My Lady Imposter (12 page)

“No,” she whispered. “You can’t mean it.”

The dark brows lifted a fraction with pretended concern. “Why not me? Does the fact displease you? I agree the match is not quite... equal. You are so much the higher than I, a mere knight. But needs must, and when I put the point to Ralf he agreed it was imperative you have a strong man by your side to see your orders carried out.”

She felt her face blanch.

“Sir Damien needs a watchdog, and de Brusac needs a master beside its lady. Ralf feels I fit both gloves.”

“And you would not think to disobey him?” she breathed,

A swift bow, and he kissed her hand. “I do my duty, my lady, nothing more.”

She jerked her hand away as if stung, and
turning, picked up her skirts and ran back towards the castle. He stood looking after, her until she had vanished, an expression on his face which would have puzzled her, had she been able to observe it. And then he, too, made his way back towards the castle.

“Of course it’s true!” Wenna’s lovely mouth was scornful. “Do you think you would be left here to ruin everything? Richard will rule for Ralf, until the rebellion has been fought and won. You’re to be a mere mannequin.”

“I see.”

Wenna’s eyes slid over her, malicious, and Kathryn felt herself go cold. “Did you think it else?” she mocked savagely, “What other reason could Richard have for marrying a peasant? I pity him with all my heart! He might have made a match with the King’s daughter, and been shamed by neither birth nor blood, if his father had not rebelled against Henry Plantagenet... And now he must wed you.”

There was little to say to that, Kathryn decided, it being nothing but the truth. When Wenna had gone, she sat alone by the window, gazing over the dense woods that surrounded de Brusac, trying to pierce the equal thickness of her future.

Ralf summoned her at noon. He was flushed with his success and greeted her almost affectionately. “Ah, Kathryn. Richard has told you? The marriage must be made as quickly as may be. Quietly, of course, because of Sir Piers, and the King. The King would insist on being present. But, this way, we can tell him you were married before even you came to de Brusac, hmm? I have made arrangements with the priest. He will do as he is told or we will send him packing.”

Her throat was dry as she swallowed. “I do not wish to marry him, my lord.”

He stared at her a moment as if he could not believe what she said, and then his brows came down and he said softly, savagely, “You had best do as you are bid, Kathryn, or I shall have to punish you. A bride need not necessarily be unmarked to wed. I could have you beaten.” A smile, making his golden eyes burn, “Shall I ask Richard to chastise you?”

“I am used to beatings,” she retorted.

A silence, and then he laughed. “What, do you pine for your filthy hovel? Do you really?” When she did not look up he caught her chin and jerked her face up to his handsome, ruthless one. He laughed softly. “No, you do not, do you? You have grown used to the ways of noble people. You are afraid of doing without them now. Well, take care, girl, I do not send you back to your sty. Remember, you are still my serf.”

The priest, it seemed, was as unwilling as Kathryn. But, like her, his livelihood forced him to go against his conscience. His face, the old face she remembered from the night spent by Sir Piers, was tense with disapproval and his eyes sought hers out in silence. But he spoke the words over them firmly enough, as he performed the ancient ritual of marriage.

Kathryn answered listlessly. She had no choice, and it seemed that all her spirit had departed from her body. She kept her eyes lowered and her head bowed—like a serf. It was Richard who spoke up, who laughed and toasted her. It was Richard who charmed the old priest into a smile and frowned over the problems the men-at-arms brought to him. It was Richard who was the real ruler of de Brusac.

“My lady?”

She had been sitting by the window, and looked up swiftly. Sir Damien frowned at her, his serious face drawn into lines too old for his years. She realized, with a shock, he could not be as old as Richard. She had thought him much older.

“Sir Damien. Do you enjoy the celebrations? I thought the minstrel very fine.”

“Aye, he was fine enough, if you enjoy mummers,” he sounded as if such things were too frivolous for him.

Kathryn smiled and offered him a seat beside her. He sat down rather awkwardly and frowned at the floor between his feet. “My lady,” he said at last, “Sir Piers was my master. He paid me to protect him, and his, every year. If he were to die, it was to my own discretion whether I remained with the new master, or left de Brusac.” He looked at tier with eyes as sharp as daggers; she could not look away. “I am a mercenary, a man who fights for coin. I was a knight, with honor, once. But God saw fit to make it otherwise. I am dishonored.” A shrug. “I will not speak of why it is so, for these things are painful and in the past. But I will say that you remind me of someone in that past, my lady. She was as pretty and sweet as you, and as honest. She too was put upon by evil men. No,” as she went to speak, “I am not a fool, and not blind. I see how it is. You are a pawn in this game, my lady. But I am paid to protect Sir Piers’ heir. I will stay for your sake.”

She bit her lip, stopping sudden tears. He was offering her his loyalty. Her alone. He had seen straight through Lord Ralf s falsity to the heart of the matter. He was her man, and would protect her and stand by her.

“I thank you for your allegiance,” she murmured, and held out her hand. “But I ask for something more, Sir Damien. I ask for your friendship.”

He looked at her a long moment, and then he bent and kissed the ring Richard had placed upon her finger—the de Brusac ring which they had removed from Sir Piers’ cold hand.

“I give it gladly, and will take from you, in return, all burdens you wish to place upon my shoulders. And I swear to protect you and yours until death, my lady.”

“Kathryn.”

They both looked up guiltily. Richard surveyed her with amused blue eyes. “Come and dance, my love,” he said, and held out his hand. She could do nothing but accept, and rose gracefully. She dared not look back at Sir Damien, in case something in her face gave them away.

“What were you discussing with your worthy mercenary?” Richard murmured, as the dance drew them together.

“He was speaking of Sir Piers.”

“Was he indeed?” Richard’s mouth went hard. “You would do well not to lie to me, Kathryn. I wish to know all your doings.”

She blinked at him, feigning stupidity. His mouth went even harder.

“The man is a murderer. Did you know that? I thought not. He killed his opponent in a joust, a boy not more than sixteen, through foul means. His lands were taken, and he now must earn his living as a mercenary. Such men are best not trusted.”

“I... I feel pity for him. To have taken all he owned was punishment enough.”

Richard laughed, “You have a soft heart.”

He made it sound a fault, and she was almost glad when the dance was over, and Wenna came to take her away to undress for bed. It was Piers’ room, all freshened and cleaned, with candles making a halo about the canopied bed. She thought of the old man lying there, dying there, and shivered. But there was no time for such thoughts. She must undress and be washed and scented, and then redressed in a silken white nightgown, her hair brushed out over her shoulders in a black veil, shimmering in the candlelight.

Wenna glanced over her and nodded. “Well enough,” she said. “You are as good as could be expected with such raw material.” Her grey eyes were cold. “You will be obedient to Sir Richard, whatever he demands of you, girl. Do you hear me!”

Kathryn stuck out her lip and turned away. Emma, smoothing a truant lock of hair, smiled and patted her arm. Her whisper was for Kathryn alone, “Do not be afraid, my lady. All will be well.”

And then the room had resounded with voices and men, and there was Lord Ralf and Richard, the former bellowing his drunken laughter. They all seemed more than a little inebriated, and Kathryn shrank back fearfully. But Wenna pushed her scornfully towards the bride bed, and as suddenly as they had come, the men had gone... except for Richard.

He was breathless, his face flushed with laughter and the wine, looking splendid in a red robe, his hair like gold.

“Don’t pout, Kathryn. It cannot be helped. We are both merely pawns for the larger pieces on the board.”

“You could have said no!”

“And leave you to some other knight of Ralf s fancy?” His eyes narrowed. “Why should I bother? You had to wed someone, and it was better me.”

She turned her back, straightening her shoulders. After a moment his hands rested on her shoulders. He had come up so silently his touch made her jump. “Come,” he said, soft and soothing. “I will not hurt you.” And then, sharply, “Kathryn!”

She turned to look up, obedient to the command, and his mouth came down on hers. Panic struck her like an arrow, but he held her and after a moment the beating of her hands and heart stilled. His lips brushed her cheek, her jaw, her throat. His fingers curled in her hair. She felt weak, liquid as syrup, and swayed against him.

“My lord,” her voice was breathless and shaking. “I am aware of how distasteful this union must be to you. Mayhap we could dispense with this part of it... please.” On the last word her voice broke.

He lifted his head to stare at her in surprise. “My name is Richard. Use it. I will not slap your face for calling me what I was christened. And as for the rest...” he shrugged indifferently. “If you wish it, we will dispense with... this side of it, as you refer to marital union.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Richard.”

“However,” he said, “as Ralf will expect otherwise, I think I will sleep on the maid’s pallet. Or do you offer me the bed?”

The blue eyes were cold and angry. She bit her lip and said nothing, afraid he would change his mind, or perhaps beat her. But he did neither, merely turned away to the truckle bed against the wall. She began to breathe again, only to stop when he turned, fumbling with his robe.

“I have something for you. Here!”

A piece of parchment, sealed with Lord Ralf’s ring. She picked it up from where he had thrown if on the bed, frowning in puzzlement. “What does it mean?”

The candlelight caught in his eyes as he laughed, making her long to cower. “It releases you, Kathryn, from your bondage. You are a free woman, no longer a serf. Lord Ralf has released you.”

He turned his back then, and began to snuff the candles in a brisk, purposeful manner, and when it was completely dark lay down and went to sleep. She also lay down, stiff and wide-eyed. He had given her her freedom, and she had not even thanked him for it. She stared into the darkness and wished, humiliating as it was, that he had not given up so quickly, that he had continued to kiss her and hold her. Oh, how she wished...

She woke drowsily. The sunlight warmed her face and she lay a moment, content not to think. The pallet was empty, the blankets tossed onto the floor. She stirred then, looking about the room carefully, but there was no sign of him. The curtain to the dressing room had been pulled across, and, as she sat up, pushing her hair from her eyes, she became aware of low voices.

The cold floor made her toes curl, but she crossed over, intending to ask if he wished to eat in here or in the hall. Ralf’s voice stopped her. “As her husband, de Brusac should be yours, Richard. If that cursed old man had not written that clause into his will... but it is done and can’t be undone. At least, not while the King sits on our English throne. The blasted priest sent word to him, a copy of the will.”

“I can see that it will be difficult,” Richard sounded somber, thoughtful.

“But once we have him toppled, then we shall see about de Brusac. Your wife will be better dead when that time comes, Richard. I want you to be prepared for that.”

“I’m prepared for it, my lord.”

Ralf laughed, as if the clipped, loyal response amused him. “What, no entreaties, Richard? By God you’re a cold one! Only married a night and the girl such a beauty.” He laughed again. “I’d have wed her myself, but for Wenna.”

“I feel entreaties to be pointless, my lord.” She could hear the smile in his voice, above the throbbing of her heart. “The strategy you’ve planned calls for her death, therefore she must die.”

“But not yet, my friend. The time is not yet ripe.”

Ralf moved as he spoke. Kathryn heard wine being poured.

“And, when it is, you will find a way to make it look as if it were an accident. We cannot have blood on our hands if it can be helped. The new rulers of England should be above such stains as murder.”

She found the strength to move back, the silk nightgown cold against her bare legs. Was it only hours since, that he had lain feet away, in this room? Was it this same man, who now plotted her death? She felt sick, and stumbled to the window to stare out. The bright, sunny morning mocked her.

After a moment she heard the rustle of the curtain being thrust aside, and Richard said, “You are awake,” his voice cautious.

Her fingers clenched on the stone embrasure and she took a breath, praying silently for strength. He mustn’t know; the longer she could prevent him from knowing, the safer she must be. If he guessed, for one moment, she had overheard, he would kill her at once.