My Lady Imposter (6 page)

Kathryn heard the news first as she woke that morning. The stout woman who had first bathed her was shaking her, excitement in her eyes. “Such news, child! Lord Ralf is home, and with such an entourage! And all, it seems, for you. You are to dress at once.”

Kathryn reached automatically for her gown, only to have her fingers slapped. “Not those! These!”

She stared. Fine, soft clothes of rose silk, with slippers soft and handsome, and a veil like cobwebs. She had not seen clothes so fine, except on Lady Wenna. Her eyes met the other woman’s in shock.

“You are to dress and wait here for Lord Ralf,” she said, soft and conspiratorial. “Oh child, how beautiful you will look!”

She was bathed in the rose-scented water, and dressed in the fine clothes. The gown fitted snugly to her slim waist, and was laced up the sides, her chemise showing through the diamond cutouts. Her sleeves were so long at the wrist, they must be knotted up to prevent them dragging on the ground, and her hair was brushed out loosely over her back and shoulders, as befitted a young unmarried noblewoman.

Lady Wenna came to view her with cool grey eyes, a glint of something like hatred in their depths, making her face older. “Remember all you were taught, girl,” she said sharply. “If you do not, my lord will throw you into the dungeons and forget you.”

Kathryn lowered her eyes. The dungeons were dark and deep, she would never see the sun again. She had no wish to occupy Pristine’s dungeons.

Wenna’s hand closed on her arm, nails biting. “I almost wish... I almost wish you would make a mistake.”

But it was said softly and swiftly, and she had moved away as swiftly, so that Kathryn was unsure it had been said at all. Besides, at that moment a page came hurrying in, Lord Ralf behind him, and she had to go into a low, perfectly steady curtsey.

There was a silence. She stared at his boots and the glinting sword at his side. And then a hand, laden with rings, was stretched out towards her, and she was raised up beneath his awesome visage.

He was unchanged. Still as handsome and golden as before. His smile as broad and blinding and utterly false. She gazed at him without speaking, only remembering, when Wenna pinched her arm, to drop her eyes modestly to the floor.

“Well,” he drew a breath. “Wenna, you have done well!”

Wenna smiled gently. “A miracle, my lord.”

“Indeed, indeed,” he strode about her, viewing her like a mare on sale at a horse fair, she thought indignantly.

Wenna watched her lover with sharp grey eyes, but could read nothing more than satisfaction in his face, and perhaps a glint of amusement—the odd amusement that so annoyed her. Life, to her, was such a serious business. She had no time to laugh at it.

“Look up, girl!”

Her head jerked up, her lashes lifted. Dark as a moor’s, he thought with interest. There was a challenge in them, and a hint of pride. But it was sheathed as swiftly beneath the demure blankness Wenna had advocated,

“You look a lady, at least. Time will be the test for the rest. Still, a surface gloss may be all that is needed. What is the girl’s name?” This last was to Wenna.

“Kathryn.”

“Kathryn,” he repeated, and nodded thoughtfully. “Tis well enough. We’ll not change that.”

“It was my mother’s name,” she said, a little sulkily.

“Your mother,” he said sharply, “was the Lady Alys deBrusac”

She looked at him in amazement. His eyes were cold on her own, but his lip quirked. “Remember that. Remember also this...” he paused and thoughtfully pulled at his lip. “The Lady Alys died in the Convent of St Ursula at Bristol. You were born there, and have lived
there all your life, until now. You were out
walking with the nuns when I saw you, and questioning you discovered your true origins. Your mother was a devout woman, sweet but cold, gentle but distant. You knew her hardly at all.”

Kathryn stared as if he had run mad. Behind her, Wenna said, “So, that is the game. It is a dangerous one, my lord.”

Ralf shrugged. “The girl looks every inch a de Brusac, Wenna! I saw that, even under her dirt. The resemblance is startling. She will pass even Sir Piers” keen gaze.”

“And then? Even if he does believe it, even if everyone believes it, and he acknowledges her? A message to Bristol would prove the lie.”

“He will send no one to Bristol. And if he does, I have taken precautions that the news he receives be what I wish it to be. The good sisters at St Ursula are in need of funds. And as for here ... no servant of mine will be able to inform about her. She has been seen by only a few, and those trusted. Her family believe her a whore, and think no more of her. She has vanished, and reappears as the daughter of Alys de Brusac.”

“So,” Wenna said again. “And when he acknowledges her, what then?”

“He is an old man. And he has no heir.”

Wenna’s mouth curved. Ralf smiled back. “You can see the coffers filling already, my love. We must hope the girl does not blunder. There are other eyes apart from Sir Piers’. That is why I have brought this menagerie back with me. If she can pass beneath their eyes, they will carry the news far and wide, and the lie is half won.”

“You are so sure he will acknowledge her!”

“The resemblance is so stunning. And there is more. Piers is as loath to let the King take his lands as I am to let it happen. He will be only too glad to acknowledge her, never fear.”

His hand went out, catching Kathryn’s jaw and holding her.

“Well, girl, do you remember that? There are proper ladies and knights at Pristine now. You must pass beneath their censorious gaze before you are let loose at de Brusac.”

She looked at him a moment, her dark eyes opaque, and then she began to speak softly: “I am the daughter of the Lady Alys, who died in the Convent of St Ursula in the city of Bristol. She was a sweet lady, and devout. I knew her very little. I was walking with the nuns when you came upon us, saw me, and questioned me. You took me back to Pristine with you, and now you mean to take me to Sir Piers, who is my—” she paused, her dark brows lifting inquiringly. He laughed, eyes gleaming.

Wenna, behind her, said sharply, “You are pert, girl!”

“No,” Ralf shook her jaw before releasing her. “She is clever.” The laughter faded. “But beware your tongue, Kathryn. If it grows too long, we will have it out. You could as easily be a mute
heiress as a talkative one.”

She blanched a little at that, but held his gaze steadily enough.

“Sir Piers is your grandfather,” he said at last. “And he is dying. He has been dying these past two years, and now his candle is almost out. He began to die, I think, when he heard his son had died, rebelling against our glorious King. He hates the King almost as much as I.”

“I see,” she said. And did, a little.

Ralf turned away. “Bring her down with you, Wenna. We will hope she makes no blunders.”

The curtain rustled back into place. Wenna stepped out in front of Kathryn, her grey eyes cold and angry. “Remember to mind your tongue, girl. If you betray my lord, he will kill you. His threats are never idle ones. And beware, also, trying to usurp my place here, for if you do I will kill you.”

The great hall was alight with laughter and people. They paused, at the top of the stairs. Wenna, her cool beauty enhanced by a pale blue gown, and behind her, Kathryn, alive and vibrant in the rose. She gazed down at the upturned faces, and felt a sting of fear and bewilderment in the sudden hush of expectancy.

How could she go down there, amongst them? So many knights and ladies, so many richly gowned nobles? She was a peasant, no more. How could she? But the very fact of it stung her pride, and she lifted her head, unconsciously looking every inch a princess.

Lord Ralf was there, to take her hand. “This is Kathryn de Brusac,” he said.

Someone curtseyed. She stared at them in an amazement that passed for indifference. A man bowed over her fingers. She stared at him coolly, not knowing what to say. They took it for disdain. Wenna, watching, began gradually to relax.

They sat down to their meal. Kathryn sat on Ralf s left. He spoke to her as if she were his equal. She found herself answering and gradually growing calmer, less afraid of making mistakes. She could hear her own voice, low and melodious, and she liked it. She even began to smile, and to laugh. Her eyes swept down to the other faces; the bobbing heads and rich clothing. She began to
feel
like a princess.

Wenna took her away after the meal. To rest, she told the others, “We don’t want them to look too closely,” she told Kathryn. But Kathryn sat staring from the window, dreaming of her triumph. When evening came at last, there was more food, and the hall glowed with candlelight and laughter. There was a brightly colored bird—a parrot—in a jeweled cage. There was a minstrel from London, and she listened to his sweet, sad voice with wonder, her great eyes full of tears.

“My lady,” a young man, hardly begun to shave, bowed before her. “Will you dance?”

She rose. Wenna watched, Ralf watched... It seemed to her that everyone watched. She curtseyed, the young man bowed. She gave him her hand.

After a moment, she realized she was enjoying it. Her feet moved lightly, her heart skipped gaily, her body moved with easy grace. She laughed at the boy’s tentative witticism, her dark eyes sparkling, teasing. The boy flushed, and squeezed her fingers. She was sorry when the dance ended. But another partner soon filled his place, and another.

“You are a convent girl. Remember it!” Wenna hissed in her ear. But she could not be demure, when her soul was so happy, so triumphant. And even convent girls must be gay, sometimes? Besides, Ralf seemed to be amused by her and even danced with her himself, towering over her in all his glory.

“You do well enough,” he said. “But remember, Kathryn, these are but small fish. Sir Piers is the one we must net.”

“But surely he would welcome a grandchild?” she retorted.

He frowned, “Mayhap. But will his men-at-arms?”

She worried over this a moment, but politics were still confusing to her, and she soon dismissed it for the gaiety of the dance.

It was late when Wenna drew her aside to straighten her veil. When they returned, the music had ceased. Men were clustered about the huge fireplace, and Wenna went forward with a frown, her shoes gliding over the floor.

Ralf turned at her inquiry, and the man beside him drew aside also. There were more men, strangers, by the hearth. Men in heavy cloaks, still flushed from the hard, cold ride to Pristine, men with steaming breath. A squire was kneeling, his uniform blue and gold, removing the spurs from the boots of the man in the fireside chair. A man Kathryn knew.

Fair, tousled hair and keen blue eyes in a tanned, handsome face. He turned as she stopped, and seeing her frowned. His eyes skimmed over her in the time it might take to set arrow to bow and release it. And then, rising, he pushed the squire aside and strode towards her.

“My Lady de Brusac!”

His hand was cold, despite the roaring fire, and his lips were hard against her palm. She stared down at the thick, fair hair made untidy from the ride, at the broad shoulders and straight line of back, and wondered why her heart had suddenly begun to beat so hard. Wenna, over his shoulder, was frowning at her. She must speak. She must be cool and proud. She must play the princess now, more than ever. She hated him. She must remember just how much she hated him.

“Sir Richard,” she said, disdainful though polite. “Are you tired after your journey?”

He straightened, but retained her hand, and his eyes mocked her while his mouth laughed. She wished he would not stare so long; he made her as nervous as a bird, caged in a room full of cats.

“I have ridden from London in two days, my lady. Other than that, I am not tired.”

She turned away, and spied the young man who had first danced with her. He came to her like a hound to his master’s hand. The minstrel was singing again; she reached out her fingers to the boy as if to commence to dance.

And as suddenly, Richard had taken them back and was smiling coolly down into her eyes. “I beg you will dance with me, Kathryn,” he said, gently chiding. “We have so much to talk of.”

She longed to refuse him, to jerk away from him and scream like a hoyden. But she dared not.
They
were watching, and Tier life depended upon control. He saw her thoughts, however, and his fingers tightened:

“So the lady doesn’t go so deep? Beneath it, you’re still a peasant.”

“You must not so say,” she breathed, glancing around. But the few persons interested in observing them were not close enough to hear. He laughed softly.

“And you’ve learned caution! Fear, as well, I think. You do right, Kathryn, to feel both. But they will think little of my importuning you— they are used to such things at Court.”

She stared at his feet, not quite knowing how to answer, as they began to dance. Coming together, drawing apart, as the music progressed. Wenna swished past, and laughed, flirting, into Richard’s face. But Kathryn ignored her, her lip stuck out sulkily.

“Do you know what that pretty pout of yours makes me long to do?”

She looked up, startled. His eyes were sparkling, but whether with mockery or anger she was not sure. “Sir Richard?”