True Love (18 page)

“Braedon!” She was on her feet, one hand at
her mouth in horror, the other hand pushing urgently at Cadwallon's
sturdy form. “Let me pass. I must go to him.”

Cadwallon swung his knees to one side, and
Catherine flung herself toward the end of the row of benches.
Within a moment she was out of the stand with Aldis and Cadwallon
right behind her.

“Braedon!” She had almost reached him when
her father stopped her.

“He is not dead, only unconscious,” Royce
said. “Robert will see to him.”

“I can help,” she protested. “I treated the
wound he took the other day. I have bandages ready, tinctures and
salves—”

“Your duty,” Royce told her coldly, “is to
return to your seat and witness the rest of this day's
contests.”

“My duty is to help the injured,” Catherine
cried. “Let me go to him.” She tried to dodge around her father,
but Royce caught her by the shoulders, preventing her from getting
near Braedon.

“Resume your seat,” he said, still speaking
with unusual coldness. “You are embarrassing yourself, and
me.”.

Catherine stared unbelieving into her
father's eyes. She saw there an implacable will. She saw something
else, too, something Royce could not quite conceal from one who
knew him as well as she did. There was another reason for his
insistence that she carry out her responsibilities as hostess for
his entertainment. She was sure that reason was connected with his
secret work and his unexplained motives for holding the Whitsuntide
festival.

“Do you know
le Chevalier Inconnu? “
Catherine asked. It was the only question of all the unanswered
questions in her mind that she dared give voice to at the
moment.

Royce did not answer her; neither did he
lower his eyes from hers.

Braedon moaned. The squires were lifting him
onto a stretcher at Robert's direction, in preparation for removing
him to his room at the castle. The pitiful sound drove all other
thoughts out of Catherine's mind. She saw Braedon lying there with
his arms hanging down on either side of the narrow stretcher and it
was all she could do to stop the cry that rose to her own lips.
Again she met Royce's cool gaze, this time with defiance.

“You must tell me how badly he is injured,”
she exclaimed.

“There is no way to know that just now,”
Royce said.

“I want to go with him.”

“You did not make such an outcry for Achard's
sake,” Royce said. “You will return to the viewing stand and remain
there, as I will return to my duties. We will continue with the
tournament. Lord Cadwallon?”

“Aye, my lord.” Cadwallon stepped to Royce's
side.

“Will you be kind enough to conduct my
daughter and her cousin back to their seats and remain with them
until the end of this day's contests?”

“It will be my great honor, my lord.”
Cadwallon extended his good arm to Catherine.

With her father watching her, Catherine had
no choice but to lay her hand on Cadwallon's wrist. Wityh Aldis
following them, they returned to the stand. And there Catherine sat
through the rest of that long, hot afternoon, pretending to pay
attention to the various contests while her heart was with Braedon
and her headache steadily increased to an unbearable level. When at
last she mounted her horse to return home she could barely see for
the pain.

Catherine decided to leave direction of the
evening's feast to her competent servants while she retreated to
her cool bedchamber.

“Tell me what to do for you,” Aldis said,
closing the shutters against the piercing rays of late day
sunlight.

“Bring me some of the leaves of feverfew that
are hanging in the stillroom and a flask of the minted boiled water
I keep there,” Catherine answered. “But first, find Gwendolyn and
tell her I want a bath as quickly as possible. Cool or lukewarm
water will do. I will have another assignment for you when you
return.”

Aldis came back sooner than Catherine had
hoped. While Catherine chewed on the feverfew leaves to stop the
headache pain and washed them down with the minted water, which she
hoped would settle her churning stomach, Aldis helped her to
undress. By the time she was stripped to her shift Gwendolyn was
knocking at the door. She led in the servants bearing the bathtub
and the buckets of water. As soon as the tub was full Catherine
dismissed everyone but Aldis and Gwendolyn.

Catherine stepped into the tub. The water was
just warm enough to be comfortable, and she bent her knees and sank
into it with a grateful sigh.

“Gwendolyn,” Catherine said, resting her head
against the rim of the tub with her eyes closed, “what have you
heard about Sir Braedon's condition?”

“There are some wild rumors,” Gwendolyn
reported, “but I'll not trouble you with them, for I know nothing
that's certain except that he was carried senseless from the field
of combat. His squire is with him, and Lord Royce has just gone in
to see him, but no one else is allowed into the room.”

“Not even Father Aymon?”

“No, my lady. Not yet at least, so he can't
be at death's door, can he? Robert did order several buckets of hot
water, so I would guess he's bathing his master. Whether that's a
good sign or not, I cannot say.”

“Thank you, Gwendolyn.” Catherine closed her
eyes, trying to relax and let the pain in her head float away with
the feverfew and the mint and the pleasures of warm bathwater and
lavender-scented soap. But she could not relax, not until she knew
Braedon wasn't going to die of his injuries, not until she could
see him for herself. After her confrontation with her father, she
harbored a feeling that seeing Braedon wasn't going to be an easy
thing to do.

“Gwendolyn, is my father still with Sir
Braedon?”

“I believe so, my lady.”

“Thank you. That will be all.” Catherine
heard the door open and close. She finished washing and used the
extra pitcher of water to rinse away the soap, then climbed out of
the tub.

“Aldis, can you find a way to talk with
Robert?”

“Of course I can. You ought to rest; there is
still time for a nap before the feast and you are pale.”

“I'll try to sleep.” Catherine nibbled on
another feverfew leaf and sipped more minted water. “You must be
weary, too.”

“If I may, I'd like to use your bath water,”
Aldis said, “and change my gown and brush my hair before I confront
Robert. By the time I'm ready, Lord Royce will surely have left Sir
Braedon's room.”

Clad in a fresh shift Catherine stretched out
on her bed. She was sure she wouldn't sleep, not when she was so
worried about Braedon. Left to herself, she would have gone to his
room the moment she returned from the tournament. But she did not
want to meet her father there, and some extra sense was warning her
to be cautious. Aldis was splashing in the tub, humming to herself.
Catherine's thoughts began to drift and all sounds faded away.

“He deserved what happened,” said Eustace in
a loud voice that carried from one end of the high table to the
other. “After the way Braedon took unfair advantage of me during
our contest on the first day of the tournament, it was a pleasure
to watch him being defeated this afternoon. May all his wounds
fester till his limbs turn black and require amputating.” Eustace
raised his wine cup and drank deeply. A few nobles nodded as if
they agreed with his sentiments. Some snickered. Most looked the
other way and began to speak on more neutral subjects.

“It was a fair fight,” Catherine protested.
She intended to say much more to Eustace, until her father's
repressive glance in her direction silenced her. He said nothing to
her, perhaps because Lady Edith was once again sitting beside him,
but she understood from the single parental look that Royce did not
want her to provoke a public quarrel with Eustace.

It was not Catherine's place to defend
Braedon but, as Royce's official hostess, it was her duty to
maintain a pleasant setting for his guests. She tried her best,
though it was difficult to continue smiling and making polite
conversation while she was seriously worried about Braedon and
while Eustace continued his loud and scurrilous remarks on
Braedon's supposed unknightly behavior. His voice grated on her
ears, making her stomach knot until she was unable to continue
eating.

Not until the long evening banquet was over
and Royce had accepted Lady Edith's suggestion that they walk upon
the battlements to watch the moon rise, and had left the great hall
with her, and two men-at-arms had assisted Eustace to his bed, did
Aldis finally approach Catherine with news of Braedon.

“Robert says I may tell you that Braedon is
awake,” Aldis reported.

“What of his injuries? Are they severe, or
not?” Catherine asked.

“The barber has not been called. Robert is
caring for him.”

“Well, then, at least there is no wound that
requires sewing, nor any limb to be removed,” Catherine said. “All
the same, I want to see him with my own eyes and speak with him,
since you say he is awake. I want to be sure his wits are in
order.”

“No guard is posted at his door,” Aldis
revealed. “Only Robert is there to prevent visitors from entering,
and I think I can distract him for a while, so you can get
inside.”

“I would be grateful if you could. But wait,
Aldis,” Catherine hesitated, torn between her longing to see for
herself that Braedon was not in serious condition and her
responsibility to keep Aldis safe. “I feel compelled to remind you
that we know even less about Robert than we do about his master.
Robert seems to be a decent young man, but there are men who will
dissemble until they have a maiden alone, and then they proceed to
ruin her. I do not want any harm to come to you through trying to
aid me.”

“I know more of Robert's past life, and his
hopes for the future, than you imagine,” Aldis said. “It's true
there are subjects that neither squire nor master will discuss.
Even so, Robert is more forthcoming than Sir Braedon. For example,
Robert has told me that he is the son of a younger son, which is
why he cannot expect to inherit land or a title and must earn his
way in the world. But his lineage is as noble as yours or mine, and
as the daughter of a younger son, I can appreciate his
situation.”

“You are saying you believe Robert is an
honest man because your heart tells you it's so,” Catherine
remarked with dry humor.

“Don't you believe Sir Braedon for the same
reason?” Aldis asked, and smiled when Catherine did not answer her
directly.

“If you are certain you will come away from
the encounter with your virtue intact,” Catherine said, “then do
your best to distract Robert. I will be waiting nearby, and as soon
as you draw him away from Braedon's chamber I will enter it and
secure the latch so no one can follow me inside.”

“We'll need a signal so you will know when
Robert is returning.” Aldis thought for a moment, then said, “I
know; I'll carry a metal pitcher with me as if I am taking it to
your room, and I'll drop it on the stairs. It will make a loud
clatter as it falls. You'll be sure to hear it, and you'll have
time to escape up the steps to your own room before Robert is near
enough to see you.”

“Aldis, your talent for conspiracy never
ceases to surprise me. Of course, the noise you make will waken
most of the castle and bring Captain William and his men-at-arms on
the run to see what's wrong.”

“It will be the diversion you need to get
away,” Aldis said, her eyes dancing with excitement.

Leaving the great hall, which was fast
emptying as the guests sought their beds, the two young women
hurried up the curving stairs to Catherine's room. There, after a
hastily whispered last-minute warning to her cousin, Catherine
waited on the upper staircase, concealed by the shadows, while
Aldis retraced her steps to the next level down and knocked on
Braedon's door.

Catherine heard Aldis speak and she caught
the murmur of Robert's deeper voice. After some discussion
Braedon's door clicked shut and two sets of footsteps could be
distinguished, making their way downward. Catherine was running
down the stairs before the sounds of Aldis' and Robert's departure
faded. She knocked once on Braedon's door. Then, fearful that
someone would come along and notice her, she entered without
waiting for a response.

The shutters were not yet closed against the
night air and the late spring sky was still light enough to afford
some natural illumination to the room. The bed curtains were pulled
back. Braedon lay still, his face turned toward the window. In the
half-light he appeared pale, his hair a dark smudge against the
linen pillow. When Catherine paused to fasten the door latch she
heard him stir.

“I told Robert to keep you out,” he said. “I
told your father, too.”

“I had to see you, to speak with you and
learn just how badly injured you are.” She approached the bed.

Braedon rose on his elbows, the sheet falling
away to reveal his muscular shoulders and arms. Catherine could see
the dark hair on his chest and the fresh white bandage that was
wound around his ribs. She could tell by the cleanliness of the
bandage on his left arm that it was also new and she guessed that
Robert had successfully stanched the bleeding of the reopened
wound.

“If you are in pain I will give you some
poppy syrup,” she offered.

“That's the last thing I want.”

“Lord Cadwallon does not refuse it.”

“Cadwallon has no need to remain alert.”

“And you have?” She sat on the side of the
bed and laid her hand on his forehead. “You aren't feverish. Does
Robert say your ribs are broken? Shall I check them? You did take a
hard blow to your side.”

“Catherine, I wish you would leave.” Braedon
reared backward as if to shake off her hand. The sudden movement
made him gasp in pain.