My Lady Imposter (14 page)

The man’s stern face did not soften as she entered the chapel. He stood up, his poor, rough robes sweeping the cold, stone slabs. “My lady.”

“Father,” she knelt to kiss his hand, and after a moment he rose her up. “You wished to speak with me?”

He seemed to hesitate, and then he took her arm and drew her closer to the altar on which rested the gold, jewel-encrusted cross and goblets. “My lady, I have been a scribe and a friend to Sir Piers for more years than I remember. He honored me with his trust and his own friendship.” He paused, but she said nothing, and after a moment he went on, T wish you to honor me with that trust, my lady, if you so desire. I will not betray it.”

“Father, you are most kind, and I...”

The stern mouth softened a little. “I think you are troubled. If you need me to help you in that trouble, I will be here. Remember it.”

“I shall. Thank you.”

His eyes hardened a little. “Will you make confession?”

She bit her lip, the tears on her lashes rolling over and down her cheeks. “I cannot,” she whispered. “Father, I cannot.”

He bowed his head, sadness in the line of sagging cheek and shoulder. “I will be at your service, when you wish it. I think you are a devout woman, but perhaps a wronged one. God sees all.”

She hurried away, wiping her cheeks. She felt wretched and undeserving. So much loyalty and kindness, when she was so unworthy! She stood in the doorway, breathing swiftly and gazing blindly across the empty yard. She felt suddenly so alone, and afraid... It was a moment before she realized who she was thinking of, longing for with all her being. Richard. Her husband... her assassin. Richard.

Kathryn was bathing when at last he returned, four days later. She felt his presence before she looked up, startled, and found him leaning in the doorway, the curtain in place behind him.

The blue eyes, shadowed and dull with weariness, still had a spark of mockery as they surveyed her where she sat, up to her neck in the tub, her dark hair bound up on her crown, tendrils tumbling down about her lovely face.

Emma, who had been soaping her back, jumped away. “My lord!”

“A pretty scene,” he said, and dumped his helmet on a chair, stripping off his gauntlets and surcoat. A squire, hovering behind him, came forward to assist him in removing the chain mail. Emma backed away and skittered through the door. Richard ignored her hasty escape and, when he had finished with the boy, dismissed him. He stretched, making his tired joints crack with the strain.

Kathryn watched him, dark eyes big and round. He caught her gaze and smiled lazily. “When you’re finished, my love, I’ll bathe myself.”

She flushed under his slow, lingering gaze. “How... how did you prosper?”

“Well enough. We’ve cleared the forest of enough brigands to make an army, and taken prisoner of more. From now on, small patrols will keep it empty of all such thieves.” He began to strip off his shirt. “Are you finished, my love? I’ve the mud of half the kingdom on me.”

“My towel.”

It lay on the bed. He glanced at it and smiled, stretching to pick it up. “So modest,” he said softly. And yet there was a coldness in his eyes, as though he had found something more in her to dislike. “Come fetch it, Kathryn. I’m too weary to move.”

He wished to humiliate her, and if she wanted to keep breath in body, it was as well she did as he asked and was humiliated. She bit back fury, bit back the rage in her eyes, bit back the rising shriek of panic, and taking hold of the sides of the tub, stood. The water streamed from her pale limbs, cascading down her as she stood straight and proud with the effort to show him she was unafraid.

There was a silence—perhaps he had not expected her to comply. “Is this the girl I took to Pristine?” he murmured. She stared ahead, without looking at him. She dared not. “Is this the girl in rags?” His voice trembled.

She looked at him in surprise, and the movement released her dark hair, sending it tumbling down over her shoulders. His face was white under the dust and sweat, his eyes blue fire. Her heart began to thud wildly, her throat went dry.

It’s fear, she told herself. I am terrified of him. I loathe and hate him. I despise and distrust him. And yet, beneath all the swirling, angry, empty words, the truth shone as clear and bright as a beacon..
.Love him.

Her feet took her out of the water onto the cold floor. Her hair swung forward over her bosom, reaching almost to her knees. He reached out his hands, as though to draw her to him. His face wore an expression she had never seen before, composed somehow of pain and passion. His voice was fire and ice. “Kathryn...”

What might have happened next, she feared, was inevitable. She would have flung herself at him, gabbling idiocy. But, as she moved, the arras behind him rustled. The squire had returned, and seeing her, stopped like a stock, his eyes popping.

Richard spun around, his eyes glazed with fury, and his hand swept back, clouting the lad across the ears and sending him spinning outside. There was the sound of stumbling feet, and then they clattered hastily away. When Richard turned back the fire had gone from his eyes and his voice was mockingly brusque.

“No one peruses my possessions but me.” He flung the towel at her, and with shaking fingers she wrapped it about herself, turning her back. With her head bowed, she heard him swiftly divesting himself of his own clothing and then the splash of water as he lowered his tired body into the tub.

Emma was waiting in the dressing room to dress her. Kathryn did so hurriedly, and just as hurriedly went down to oversee the kitchen staff. There was a tray to take up to Richard, but she sent a serf with it, not wishing to see him again so soon. Her hands still trembled with thoughts of what might have happened. He was doubly dangerous to her now. She could no longer even trust her own emotions.

The men were clean and relaxed. The great hall hummed with their talk and the rattle of trenchers, the splash of wine. Kathryn ate little, pretending interest in Sir Damien’s tales of the brigands. The pictures of blood and gore meant little to her. She was combing her mind for reasons why she should love a man who meant her harm.

Flee from here, her brain told her. Run. You have friends enough. You could escape to the coast and take a ship. You could steal some money to take with you. You could... but her heart said no. De Brusac is yours, more so than it is Ralf’s or Richard’s. Sir Piers entrusted it into
your
hands. How dare anyone frighten her from her own home!

An eye for an eye, the law said. Her fingers stilled on the meat. The meaning was more terribly clear to her now than it had ever been. If Richard meant to kill her, could she not plan to kill Richard? If she killed him, then she could live without fear. The castle was a fortress, the men hers to order. Lord Ralf would not dare to come and attack her, and if the King visited in the New Year, she could welcome him with open gates and throw herself upon his mercy.

She bit her lip. The idea seemed her only way, and yet she felt like weeping. Richard... her eyes slid up, towards him. He was laughing at something, so handsome in the tallow light. As if aware of her gaze, he turned and met her eyes, and smiled. It was a lover’s smile. To fool the men, she told herself, and yet felt her own mouth responding, the warm blood stinging her cheeks.

“He fights like two men,” Damien said beside her, a grudging respect in his voice. “I thought him no more than a painted image of Ralf, to bind you the closer. But he is a man in his own right, after all.”

She turned, surprise in her eyes. “Oh yes, he is a man to be reckoned with,” she said swiftly. “But I am still the lady of this castle.”

His nod was a homage. He was still hers to command.

“Kathryn?”

She had retired after the meal. The men stayed on, drinking and telling tales, each one growing more daring, more unlikely. Afterwards, she had heard a woman laughing low on the stairwell, and a man’s drunken murmur. But she had slept and woken again before he came.

“Are you sleeping?”

She smelt wine on his breath as he bent over her, the bed sinking with his weight. His hand closed on her shoulder, drawing her towards him. He saw the gleam of her eyes in the darkness and his hand slid down over soft curves and hollows. “I’ve rid you of your brigands,” he said, husky voiced in the cool night. “I’ve come for my reward.”

“There is no reward for duty.”

He laughed softly, and made her shiver. “Why quibble, my love. I can force you. The law is made for husbands; the wife is a mere chattel.”

“This wife is different.”

He sat back. “And yet sometimes you’re as warm as I might wish. Are you such a fine actress, Kathryn? I begin to think a man would be a fool to believe you.”

He lit the candle. She watched the light flicker and strengthen, reflecting in his hair and eyes. He turned, the light slanting down his cheek, flaring and sparkling across the jewels sewn into his tunic.

“You are to visit your vassals. There are ten important ones, and we must see to each equally. They should have come here, to pay homage to you at your wedding, but it was too rushed an affair. Ralf thought it best to leave their homage until a later date.”

She frowned, for his voice was brusque again, cold and businesslike. “Can you not go alone?”

“You are the Lady de Brusac. Do you wish me to steal your glory, Kathryn?, Here is your chance to win their loyalty to you alone. I thought you would leap at it.”

There was a pause. She wondered, with jumping heart, if he knew what she was about. “It was not of my choosing, to be the lady of anything,” she said at last.

His fine mouth curled. “So you say, but I think
you’d be loath to give up your borrowed ways now, Kathryn. You play the pure and holy lady so well, “tis a pity your birth alone belies it.”

She looked at him, stung. How could he change so quickly from warmth to cold hatred? Did he hate her and yet desire her? Could that be so for a man? It seemed strange and puzzling. She wished she understood what made him as he was.

His eyes, mocking and cold, raked her with the savagery of claws and fangs. “What are you plotting with Damien? I know you’re up to something.”

The assault took her breath away, and she sought for a reply. “I was speaking to him of the brigands, what else? He was telling me of your exploits.” She too could sting. “He was praising you to me.”

“I can shrug off almost anything you do to me, Kathryn,” he said softly, “but if you cuckold me, I will beat you. I have never struck a woman yet, but, by God, I will then! Do you understand that?”

“Cuckold you?” she demanded incredulously. “Why should you care what I do? You hate me, my lord, and make it obvious in any number of ways and words. I could only please you if I were dead.”

It was said. They stared at each other for a long moment, she between terror and rage, he seemingly astonished and growing more wary.

She knew, despairingly, that now he would have no choice but to kill her.

“So you
did
hear us, before Ralf left for Pristine,” he said softly. He moved forward, and she jerked back in the bed, eyes like pools of shimmering ink. His laugh cracked bitterly in the air.
“And you believed it, didn’t you? Such trust in a
husband is touching, my love!”

“Trust?” she gasped. “When you hate me so much you can hardly bring yourself to speak civilly to me, let alone look at me? When every moment you’re reminding me of what I am, where I came from? I could believe far worse of
you,
my lord.”

His eyes went dead. “So,” he said. And stepping back, retreated from the shaft of candlelight. “Now we understand each other fully, Kathryn. I will not come offering you my so detested kisses again.”

When he had gone, she wept. Her heart, she feared, was broken in two.

They set out on a chill, grey day in early November. Kathryn hated the thought of riding a horse again, but said nothing about it to Richard. Indeed, she had spoken to him not at all since that night so many weeks ago. She had contented herself with playing the Lady de Brusac, and he had thrown himself into his own work with a furious energy.

She lived now from day to day in a sort of a daze. She had expected some terrible retaliation when he found out that she had overheard him plotting with Ralf, but none had come. At least, not yet. He had neither touched her nor come near her. Their hatred was a palpable thing. The servants had learned not to speak of it aloud, but to whisper it to each other. Sir Damien was curious, but as solemn as ever. She was grateful for his sympathy.

And now at last they were to make their visits to the vassals, and they must pretend, at least, to a common purpose. The vassals, many knights in their own right, would be wary of signing allegiance to a woman whose husband did not support her.

Kathryn packed few clothes. They would be travelling swiftly, and there was no time for long baggage trains. She had few enough clothes anyway. There had been a merchant pass through a week or so before, with pretty cloth, and she had bought a few lengths and then, with Emma’s help, fashioned some dresses. She would need more if she were ever to go to Court. But then again, if Ralf’s plans came to pass... As well as her clothes, she would take Emma—her one true friend—and a young scribe to write what must be written in legal form.