The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (24 page)

Cathryn watched, her irritation mounting with each moment. If things did not turn around—and quickly—William and his horde would break through every last one of Greneforde's defenses, for if Marie could be turned... It was not that she bore Ulrich any ill will—in fact, he was a charming lad and had coaxed a smile from Cathryn himself—but Marie was different. Marie had come to her for succor, an orphan in a world ripped apart by war, and Cathryn had supplied it in full measure. Freeborn and alone, Marie had been welcomed into Greneforde, a safe haven in a world dark with uncertainty; even when Lambert had come, Cathryn had kept her safe. Marie needed her.

Cathryn coughed and the two spun to face her, alarmed at being caught in their lord's chamber.

"I am quite certain that your lord wants you, Ulrich," Cathryn announced.

Ulrich left quickly enough at hearing that, but not before he had looked meaningfully at Marie, who blushed and lowered her eyes. In truth, Cathryn had never known Ulrich to leave a room so slowly.

When he was gone and clattering down the stairs, she looked at Marie, who was just getting her blush under control.

"I worry for you, Marie," Cathryn said gently, entering the room more fully. "Ulrich—"

"You need not worry for me, lady," Marie interrupted with a wide smile, her coyness vanishing like the mist at morning. "Ulrich cannot be taken seriously, not with all his gay talk and his broad shoulders; this I know." Her eyes fixed on a point in the space between them and grew dreamy. "But, lady—" she grinned, suddenly aware of Cathryn again—"I am having a gay time not being serious with him!"

And she all but skipped out of the room.

In all her life, Cathryn had never felt quite so... unneeded. It was a singularly odd sensation.

Descending the stair to the great hall, not quite sure what she was going to do with the rest of her day, Cathryn almost bumped into William.

"Cathryn." William smiled, clearly glad to see her. She smiled weakly back, feeling that even in so small a gesture, she was losing ground to him. "Rowland and I are off to hunt. If all goes well, there will be fresh meat at today's meal."

"And who will accompany you, my lord, besides Rowland?"

William frowned for a moment and answered, "Why, no one. As I said, 'twill be just Rowland and I. Do you doubt that I can provide for the table?" he teased.

"Nay, my lord." She sighed. "I know well that you will not return with an empty hand."

It was just that she looked for a reason to get Ulrich out of the keep and away from Marie, but she could not say so to William.

William also had left certain things unsaid with Cathryn. When he and Rowland left, they did not head for the wood on the Greneforde side of the river Brent. Instead, they made for Lambert's former holding.

* * *

The clouds of dawn had fulfilled their promise. The day was full of rain. It came down gently but steadily, soaking the already wet earth and swelling the brooks, flooding the banks of the river Brent. Yet they had crossed it easily, perhaps because they had no thought of being dissuaded by mere water, and now sat mounted on their shivering horses, surveying Lambert's legacy.

It was a motte and bailey fortification, or had been, the walls all of wood. One wall was ashes now, long since cold. The roof was half gone; fractured timbers, charred and black, struck into the gray sky.

It was naught but a ruin.

Lambert would claim it not, not with Greneforde and her stone walls so near at hand.

Rowland and William shared the thought, though not the words.

Movement and a heavy grunting in what was once a cultivated field caused both heads to turn toward the sound and hands to go to swords. It was no man, but a boar of immense size rooting for food in that deserted place. William smiled with cold satisfaction. He would have his meat for Cathryn and he had not had to hunt for it; it had come to him handily.

Pulling forth his spear, William took aim with a steady hand and let fly. It struck the beast in the shoulder. Enraged, the beast charged, his eyes red, the blood running in a stream down his leg to the rain-soaked earth underneath his feel. It was a sight to strike fear in any man, for only the bravest hunted the wild boar. He was a ruthless and fearless killer, striking with his sharp tusks whatever was at hand, and could rip the bowels out of a man with but a few slashing cuts.

William le Brouillard faced his quarry with a cool eye; if the beast had been blessed with more reason, he would have stopped his headlong charge and reconsidered his adversary. But he had no such reason. He was a wild beast, nothing more.

In one motion, William dismounted and pulled his sword free, the metal glinting dully in the heavy air. He stood his ground as the very earth shook with the pounding of five hundred pounds of blood-maddened animal. William's eyes glinted, matching the deathly glimmer of his blade. He waited.

The beast was upon him, and with a swift turn William sliced downward at the base of the neck, breaking it with the force of his blow. The boar dropped at his feet, dead in an instant.

William raised his sword again to the sky, the rain mixing with the blood and coursing down the blade in ever-widening rivulets of red. With a mighty hack, he separated the head from the body and kicked it away. It rolled into the debris that was all that remained of Lambert's bailey.

Rowland watched all in silence—amused silence.

"You did not miss with your throw."

"Nay," William agreed.

"You could have killed him cleanly had you aimed for the lung."

"Yea, 'tis so."

Rowland watched as William quickly slit the carcass and blooded the animal, staining the thick mud at his feet a richer shade of brown.

"Boar's head is fine eating," Rowland remarked casually. "You have thrown the best away."

"Nay, he was too ugly to eat," William disagreed, cleaning the blood from his sword on the wet grass a few paces away from the killing site. "We must make do with the body."

"You are covered in blood," Rowland observed as William remounted. "You will most likely want a bath when we return to Greneforde."

A vision of Cathryn bending over his body, the heat of the water dampening the hair that framed her face, rose before him. He and his wife had shared the image of such a scene before and it had rocked her composure; how much better might be the reality of her touching him? All of him.

William smiled and urged his horse into a canter.

"I most certainly will."

Chapter 13

Again Cathryn was in the storeroom in the undercroft, as she had been at the same time the day before. This day she did not spend her time on the precious seed that William had brought as part of his bride price. This day she studied the cloth. It could not stay long in such damp surroundings or it would molder. It was only sensible of her to inspect and tally what had been gifted to her through marriage and to determine where it would be stored on a permanent basis.

Though Greneforde had once been prosperous, she could not remember a day when they had possessed cloth such as this. It was most fine. The fabrics were rolled and stored in a large chest, glistening richly even in the dim light of the storeroom. Cathryn did not dare hold her taper near them for fear that a falling ember would burn a hole. Setting the taper in a holder on the wall, she cautiously drew near the open chest, afraid to touch the splendor at her fingertips, yet helpless not to. There were silks and sarcenets and baldachins and they were cool to the touch.

Gathering her resolve, she lifted a brilliant azure from the pile. Even the summer sky did not have such a hue. With it came a rich acajou, rivaling the lush brown of freshly turned fields, and then a shimmering aureate. She let it cascade against the azure and it looked like nothing less than the sun against a cloudless sky. Beneath the aureate was ebon, and she thought how well the color matched her husband's hair; it might make a fine tunic, though it was an unusual color for such a choice. Then cordwain followed by burnet and then bure; all shades of brown from deepest red to yellow. All beautiful. And then she saw, at the bottom of the pile, a rich scarlet silk with golden thread. It was in her hands and at her cheek before she realized what she intended.

"'Tis called acca, from the city of Acre," Father Godfrey said.

"Your pardon," Cathryn said quickly, dropping the cloth.

"Silk woven with gold thread—'tis called acca," he repeated, misunderstanding her.

"'Tis most fine," she said calmly. "'Twould make a kingly mantle for William, would it not?"

"It would," he agreed pleasantly.

"Your pardon. Father, for having to delay the reading of the funeral mass."

"There is no need to apologize, Cathryn. It can just as easily be performed after today's meal." Godfrey smiled into her solemn face. "Have not the dead all eternity, where a thousand years is as a day?"

"'Tis odd." She frowned, absently fingering the scarlet acca so near her hand. "William said much the same to me."

Godfrey smiled broadly and approached the chest, smoothing the cloth with his hand.

"It pleases me that some of God's Holy Word has penetrated William's skull after so much effort."

"You have been with him long?" she asked almost shyly.

"Many years, though not until he had departed Damascus. I have known Rowland longer."

"Then you did not know him as a child," she said, a little disappointed.

"Nay, I did not, but I know of his childhood, short as it was."

Her expression was so hopeful and so wistful as she stood there caressing the scarlet cloth that Godfrey decided to tell her what he knew of William le Brouillard without betraying any trust. Knowing more of her husband might help her to soften toward him; that she was curious he took as an excellent portent.

"His Father lost his lands to Matilda's man, he of Anjou, and died in the process," Godfrey began. "William, just a lad of less than ten and two, began his knight's training while his mother and sister traveled the land, staying with first one relation and then another, staying long enough for hospitality to sour."

"I did not know he had a sister," Cathryn murmured.

"Yea, and he loved her much, though he did not see her often, for he had his obligations to uphold. In time, the wandering from home to home weakened his mother to the point of death." After a pause, he added, "She died before William could return."

"How sad," Cathryn said softly.

"Yea, sad for them both, for William felt driven to earn his accolade at an early age so that he could support his sister with his knightly feats."

"And did he?"

"Oh, aye, he won his spurs before the age of ten and eight, in part because the knight he squired under was a harsh man and prodded those he trained with a steel tip."

"Please continue," Cathryn prompted when Father Godfrey had been silent for many minutes, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

"He rode as swiftly as angels about God's will to his sister's side... but too late."

"Why too late?"

Father Godfrey blinked and swallowed before answering, and his tone was reluctant.

"She died just hours after his arrival, lying near death even as he rode through the gate. She died in his arms."

Cathryn absorbed that. Truly, her husband had known sorrow in this world. He had known sorrow, yet his spirit had not been dulled.

"Her name?"

Godfrey looked deeply into Cathryn's eyes, pleased with the compassion he saw there.

"Margret."

Cathryn nodded. Margret would be included in the mass.

"'Twas after burying her that William departed for Damascus."

Where he could so easily have died. After all, what had he to live for? Why, he had lived to find a home. He had lived for Greneforde.

Father Godfrey noted that Cathryn had not stopped fingering the scarlet acca, though she seemed unaware of it.

"The cloth would flatter you, Cathryn," he observed quietly.

Again, with a start, Cathryn dropped the fabric.