biddy’s words faded into the night when Sir Geoffroi Le Chievre came up behind Kathryn and touched her shoulder. Slivers of heat raced down her arm at the touch of the young man who’d attracted her attention earlier in the day. They’d flirted some, and she’d been intrigued. But she had not expected him to come to her here. “Come and join in the dance.”

Kathryn stood, but her mother’s words followed her as she accompanied Geoffroi away from the cluster of old women in her father’s great hall. “Once you become a Scotsman’s whore, you might as well be dead.”

“Don’t listen to those old flap dragons,” Geoffroi said, leading her to the courtyard where the musicians played and the young people had gathered to dance. “I mean no offense to your mother or the other ladies, but Kettwyck’s walls are stout and strong. No Scotsman will ever breach them.”

“Of course you’re right,” Kathryn said, smiling up at the young knight. She put away all thoughts of Scotsmen and her father’s castle walls and gave her attention to Sir Geoffroi Le Chievre.

To his credit, he’d barely taken note of her sister, Isabel, the comely one. Isabel had pleaded with their father to allow them to choose their own husbands. Lord Henri had agreed, to a point. He’d drawn up a list of favored candidates and gathered them here for the festivities marking the two sisters’ arrival at Kettwyck and their reunion with their parents. Over the next few days, each sister would choose a husband.

Kathryn was certain that even without a generous dowry, Isabel would have no trouble settling on a bridegroom. The lords and knights here were mad for her attention, while Kathryn quietly yearned for the honest affections of one man, a bridegroom who would honor and revere her for what she was, not for the wealth she would bring him.

’Twas a foolish wish, she knew. The daughters
of powerful Norman barons married to achieve strategic goals, not to satisfy silly yearnings. Besides, she held not the same appeal as beautiful Isabel. Kathryn’s eyes were merely brown, and her hair was the color of a mouse’s pelt, so different from her sister, whose eyes were stunningly golden and her hair a striking, glossy black.

Kathryn had grown up in Isabel’s shadow, but the two sisters could not have been closer. She did not begrudge the attention Isabel garnered with her beauty and her many talents. Both young women had been exceptionally well educated at the abbey, and Kathryn had a head for languages. The abbess had said her skills would serve a husband well, but Kathryn had never spoken of the fire that burned unquenched within her.

She’d been too embarrassed to ask the holy woman about the deep yearnings she felt for the caring touch of a husband. She’d imagined her bridegroom’s kiss and his gentle caress too many times to count. Such thoughts were surely sinful, for she’d heard of no other maid who admitted to such desires—not even Isabel.

Kathryn admired Geoffroi as he danced so well, wishing she could match the grace and elegance of his movements. Yet not once did the intricate steps of the chain dance require that he take her in his arms, or even touch her hand. At this rate, Kathryn
would never know if Geoffroi was the one she should choose as her bridegroom. She needed to know if his touch…if his kiss…could flame the fires that burned within her. She seemed destined never to know, for Geoffroi was a proper knight who would observe custom and keep her under the watchful eye of the matrons.

Taking matters into her own hands, she beckoned him away from the crowded courtyard.

“Lady Kathryn?”

She made no reply, but took his hand and moved quickly into the bailey adjacent to the keep. With so many people about, no one took note of their departure. Laughing, Kathryn led Geoffroi to the yard behind the stable and stopped in a dark corner. A mere sliver of the moon lit their faces, but Isabel could see puzzlement in Geoffroi’s expression.

She knew her actions were much too bold for a well-bred lady, but she had to discover whether Geoffroi’s touch, his kiss, could satisfy the hunger within her. She wanted to know if he’d sought her out because she pleased him, or because he realized Isabel had already made her choice, giving him cause to settle on her.

Was this the man who would cherish her, who would give her the children she craved?

“Kiss me, Geoffroi.” Her voice sounded too
breathless, too anxious for one who had never been guilty of cowardice. Yet Geoffroi’s motivation had taken on a great deal of importance. Kathryn had to know if
she
was what he wanted…or if it was just her dowry that attracted him.

“Kathryn, I don’t think—”

Her breath whooshed out in a rush of frustration, along with all her hopes. If he needed time to think, then she had her answer.

Quickly, before her disappointment became evident, she whirled away from the handsome knight. She took one step, but he grabbed hold of her arm and turned her, pressing her back against the rough wood of the stable. He put one hand at her waist and the other upon the wall near her head. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?” he asked, his face moving close to hers. Kathryn could feel his breath on her lips, smell a hint of wine.

Mayhap she’d drawn the wrong conclusion. ’Twas all so confusing, dealing with men and their strange ways, trying to understand the signals they sent and the ones they did
not
send. She trembled as he bent closer, touching his mouth to hers.

Kathryn let her eyes drift closed. Her heart pounded and her knees went weak as he pulled back and then kissed her again, this time deeply. He opened his mouth slightly and slid his tongue
against the barrier of her lips. Kathryn sighed and let him inside, returning his touch. ’Twas a pleasant feeling, but odd. Geoffroi seemed to be aroused, but when the excitement of her first kiss passed, she felt little more than curiosity. ’Twas not the magical experience she’d hoped for.

He broke contact. “Kathryn—”

Shouts in the courtyard interrupted whatever he was about to say, and the ground shook with the thunder of horses’ hooves.

Geoffroi grabbed Kathryn’s hand and ran toward the disturbance at the keep. Terrifying, barbaric warriors rode through the gate, swarming like bees ’round the keep, slaughtering those who impeded their path.

“Where are the guards? Where are all of my father’s knights?” Kathryn continued to rush toward the keep—toward Isabel and her parents. Could these be the raiders the ladies had spoken of?
Scots?

“Kathryn, stay back!” Geoffroi shouted. He caught her by the arms and shook her once. “Don’t be a fool! Hide yourself!”

A dozen more Scottish barbarians thundered through the gates and turned to bear down on them.

Kathryn backed away to flee, but there seemed to be no place to hide, not with so many men on
horseback pursuing her. She lost sight of Geoffroi, but she had no chance to search him out, for two of the horsemen split off from the rest and came after her.

Running for her life, Kathryn ignored the strain on her lungs and the painful stitch in her side. If she stopped, they would catch her and kill her. Or worse…carry her away. Had not her mother and the other ladies made it clear ’twould be better to die than be taken by Scots? Was she to pray for a swift death?

The acrid smell of smoke reached Kathryn’s nose and she risked a quick glance back to see what was burning. ’Twas the stable, but worse yet—the two riders were still after her.

She stumbled and almost fell, but recovered in time to make a sharp turn ‘round the corner of a storage building. Dashing inside it, she slammed the door shut behind her and prayed the foreign warriors would ride past.

Her prayers went unanswered. The men dismounted and followed her into the building, kicking open the door and laughing as they flanked her, speaking in their strange, guttural tongue. If only she had studied Gaelic instead of wasting her time with Latin and English, she might be able to bargain for her freedom.

Backing up to the wall as the two men stalked
her, Kathryn desperately tried to think of a way out, but in the flickering light from the burning stable, she could see she was cornered. There was no way out, no back door.

Desperate, she lifted a wooden crate that lay nearby, hefted it into her arms, then threw it at one of the men. Hoping ’twas enough distraction for her to make her escape, she made a frantic run for the door, but was not fast enough. They caught her before she made it outside, grabbing her and knocking her to the ground. Her hair slipped from its neat chignon and they tore the sleeve of her beautiful gown from her shoulder.

Kathryn scrambled away, but one of the men took hold of her ankle and pulled her back through the dirt, even as she kicked at him. The second man laughed and called out some words of farewell before mounting his horse and riding into the melee in the courtyard.

Kathryn screamed even though ’twas not possible for her voice to be heard above the shouts and cries of the other victims running wildly across the grounds. Her captor shoved a rag into her mouth and held both her hands in a viselike grip above her head.

He tore off the necklace she wore, and ripped the jeweled girdle from her waist. When he shoved her skirts up to her knees, Kathryn bit back a sob and
kicked frantically. Her captor suddenly changed his tack and bound her wrists together with a rope. She was helpless as he shoved her onto her face and tied her ankles. Grunting with effort, he lifted her and tossed her onto his horse, forcing the air from her lungs and making bright spots of light appear behind her eyes. Still struggling to get free, Kathryn tried to spit out the rag, but her mouth would not work. She was suffocating! She was going to die here, ignominiously, with her carcass lying across a Scotsman’s filthy steed.

She rose onto her elbows and tried to throw herself from the horse, but her captor shouted at her and struck her.

No!
she cried soundlessly.
I don’t want to die this way!

He hit her again and Kathryn felt her brain shudder inside her skull just before she lost consciousness.