My Lady Imposter (9 page)

Outside, the yard was quiet now, apart from the occasional snort of a horse. Kathryn was asleep when the shouting and the laughter came, muted through the muffled strains of a bawdy song, rising intermittently above the jingle of swords and harness. She heard footsteps in the room next to hers, where Wenna slept, and Ralf’s rumbling voice, and sat up, wide-eyed, staring about her in the darkness.

Were they being attacked? The stone floor was cold on her bare feet as she crept to the door and peeped out. Downstairs, in the hall, candlelight flickered, throwing shadows on the stairwell. A man, climbing them, fell and there was a howl of laughter. A girl’s voice was scolding, while another giggled coquettishly.

Kathryn’s mouth dropped. So these were their pleasures! To come home drunk and foolish, with loose women! She returned to her bed in disgust. There was little difference after all between the peasants and the nobility. Why had she ever thought them so high above her?

They left Winchester the next morning, with the sun high up. The men were pale faced, with bleary eyes and aching heads. Ralf scowled at her, and growled out orders. Richard climbed carefully upon his mount, and stared ahead of him with an overly straight back. Kathryn watched them with amused disgust.

They stopped at a hospice the following night, and set out much earlier. The countryside was much more wooded now, and the clouds of the morning grew heavier, threatening them with rain in the sultry, still air. Kathryn was damp with perspiration beneath her thick clothing, and rode with a bowed head, hardly aware of her surroundings.

It was a shock when the cry went up, and her head jerked upwards as her heart went chill with dread. A dozen or more men, just ahead of the main party, came swarming down from the trees and the hillside, and fell upon the unwary travelers.

Kathryn pulled back on her mare’s reins so suddenly it half reared, dancing sideways across the narrow road. The outlaws dragged some men from their saddles, others hacked with blades and axes. The air rang thickly with the clamor, the cries and groans and clangs, and the sudden high-pitched scream of a wounded horse. From away to her left, Kathryn heard Wenna’s voice calling out to Lord Ralf, and then a face appeared at her saddle bow.

A beard peppered with filth, a grimy face ragged about the edges with matted hair. The glint of steel caught her eye, and she felt him clutch hold of her skirts. Her instinct for survival sliced through the chains of fear. She slashed down with her whip, and a weal of red stood out on one dirty cheek.

The outlaw reeled back, but only momentarily. His eyes went flat and dead, and he came for her again. She brought the riding crop down but he snatched it from her, and lifted his knife. She screamed, and threw her hands up over her face. She was still screaming when a strong arm closed about her waist and lifted her clear of the saddle. She felt another horse beneath her, and a strong, warm body against her own, and thinking it another brigand she began to struggle in earnest.

A voice said sharply in her ear, “Be still, Kathryn!”

She lifted her eyes to Richard’s grim face, dusty and grimy with sweat. There was a gash on his cheek, bleeding sluggishly. “The brigand—” she began.

“Is dead.”

He wheeled his mount around, and she clung fast to his shoulders, pressing against his tunic as the muscles beneath corded with the strain of controlling the terrified animal. Peeping up, she could see the rest of the party closing into a tight-knit group, fighting men to the outside, women and the baggage animals to the centre. Wenna was there, with Ralf himself busy slashing at two brigands with one sword. Many more lay bloody upon the ground. One of his own men also lay still, a horse standing, head downbent, beside him.

“We should have been prepared,” Richard murmured above her head, and his arm tightened about her, making her catch her breath in a rush. He sounded angry. She glanced uncertainly up at his face, and found his mouth and eyes hard, the bloody cheek standing out like a brand against his pallor.

“This is de Brusac land,” he added, looking down at her. “We thought here, at least, to be safe.”

Lord Ralf had dispatched one more of the brigands and the other ran off towards the forest, Ralf behind him. There seemed to be a great deal of blood. An arm lay neatly severed some feet away from them, and Kathryn felt her head begin to spin.

“Wenna is beckoning us,” his voice said, and she took a breath.

“My horse...”

“Is unharmed, and waiting.” There was a flicker of mockery about his taut mouth. “Did you hope it had fled?”

She closed her own mouth with a snap. Wenna was looking a little pale, but her voice was steady enough when they reached her. “You are hurt, Richard.”

He wiped the blood from his cheek with a
smile. “No more than a scratch, Wenna.”

Wenna frowned, but whether at the wound or his use of her name so freely, Kathryn didn’t know. She didn’t have time to ponder it, however. Her mare had been brought across, and Richard lifted her back into the saddle. She murmured her thank you with ill-grace, and settled herself once more to make the best of an uncomfortable ride.

He nodded briefly, and turned back to Wenna. They spoke a moment in soft voices, and then Lord Ralf came galloping up, flushed and breathing swiftly. His boots were splattered with blood.

“Geoffrey’s dead,” he said, without seeming emotion. “We’ll take the body on to de Brusac, the castle is not far now. No use in leaving it here for those vultures. I thought Piers would have had his land clear of brigands by now. But mayhap he’s too ill to care.”

Wenna sidled closer. “Your... that is, the Lady de Brusac came close to being slit open with a knife.”

Ralf looked around at Kathryn sharply, and flickered a look up and down before turning away. “She seems unharmed.”

“Sir Richard went to her rescue, my lord.”

“A small matter,” Richard said shortly. “Though I doubt the girl was in any real danger— her caterwauling was enough to frighten the hardiest brigand.” He said it sneeringly, and Kathryn’s fingers clenched on the reins as she lowered a flushed and furious face.

“You’re cut, man!” Ralf cried suddenly. “I hope you paid your attackers in kind?”

“I was over generous. He lies yonder,” was the grim reply.

“We are not far from de Brusac now,” Ralf repeated. “Come, we’d best ride on. How fare you, Wenna, my love?”

“I am unharmed, my lord.”

Kathryn was surprised how soft the cold voice became, and watched Ralf return her smile before he rode back to the head of the party. With a sigh, she kicked her mare into a trot.

Ralf’s idea of a short distance was by no means hers. They had two hours of hard riding before, finally, they came upon a slope and, looking down through dark woods, she saw the grey-white towers of a castle rising supplicant to the grim sky. Her castle. De Brusac.

It was drizzling. The outside of Kathryn’s cloak was already damp, and droplets of rain struck at her half-concealed face. They rode down into a hollow, dark with the trees, losing sight of the stronghold for a moment. But they soon came upwards again, along a leaf-dappled road, which led right up to the great, grey walls of de Brusac.

Ahead, Lord Ralf drew them to a halt, scanning the walls with narrowed eyes. There were no signs of any guards, and the place had a deserted look. If it had not been for the fact that the great gates were closed they might have thought it abandoned.

Lord Ralf rode back, spurring his stallion to a gallop, and drew up beside Kathryn with a scatter of damp dust. “You will ride with me,” he said softly. “If you betray yourself, or fail me in some way, you will die. Do you understand me, my lady?”

She met the golden eyes, and knew he meant it. She nodded jerkily and urged her own horse to follow him as they rode back to the head of the line.

The great grey walls towered before them, silent. Lord Ralf lifted his hands to cup his mouth and cried out in a bellowing voice: “Open your gates!”

Silence. A horse pressed closer behind them, and Sir Richard’s quiet voice said, “It looks empty, my lord.”

Lord Ralf grunted. Somewhere above them there was a clang, and then a helmeted head peered down at them from the gatehouse. “Who are you?”

“Lord Ralf of Pristine demands entry!” Richard cried out, making Kathryn start. A pause, and then the head turned back, no doubt to confer with some more of the same. “I mislike it,” he murmured, and Kathryn turned to look at him. The lines about his mouth were grim, and he frowned beyond her at the walls.

“Sir Piers is dying,” came the echoing reply from the wall. “What do you here, my lord?”

“Fine hospitality,” Lord Ralf muttered. Then, “I bring his kinswoman! Open your gates!”

A pause, and then suddenly the gates groaned and began to swing in, like a great mouth opening. Lord Ralf laughed abruptly, a triumphant bellow, and spurred forward. Kathryn went too, borne on the wave, fear and excitement warring within her.

If she failed, she would die. And once through the gates there could be no turning back. She must be... she
was
the Lady Kathryn de Brusac.

“My Lady de Brusac,” a voice mocked behind her.

She turned, her face flushed with the cold and her emotions, dark hair spilling out of the hood like night. “I am,” she said, haughty as a queen, and heard him laugh as she spurred on.

The castle yard was bare. The grim walls of the inner castle rose before them. An armored soldier came running, a pike in hand, and more followed from the gatehouse as Lord Ralf’s entourage poured in.

“My lord,” the man came to attention. “You’ll forgive my caution, but the brigands become more daring with each day, and most of our number are out hunting them in the forest.”

“We’ve made the acquaintance of your brigands already,” Ralf retorted coldly, and swung down to the ground. “Where is your master?”

“In the main tower, my lord.”

Lord Ralf turned, and held out his hands for Kathryn. She slid down as he steadied her, and stood a moment in the circle of his arms. And then he had stepped away and, retaining her cold hand in his, said, “Come, my lady. We go to meet your kinsman.”

It was a fine moment, a grand show for the watching soldiers and servants, peeping from a dozen doorways. The guard stepped automatically aside, as they went bravely forward.

Ralf pounded his fist against the heavy doors closed to them, and a grubby-faced servant swung them back. The hall was grubby too, old rushes and the stench of dogs and rotten food. A single candle wavered upon a sconce, and, under Lord Ralf’s curses, the man fetched it and hurried before them up narrow, twisting stairs.

An arras, brightly colored, though raggedly cut to fit the space. The servant brushed it aside, and a dog whined from the direction of the hearth. Candles burned brightly here, and the heat of the fire made the air heavy and hot. Kathryn hung back as Lord Ralf strode forward, but his hand closed on her arm and she was pulled forward in no uncertain terms.

A great bed stood in the middle of the room and, propped up against the bolster, beneath embroidered covers, was an incredibly old man. A yellow face in the shadows, scored with lines. White hair fine as flax, and a black-gummed mouth half agape, eyes open...

Kathryn could see them glinting. Black eyes, like her own, shining with life, fixed upon her.

“Sir Piers.” Ralf went down on his knees beside the bed. A claw-like hand stole sideways across the counterpane towards him, and he kissed the livid knuckles. “My lord, I bring good tidings.”

“Who is this woman?”

The voice was faint, crackled like hide in the sun. Lord Ralf turned, beckoning her forward. She came in a trance, graceful in the straight gown, the hood of her cloak thrown back to show her black hair and the smooth line of cheek and brow. In the candlelight she was beautiful, and Sir Piers stared as if the angel of death herself had come.

“This, my lord, is the Lady Kathryn de Brusac.”

A pause. The breathing seemed to pause too, and then went on, swifter than before. “You jest,” the crackling voice said. “I have no kin. I am the last of the great line of de Brusac.”

“My lord, I jest not. I wrote you a message. Did you not receive it?”

“I received no message,” he said shortly.