By Grace Possessed (18 page)

Ale and wine were pressed upon them, though little
else, since it was not long until the main meal of the day. This small hiatus gave time for baths to be prepared, to remove the dirt of travel before they ate. While they satisfied their thirst, Ross and Braesford spoke of the situation along the Scots border, though Braesford’s young squire, David, a blond gentleman with sapphire eyes and the face of a Botticelli angel, spent his time gazing at Marguerite. Cate and Isabel indulged in a fine gossip about the latest scandals, to which Marguerite contributed from time to time—when not slanting her brown eyes in David’s direction. In due course, the sisters were shown to their sleeping quarters.

Ross remained in the hall with Braesford, saying he would avail himself of the bathing tub when Cate was done. She was just as happy to be away from him for a short while, in all truth. They had been constantly in each other’s company during the journey, which was enough of a trial in their present circumstances. But he had been like a bear with a sore paw. Nothing had pleased him during this last stage of their travel, not the state of the road, the slant of the sun, the queries from the patrols of the noblemen through whose territory they crossed, or requests for necessary halts. More than once, Cate had been forced to bite her tongue to keep from lashing out at him. All that kept her from it was knowledge of the responsibility that sat upon his shoulders.

To undermine his authority for the sake of venting her temper would have been the height of stupidity, yet it had cost her. She needed a few minutes to herself to soothe her frazzled spirits.

They had reached Braesford with no further sign
of Trilborn. The relief of it was intense; she could feel the knots of strain melting from her neck and shoulders. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the edge of the linen-lined tub. She was so tired that she could almost go to sleep here. She might have, too, except the water was rapidly cooling and her stomach rumbling with hunger. Gwynne would be returning soon, as well, bearing clothing that was deliciously clean for a change. She would expect to bathe her, and Cate was in no mood for it, could not think of being touched just now by anyone except Ross. Since he was unlikely to return for the task, she took up the cloth and hard cake of Spanish soap and began to bathe herself.

Ross owed it to his host to apprise him of the situation with respect to Trilborn. Not that he thought the Englishman foolish enough to attempt an assault upon Braesford Hall; Trilborn preferred weaker, less well-guarded targets. Still, after his attempt to take Cate, it might be dangerous for Braesford’s good lady to ride without a heavy guard. Lady Isabel was so similar in coloring and size that she could easily be mistaken for her. More than that, she had value as a hostage. It might take Ross’s and Braesford’s combined efforts to prevent Cate from riding out to exchange herself for her sister under such circumstances, particularly as Isabel was with child.

The fire had been built up in the great hall, with its gridded and painted ceiling high above a stone floor laid with fresh rushes. The walls were hung with arras depicting a hunt of mythical beasts, as well as with ancient banners, swords and helms. The solid table on the
dais was being set and trestles put together. The baron paid no attention, but sat with his feet stretched out to the fire while he played with the silky ears of the hound lying beside him. A keen look glimmered in his eyes as he glanced at his guest, but he made no effort to draw him out.

Ross spent some small amount of time lauding the holdings of his host and asking if there was aught he could tell him of Grimes Hall, Henry’s gift. Braesford knew the property well, as it happened. His own lands had come from the king after the battle of Bosworth placed Henry on the throne, so he had some idea of the questions in Ross’s mind. Without prompting, he gave him a fair notion of the size and value of his new holdings, and offered good counsel on a number of issues.

In due course, a small silence settled between them. Ross drained his tankard and sat turning it in his hands, his gaze on the leaping orange flames under the heavy mantel. “You’ll be wondering, I expect, how I came to wed Lady Catherine,” he said finally.

Braesford lifted a brow. “If you think I stand as guardian in any sense to Isabel’s sister, banish the notion.”

“Nay, not that. I know well she is a ward to Henry. But you may be of a mind to know how I came into it.”

“As to that, my lady and her sisters were convent educated. All read English, French and Latin, and write a hand far fairer than any I can produce. Cate has kept us apprised of events at Greenwich and Shene.”

The dry note in his host’s voice sent a tingle down the back of Ross’s neck. “All of them?”

“I take leave to doubt that, but enough.” Braesford al
lowed himself a smile. “We know the command to the altar came of a sudden. What we don’t know is what has brought you here so soon after it.”

Ross frowned. “If it isn’t convenient to have us, you have only to say—”

“Peace, brother, no Scots touchiness is required. You are more than welcome, as Isabel has been longing to see Cate and Marguerite. I’m glad to leave off finding excuses for why she must not ride to London in her present condition.”

Brother. Ross supposed they were that, in a way, being related now by marriage. The idea was not unpleasing. If he had been blessed with a brother a year or two older, it would have been fine to have one like Braesford. Emboldened by the exchange, he set out the adventure of their journey.

“So there is substance to the rumors of rebellion,” Braesford said with a frown when he was done.

“Aye, according to the reports of Henry’s agents. He plans to present the young duke of Warwick to prove the boy being touted as a lost prince is an imposter, for all the good it may do.”

“As he may face invasion whether the boy brought forth is Plantagenet or pretender.”

“And so I was sent in haste to ask that you man the beacon that tops your pele tower, and send to your neighbors to do the same.”

“I stand ready to comply, of course,” Braesford replied with some irony, “though I daresay it was a command.”

Ross tipped his head in mute agreement.

“As was your marriage. What say you to it now?”

“Needs must.”

“The Tower having no appeal? I do understand.”

Ross gave him a straight glance. “You endured it, so I’ve heard.”

“Oh, aye, though not because I objected to taking Isabel to wife. Never was there anything I wanted more, then or now.”

It was a strong man who could admit such weakness for a woman. The contentment in Braesford’s voice was unmistakable, however.

“You were in love with her before…” Ross stumbled to a halt. “Nay, I should not ask. ’Tis none of my affair.”

Cate’s brother-in-law chuckled. “I was. I am. But you have the curse in mind, I’ll warrant. You’ve survived it, so need not worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Ross answered, then lifted a shoulder. “Well, but what think you? Is it a true threat?”

“They believe it so, Isabel and her sisters.”

“That’s nay the same thing, is it now?”

Braesford eased lower in the chair, crossing his long legs. “A man’s mind can play strange tricks. Thinking a thing can sometimes make it so. Have you not seen the like?”

“Aye, I suppose.” His own certainty that he was meant to die in his bath by an assassin’s knife touched Ross for an instant. “A prophecy can also be made to come true.”

Braesford turned a pointed look upon him. “Meaning?”

“An unsuitable groom could be removed,” he continued in dogged determination.

“You think Cate wanted you dead?”

Put in such blunt words, it seemed unlikely, yet there was still the image of her poniard, gleaming as it fell into the bath. Ross explained in a few blunt phrases.

“What of Trilborn?”

“I don’t discount his fine hand in it, though he had been sent away from Shene Palace.”

“At least you have that much sense,” his brother-in-law said with a growl in his voice.

Ross refused to back down. “I am tied to a woman who expected me to die from the moment the king decreed the wedding. No one would have been surprised if I did. What could be easier than giving the curse a helping hand?”

“Yet you live. You are wed.”

“By luck and vigilance.”

“Think you Cate preferred another, and that’s her reason for having you killed?”

The specter of Leon, the French master of revels, flitted through Ross’s mind. It took an effort to unclench his teeth enough to make an answer. “I know not.”

“It can’t be Trilborn. I know him of old, though his holdings are more to the west.” Braesford sent Ross an assessing glance. “She must needs be a fool to take him over you, and Cate is no fool.”

“By the saints, no! She despises him, and with good reason.” Ross was sure of this much after her trembling relief at not falling into his hands on the night spent at the monastery.

“He would have her, regardless.”

“Oh, aye, and enjoy it for that reason,” Ross answered with contempt. “Though he claims to be besotted.”

“Is he?”

“Could be it’s her Graydon inheritance that enthralls him. Though you will know this, as your wife has a third of it.”

Braesford let that pass as he continued his thought. “So Trilborn must kill you now to get to it, and abduct Cate so the king may see fit to hand her and her inheritance over to him. Naturally, he will rape her to make it more likely.”

Ross’s hand curled into fists so tight his knuckles ached. Such forced alliances were by no means uncommon. “As you say.”

“For some men, passions such as avarice and rapine are enough. What of you? Have you no feelings for Cate? Did you have none before your vows were spoken?”

Ross gave him a hard stare.

A low laugh sounded in Braesford’s chest. “Oh, aye, not my affair.”

Quiet descended that was really not quiet at all, but carried an undercurrent of the whining wind that whipped around the battlements, the quiet crackle of the fire at their feet, low murmurs from the butlery and pantry where the meal was being prepared, and muted thumping where trestles were being laid with trenchers somewhere behind them.

The two men stared into the flames until finally Braesford stirred, spoke in low consideration. “As I see it, you have two choices.”

“And they would be?” Ross could not forebear to ask, though he was wary of the answer.

“You can leave your bride behind here at Braesford
while you take up your new lands without encumbrance, or you can see to it she would rather have you alive than dead.”

Ross considered it. He thought with immense concentration of being free of Cate as his wife, of leaving her with her sister and never holding her, never taking her into his arms and his bed again. He thought of it for the span of an entire breath.

“With your permission, I will leave her here while I inspect this Grimes Hall, as I know not what I will find there.” The place might be a ruin for all he knew of it, fit only for vermin. It might be overrun with men-at-arms awaiting his arrival. It might have no bed worthy of the name, much less of Lady Catherine.

“And then?” Braesford said in soft inquiry.

“And then I will keep her close beside me, the better to know her every move.”

Amusement gleamed silver bright in Braesford’s eyes. “I see.”

Ross feared that he did see, and all too well. He was married to the eldest of the Three Graces, after all.

R
oss left her behind at Braesford. It should not have mattered, but it did.

Cate knew the reasons well enough. Her husband had laid them out for her in brusque yet ample detail on the evening before. He knew not what he might find when he reached Grimes Hall, he said. Trilborn could be lying in wait if he had learned what manse had been Henry’s gift. It might still be occupied by its former owner, some attainted Yorkist who refused to acknowledge Henry’s right to transfer ownership, and so must be removed by force. Villagers could have taken shelter there while it remained empty, might have used it to pen their cattle or else half demolished the walls for building stones. The well that supplied the castle with water might be tainted or poisoned. Certainly, it was unlikely there would be anything edible in the larder, or a stick of furniture left unbroken.

So it had gone, a litany of possible disasters. She would be far better at Braesford, where it was safe and comfortable, according to her husband.

Ross had not looked at her as he spoke, however, nor
had he expressed regret that she was not to see her new home. She was expected to be patient until he decided it was both safe and worthy of her.

The last thing she felt was patient.

She was no pampered female incapable of dealing with inconvenience. She had been taught by the nuns to achieve order in a household, to make certain a kitchen was scrubbed and well supplied with victuals, and that nothing offensive was allowed to remain in the entrance court. After years of being restricted in her activities while a dependent at Graydon and at Henry’s court, she had looked forward to ordering everything as she wished in her own realm. To be prevented was a bitter disappointment.

She might have insisted on going if not for the obvious fact that her husband did not want her with him. It was possible he was as ready to be free of her company as she had been to escape his. Her need had been momentary, however, not a matter of days or even long weeks.

“Men,” she said under her breath, where she stood with Isabel on the battlements, watching as Ross and his men-at-arms grew smaller in the distance.

“Just so,” her elder sister answered. “If he could, Rand would have me lie abed from now until our babe is born.”

Braesford had ridden out with Ross for some small distance before turning aside to attend to some problem concerning a flock of sheep. He also meant to ride along the blue line of the sea in the distance, on his way to visit neighbors with pele towers like his own. Isabel had wanted to join him, but been dissuaded. She and Cate were to remain within the walls until they were
certain Trilborn was not in the neighborhood. The last thing he wanted, Braesford had said, was to risk injury to his wife and their unborn child in a clash of arms, or while making a wild dash to safety.

“At least he cares,” Cate said with a sigh.

“And Ross does not?” Isabel turned to frown at her.

“How can he when the match was forced upon him?”

“But then…”

“I know, I know. By what means has he escaped the curse? I wish I knew.”

Her sister’s face cleared. “How a man may feel and what he may admit of it can be two different things.”

Was it possible? Cate would like to think so. The way Ross touched her, the tender care he lavished upon her, felt as if it were directed by more than mere desire. He had been most ardent the night before, and early this morning, as well, making love to her in ways that stirred her blood now to remember. It was as if the bonding of their bodies must last him for some time, maybe even forever.

“Cate, my sweet, you are blushing. Pray tell from what cause.”

“Nothing,” she said, lifting her face to the wind to cool it. To prevent further questions, she went on. “Should we go inside? You must not become chilled.”

“Don’t you start fretting over me! I am as healthy as any peasant woman who gives birth one day and winnows the fields for grain the next.”

She appeared so, Cate had to admit. “Have you any idea when your babe will be born?”

“In May, by my reckoning.” Isabel made a wry gri
mace. “It seems I caught the first time Rand and I made love.”

Cate gave her a swift glance. “Does it often happen that way?”

“When both bride and groom are young and healthy and take pleasure in the act, so the old wives say, though less often when the man is older. Why? Do you think—but no, there’s hardly been time to know?”

Cate gave a mute shake of her head.

“No.” Isabel sighed. “I wish I might have been there for your wedding.”

Hearing the regret in her sister’s voice, Cate stepped closer to give her a swift hug. As the eldest of the three, Isabel had always felt responsible for her and Marguerite, always tried to protect them. It was she who had created the special bond between them.

Soon, now, she would face childbirth. It was a dangerous time for a woman. Cate prayed all would go well. For it to turn out otherwise would be unbearable.

Would she be fearful in Isabel’s place? Would she dread bringing Ross’s child into the world? She hardly knew, yet the thought of a child gave her a warm feeling around her heart. A baby, a son with his father’s black hair and fathomless blue eyes. He would grow tall and sturdy and brave.

Yes, and he would ride off to war with a shield on his arm and his sword by his side, while she ached with dread for what might happen to him. Just as she ached now, thinking of what Ross might find when he reached Grimes Hall, his prize from Henry.

And how she had come to that thought, she had
no idea. It wasn’t at all what she wished to feel as she watched him disappear from sight.

“Do you think he will return?” she asked in stark doubt.

“Rand? But of course he will.”

“Ross, I meant. And there is no ‘of course’ about it. He may have left me here with no idea of coming back for me.”

“Surely not.”

“No, but how can I know?”

Isabel studied her a long moment. “What you are really asking, I think, is how you can be sure he cares about you.”

“Or if he may in the future,” she whispered.

“Because you love him?”

Her smile was crooked. “I must, or it would not hurt so much to be left behind.”

Isabel twined her arm around Cate’s waist, holding her closer. “There is only one way I know to persuade him to it, and that is to be loving yourself. Men are sometimes like the mirrors made by silversmiths. They can be hard and cold, even the best of them, but if kept well polished, will reflect back what they are shown.”

“And the worst of them?”

“Are to be guarded against, for they are not worth the tears they cause a woman to shed.”

Best or worst—which was Ross? Cate thought she knew, but how could she be certain?

Time closed in upon Braesford Hall. Days slid past, becoming weeks, a month, then two, with little to set them apart. Winter loosened its grip and spring crept
over the hills. The guards who kept watch near the iron basket of wood that topped the pele tower came and went, with never a need to kindle it into flame. The men who patrolled the walls had nothing to report. An occasional neighbor rode up to pass the time of day or share a meal, but no strange riders were seen and Trilborn did not appear. Little was heard from Ross, though he did send word that he had arrived. He had met with no opposition, but the hall was a shambles and required much work to put all in order.

Cate was spinning, with her wheel set up in a corner of the great hall, on the day fresh news from London reached them. It came by way of the earl of Peverell, who stopped with them for a night while on his way north. He and Braesford seemed not to notice her presence as they sat talking soon after the earl arrived, or else Rand thought she should hear. At least he made no effort to send her away or even lower his voice.

The rebellion had ceased to be a matter of rumor alone. The priest who claimed to have discovered the Plantagenet princeling, the young earl of Warwick, had appeared with him in Ireland. The boy was presented to the Yorkist faction in Dublin, and by early April, received promise of their backing. This group included the powerful earl of Kildare and his brother, who had no love for Lancaster kings.

With this solid support in the offing, there were rumblings of sedition in Devon and Cornwall. Henry had paraded the true Warwick through London in an effort to calm the situation, but it seemed to make little difference. He then held a council at Shene to form a strategy
to deal with the crisis. One result of this meeting was a general pardon for all offenses against the crown resulting from Bosworth, including high treason. The point was obviously to persuade those who might be at odds with his reign to avoid joining the forces against him. Afterward, he had embarked upon an extensive progress through the countryside in hope of quieting the unrest.

The threat of war stalked the land again, so it seemed as it had so often in the past years of conflict between York and Lancaster. It gave Cate a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach to think about it. What manner of pride and lust for power caused men to fight so easily? What made them hack and slice at each other, then hunt down the defeated like vermin when the battle was done, chopping off heads as if ridding a harvest field of rats? It was blood madness of the most pernicious kind, a peculiar lust that fed on the fear of other men.

Did Ross know what was taking place, there where he was resetting stones and cleaning cow byres, or whatever he was doing that he had not returned for her? If so, what did he make of it? Yes, and what did he intend to do?

It was not his quarrel, this business between those who followed the white rose or the red. He was not English, so had little concern for who might or might not be king. Yet Henry had settled lands upon him that he might aid in holding the northern border. He would also expect Ross to take the field when and where he commanded.

And what would happen if Ross refused? Henry would no doubt strip him of his honors. He might be imprisoned as a traitor, or even executed if the king decided he had sided with Scotland to attempt his downfall.

James III had been silent so far on this business, but how long would he remain so? Any weakness in England’s defenses could be seen as an opportunity.

Ross would be damned if he fought for England, and damned if he fought for his homeland. What could he do?

It was tempting to see this promise of war as the work of the curse, the means by which Ross would be finally removed as her husband. Cate shuddered at the thought, but it would not leave her.

She looked up as Isabel swept into the hall, followed by a manservant bearing a tray set with mulled wine, nutmeats, cheeses and marzipan candies. She moved with the grace of a ship with full sails, her features serene, her manner brisk yet kindly. Her sister was noticeably larger now than when she and Ross had first come, Cate thought. Was it possible her babe was due earlier than she expected? Or was she, by chance, to be delivered of twins? One possibility seemed as likely as the other.

Cate need not concern herself with such calculations. Her courses had come and gone, proving she was not with child.

Isabel’s arrival provided a good excuse to pause in her work, leave the hall to the men. Cate set her spinning wheel aside and stood, brushing bits of cream-colored wool from the front of her skirt. As she looked up, ready to say something about duties elsewhere, she caught the glance that passed between her sister and her husband. As warm and intimate as a caress, it was a message of loving appreciation from Braesford to Isabel for her care of him and his guest.

Such a small thing, yet Cate felt painful anger rise up from deep inside her. She should be doing things of a like nature for her own husband, as chatelaine of his keep. She should be ordering her servants while tending the needs of his villagers, his guests and his friends. She should be working beside him to make the place he had been given livable, comfortable, a home. She should be receiving his smiles, yes, and his caresses.

But no, she was denied these, her rightful tasks, and her due as a wife. She was a charge upon her sister and her husband, as if she had never married. Cate was forced to fill her days with spinning and embroidery, and the occasional task Isabel was too large or clumsy to complete.

It was ridiculous.

It was not to be borne. She would bear it no longer.

Cate was forced to hold her peace through the remainder of the day and another night, however. She had need of Braesford’s aid if she was to leave his hall, and he had no time to attend to her request while a guest was with them.

Early on the morning after Peverell finally left, Cate went in search of her brother-in-law. He was not in the great hall, but neither had he ridden out that day, according to his seneschal. She thought he might be in the solar, the fine chamber he shared with Isabel, and where she sat embroidering before the fire when not about other tasks.

Neither of them was there. Cate turned away, thinking the chamber was empty. At the last second, her attention was caught by a small movement near the window
that overlooked the courtyard. It was Marguerite who stood there, her attention so concentrated on whatever was taking place below that she was oblivious of all else.

“Have you seen Braesford?” Cate asked as she walked closer, curious to see what held her sister’s attention.

Marguerite jumped a little, and then waved toward the window. Cate, stepping to her side, leaned to peer through the distortion of the glass.

Two men were sparring with sword and shield in the court below. One was Braesford, she saw, while the other was a stripling whose blond hair shone silver-gold in the spring sunshine.

“But that’s…” she began.

“David, yes,” Marguerite finished in strained distress.

Cate turned back to watch Braesford and his young squire have at each other as if mortal enemies, with blades that clanged and chimed and dripped sparks as they scraped edge to edge. The men had stripped to shirts, braises and hose, and the fabric clung to heavy musculature that was usually concealed by the fullness of doublets and tunics or swinging capes. Raw power was manifest in every hard stroke that squealed against metal or thundered upon the shields on their left arms, in every swift advance and controlled retreat. The combatants gave no quarter and asked none as they slashed and grunted, attacked and parried, cursed and defended.