The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (19 page)

Godfrey breathed deeply and set his goblet down, his eyes closed against the memory.

"The German whirled and struck her down. He did not know his attacker was a woman. 'Twas over more quickly than words can tell it," he finished grimly, "and Lubias lay lifeless upon the stone."

"And the German?"

"His blood joined hers at the next strike of Rowland's sword. Then Rowland carried her away; he would not have her soiled by the Germans even in death."

Cathryn closed her eyes and clasped her hands. She would never have suspected that Rowland carried a memory of such sorrow. Then she remembered Father Godfrey's words.

"He carries her still," she said, opening her eyes to seek out the priest's.

Godfrey looked at Cathryn appraisingly. She understood much.

"Yea, he carries her still, and though his burden is heavy, he will not relinquish her."

"You have advised him to?"

Godfrey smiled ruefully. "He would kill the man who spoke such words to him of his Lubias, priest or no."

Cathryn sat silent, as did Godfrey, in the high-ceilinged hall, their food forgotten. She wondered, in the most hidden corner of her heart, if it were truly possible for a man to love a woman as Rowland loved his Lubias.

* * *

They stood near the stable, the smell of the hay pleasant, the heat emitted by the horses comforting. They stood far from the great tower to insure their privacy.

"Greneforde Tower had a neighbor," Rowland began, his dark eyes as bleak as death. "Lambert of Brent. He occupied a motte and bailey fortification to the east of here."

William waited, knowing there was more, knowing that Rowland had searched until all that had been hidden was revealed. He ignored the twist in his gut at hearing of Lambert, so close to Greneforde, so close to Cathryn.

"His holding was not impressive," Rowland continued, "and was destroyed by mercenary knights not a year ago. He and his men—" Rowland swallowed heavily—"lived at Greneforde for a few months."

William was silent, waiting for all of it, knowing he had not heard the worst.

"They left," Rowland continued slowly, "upon hearing of Henry and Eleanor's coronation. They left hurriedly after they had delayed as long as possible."

William waited, his eyes the color of heavy fog.

"Lambert was ever in the company of Lady Cathryn."

He had a name now for the man who occupied his wife's heart, a heart she kept carefully defended against him. A name for the man who had taken what rightfully belonged to him; the virgin blood that should have covered him had covered another. Lambert of Brent.

William le Brouillard turned away from Rowland and faced the tower, rising solidly in the darkness and the rain. His eyes were as impenetrable as the fog that lay shroudlike above the chapel. With steps quiet and quick, William moved toward Greneforde Tower.

Rowland, despite his loyalty to William, found himself pitying Cathryn of Greneforde.

* * *

William sought not Cathryn, not yet. He would give her every chance, though he could in no way imagine what could save her after what he had just learned. She had consorted with Lambert for months, breaking off the sordid pairing only when Henry took the throne, he who was vocal in his intent of restoring order to a wildly chaotic land.

William sought John the Steward—John who knew all that occurred within Greneforde's walls and would have access to information that perhaps Rowland had not. If there were words to save her, John would have them, but William would have the truth, whether it saved or damned her. He would know all before he faced her again. He found John on his way to the kitchen.

John was caught completely off guard when the lord of Greneford clasped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. Turning quickly, knowing who accosted him by the very strength of the grip, he faced a solemn William with black-eyed Rowland at his back. Tremors gripped him and rolled unevenly through his innards. This was to be a confrontation; he had no doubt of it.

"You have been steward of Greneforde long, John," William said quietly, with no sign of emotion. "There is much I would know of Greneforde's history. You will tell me."

It was a command and nothing less. John responded in the only way he could: he obeyed.

"Yea, Lord William."

William nodded his acceptance of John's capitulation and asked, "Greneforde has a neighbor, Lambert of Brent."

John's wide eyes and indrawn breath were all William needed in the way of confirmation.

"Lambert's holding was destroyed."

"Yea," John agreed.

"He came to Greneforde. He resided here, in my lady's company, for many months," William intoned, his gray eyes icy.

"Yea, he came—" John began.

"She sheltered him," William charged, his voice a heavy monotone, his manner as cold as that of an executioner.

John could see that the facts were lined up against his lady. Despite his fear of William's manner, John could not allow such an indictment to stand against Cathryn.

"Lord," he said urgently, "Lambert was not invited to Greneforde."

"Yet he stayed for many months," William softly contradicted.

"Yea, he stayed," John agreed, all thoughts of caution quickly evaporating in angry defense of his lady, "for there was none to make him go!"

"Lady Cathryn could have—" William began.

"Nay, not Cathryn," John argued, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. "Not she. She could do naught against him, though she did try."

William's black brows lowered in a scowl, his gray eyes appearing even stormier than before.

"She did not send him away."

"Lord, listen and believe what I will tell you, though I break the confidence my lady placed in me and whose honor I hold dearer than life," John beseeched. "Lord Lambert appeared at our walls with Lord Philip, Lady Cathryn's brother, in his grasp."

"I was told of no brother," William cut in, frowning furiously.

"Nay, none were told, and that was his sister's doing. Upon the death of her mother, Philip grew ill and was thought close to death. He was long in recovering his strength. It was at this same time that Lord Walter, lord of Greneforde, departed for the Holy Land. My lady knew her situation was dangerous: a young woman and a younger heir, left with a prize that many would covet. Philip was sent to Blythe Tower in greatest secrecy, his survival depending upon all thinking him already dead. So they separated for their very lives, with only a few knowing the truth of Lord Philip's whereabouts."

"And Lambert found him," William commented, not at all convinced of the veracity of the tale.

"Yea, through the duplicity of Greneforde's priest," John spit out.

"Holy God," Rowland murmured in horror.

"Lambert appeared with Philip in tow and all his knights with him, calling for Greneforde to open her gates to him. To surrender. There was no fight, though what remained of Greneforde's knights wished differently. Cathryn would in no way put her brother's life at risk. The gates were opened and Lambert came in. By nightfall, Greneforde's knights lay dead," John said harshly, his wise face stark in the dim light.

"Go on," William commanded.

"Lambert is no honorable lord," John continued flatly.

"Such things are done by knights," William argued. "Greneforde is not the first great tower to have been taken by treachery."

"Nay," John all but shouted, "such things are not done by knights sworn to uphold Christ's holy standard." His brown eyes wide, he croaked, "Lambert took my lady. With savage brutality he took her. Do you comprehend? He took her and beat her when she fought him. Have you not marked the scar that slices her brow? Lambert did that, the first time."

"It cannot be," William argued in a whisper, unholy images rising to curdle his thoughts with their poison.

John ignored him, his eyes filled with unshed tears, and said, "When Philip heard her cries, he rushed to aid her. Before her eyes, Lambert killed him."

"Nay," William said under his breath. It was all he could think to say. He believed it not. It was but a tale to turn his wrath from his wife, and spoken by one who openly confessed to unshakable loyalty. It could not be. It was too much like...

John saw the doubt on William's face hardening to disbelief. He had gone far, broken a sacred vow to give William the information he now possessed; he took a new vow that it would not be for naught.

He beckoned into the shadow of the kitchen wall and waited. "Come," he urged.

With slow steps a girl—nay, a woman—stepped away from the sheltering darkness into the relative light of the rain-wet yard. It was Marie.

William and Rowland looked her over in surprise. She was of Greneforde, her very cowering proclaimed her so, yet they had not seen her, and each had looked over the folk of Greneforde most carefully.

"You have heard," John stated baldly.

"Aye," she all but stuttered.

"They believe Lady Cathryn welcomed Lambert into Greneforde." John paused, as if reluctant to continue. When he did, his tone was gentle though his words were not.

"They believe she welcomed him into her body."

"Nay!"
Marie cried in horror, her lovely eyes filling with swift tears.

"You must tell them what you saw and heard, Marie. He is her husband and must know the truth concerning his wife."

When she hesitated still, the fear a livid mask riding her features, John urged, "You will do her no hurt if you but tell the truth."

Marie searched John's face and gulped heavily, wiping at her eyes with reddened hands.

"She loved her brother," Marie began simply, struggling to find her way through the painful memories. "Lambert used Philip to gain entrance. Once inside, he discarded the boy and searched for my lady. She was not hiding; he found her quick enough."

Lifting her eyes to stare into William's, she stammered, "I... I was with her... in the bedchamber. We heard him on the stair. She pushed me into the chest and bade me say not a word, to make no sound. Lambert found her, dragged her to her bed by... by... by the length of her hair." A small sob rushed out of her open lips; she gulped it down and continued: "I could not see, but I could hear. I heard her fight him, the sound of flesh meeting flesh, and then he struck her with his ringed hand and caused her blood to flow from a wound on her brow. This I know because I tended the gash myself when he had left," Marie asserted.

"And still she... she did not submit, and he told her... he told her"—Marie sobbed—"he told her that all the women of Greneforde would be taken as she was being taken if she resisted him, and that he would kill them, kill us... kill us... if she did not submit."

The sobs racked her shoulders, and she wound her arms around her waist to still the heaving of her stomach. She would have stopped if John had not commanded, "Finish."

"Philip rushed in to defend her, but... but... he could not. Lambert killed him. Killed him with his dagger or his sword, I know not. Lambert kicked Lord Philip's body from the chamber." Marie pressed her fists against her eyes as if she would grind out the memory.

"I next heard... he said that... that he had lost his lands and that he had taken Greneforde and that she...
she
," Marie cried hoarsely through her tears, "was part of Greneforde and his by right of conquest."

Marie's cries mingled with the lightly falling mist and soared to the gates of heaven itself. She could hardly stand, sobbing from the depth of her soul the pain she had felt and still felt for Cathryn, She leaned into the welcome embrace of John. He let her rest; she had told what she knew. There was naught else to say regarding Lambert and his taking of Greneforde.

William stood rooted to the rain-soaked ground, his face as white as a summer cloud. He had heard—heard every pain-filled word, and the pain had filled his own heart until he wondered how he stood to face it. His thoughts were filled with visions of his dark-haired Margret and then of Cathryn until the two merged and the pain was multiplied by more than two.

So much of what he had observed of Greneforde was clear to him now: the skulking of the servants, the distrust, the lack of food. And of Cathryn. She wore her strict composure as armor, and as armor it protected her. She was not a woman of no emotion; she was a woman shielding herself against pain—against a pain, both of the body and of the mind, that had killed many a woman of lesser strength.
Margret...

Cathryn, taken as spoils of war. And had he not said much the same to her himself? Yesterday. On their wedding day.

Rage, guilt, and sorrow twined as one and rose to choke him. He could not breathe. There was a blackness before his eyes that was heavier than any darkness of night. A dull roaring filled his ears.

He saw a vision of Margret, the blood pumping with rhythmic precision from between her legs to soak her favorite yellow bliaut. Her maidenhead had been ripped from her unwilling body and he had known it not, had known nothing, not until the life flowed from her in a brilliant pool. He had been powerless to help her; he had come to her too late. He had failed to protect her, to save her, when it was his sworn obligation to do just that. He had found the man, the knight, who had fallen so far as to take a damsel against her will, and killed him at a blow, but his Margret had bled to death, her life softly pulsing away in ever-slower beats until her skin was white and cool beneath his hand. His sister. Dead at fifteen.