The Raven's Revenge (3 page)

“Gang?” Finch cleared his throat. “Cowards all. As soon as I shot the leader they ran off.”

Deserted him? Left him to die? Or did they go for help?

Katherine frowned and tucked a strand of hair back into her cap. Why did they not take him with them? And how would they find him now? He lay a good distance from the Melbury road.

Finch spoke again. “Quite foolish for him to attempt a holdup on a full moon. I could see him quite clearly. Although with that cowl I could not get a look at his face. Nevertheless, I expect he shall trouble us no further.”

Gerald coughed. 

“I have Jakes searching for him,” Finch said. “Better I had killed the blackguard, but likely he will die from the wound.”

He will not
, Katherine vowed.
I will not let him.

A vision of the man came to her. Even wounded and in pain, he had seemed strong and vital. But bullets carried noxious powder. She must get back to him and remove it before the poison spread.

“Mistress Welles,” Richard Finch’s voice pierced her thoughts. “What a surprise to find you here.” He looked her up and down boldly. She ran her hands over the damp folds of her fustian skirt and wondered if Father’s slap showed. Taking a deep breath, she raised her chin to meet Finch’s gaze while her stomach tightened.

A perfectly coifed brown periwig sat above a handsome face. Refined, if diminutive, features joined with cheeks and chin as finely chiseled as a marble statue. But his appearance held no attraction for her. Lips—perhaps a shade too thin—fell into their usual sneer, the straight nose tilted up too high, and cold blue eyes stared back at her.

Katherine suppressed a shiver.

“I was concerned to hear you had gone out in such dangerous weather.” Finch extended an elegant hand. “’Twas most imprudent of you, Katherine. But I shall not chide you now, instead I shall rejoice with you on this happy day.”

His well-manicured fingers hung in midair but Katherine did not take them. A very un-Puritan ruffle ran along his cuff. Like so many others, had he shifted his religion with the return of the King?

“Knowing your father apprised you of our betrothal this morn, I but awaited the storm’s end to join you.” Finch stepped forward, reaching for her hand. Katherine stepped back and pressed herself flat against the bookshelves.

Gerald stood across the small room, holding a sheet of paper close before his face. He paid no mind to their interplay.

Finch moved forward again. Eyes glinting, a smug smile played across his mouth. He pulled her fist from its hiding place in the folds of her skirt, and raised her knuckles to his dry lips. His nails bit into her fingers.

Katherine clenched her teeth, restraining the urge to grab her hand and flee.

Finch lowered his grasp, but did not release her or ease his grip. A challenge flickered in his eyes, and she knew he dared her to resist.

If she did, would he stop, or would he hurt her all the more? With vivid clarity, Katherine realized that marriage to him would consist of endless moments like this until he broke her will entirely.

But she would not scrap with him now. She must hasten back to the cottage, to the man Finch had tried to kill. She had no time to waste. The outlaw’s need was urgent.

“I pray you will excuse me. I shall catch my death unless I seek my maid,” she said in what she hoped was her most lady-of-the-manor voice.

Finch smiled, squeezed her fingers cruelly, and let them drop. “But of course. I await your return.”

Katherine clasped her hands behind her back. “Then you shall abide overlong.” 

“Look to yourself, girl,” Father said, waving her off, a petulant scowl marring his countenance. He brandished the paper at Finch. “We will see her soon enough. For now, we have business to attend. I believe this jointure is less than we agreed.”

As the two men fell into a heated discussion, Katherine snatched her cloak from the stone bench and slipped from the room. With determined strides, she crossed the great hall and took the stairs to the first floor, moving at a rapid pace until she arrived at her mother’s room. Once inside, she began to tremble. She hugged her cloak to her chest as shivers wracked her frame and a sob rose up her throat. The fear she had held at bay through the confrontation with Finch now hit her full force. She felt ill with reaction.

Dropping her cloak on the bed, she stepped to the casement window and pulled back the heavy drape. The storm had returned in all its fury. Rain poured off the eaves in a steady stream. The sky was dark and ominous. Her teeth chattered. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she rubbed her fingers where Finch had so cruelly clutched them.

Her mother’s familiar and comforting scent of rose still hung on the air. Katherine leaned against the cold windowpane as her heart ached anew.

A flash of light reflected off the glass. At first, she thought it was lightning, but there had been no warning thunder. She turned to see her maid entering the room. The girl held a candle.

Katherine’s hand came to rest on her pounding heart, and she heaved in a sigh. She had no wish to attend to some trifling domestic crisis right now. The kitchen staff should be able to complete washday without her. Or perhaps Lucy was here to tell her Finch would be an overnight guest because of the storm.

Despairing over that possibility, Katherine shuddered and turned back to the window.

As Lucy approached and the flickering light grew stronger, a face appeared on the glass. At first, Katherine didn’t recognize herself. How could she? There were no mirrors at Ashfield; mirrors encouraged vanity. But it was not vanity she felt as she viewed her own likeness.

The face looking back at her carried such sadness she found it shocking. Below the white cap, the skin was pale and colorless.  The eyes held a dull misery. The mouth seemed to have lost the ability to smile. The face was undoubtedly her own, but Katherine felt no kinship to it.

Perhaps she merely wished none.

Instead, she longed for a face that showed joy and happiness. A pretty face, and, dare she think it, a pretty dress made of a colorful shimmering fabric. The black dress she now wore disappeared into the shadows, hiding her body as effectively as it was intended.

Thunder cracked. A moment later lightning rent the sky, obscuring her likeness and taking with it her fanciful thoughts. Then her reflection returned along with that of Lucy who now stood behind her.

Katherine turned to her maid, noticing that something was moving in the fold of her apron.

“What have you there, Lucy?”

“Ah, mistress.” The maid scooped a hand into her apron and pulled out a small ball of fur that wiggled. She held it out to Katherine. “I looked for you first in your room. Then I thought you might be here. ’Tis a wee cat I’ve found. In the garden. Cook sent me for sage and I found it instead, all wet, so I brought it inside. Cook was angry I forgot the sage. An’ she said I should put the cat back. But I dried the wee thing off, ye see. I know’d I caint keep it. But, I thought…?”

As Katherine took it in her hands, the fur ball developed legs, a tail, and several very sharp teeth. “Ouch! ’Tis not a kitten you have found but a hellcat!”

She raised it up to her face. In the dim light, she could see it was gray with black stripes and white paws. Short white whiskers sprang from a white muzzle. The kitten stopped teething on her thumb long enough to look back. Its dark eyes twinkled as it sniffed her. Then it raised a paw and batted at her nose.

Katherine pulled it from her face and stroked behind its ears with her finger. Loud purring burst forth from the small kitty.

“It likes you, mistress,” said Lucy. “You wiln’t make me put it back in the rain?”

“No,” said Katherine. Today was her day to rescue outlaws and orphans. “It shall stay with me.” As the kitten stretched and snuggled, relaxing into her hand, her heart swelled. It would be so nice to have something to love again. She cradled it against her shoulder, and it melted into her warmth.

Lucy smiled at her. “Can I tell cook to give me some food for it?”

Katherine nodded. Since her mother’s death, cook had become altogether too autocratic. “Tell her
I
wish it.”

Lucy bobbed a curtsey and left, taking the candle with her.

With the warm kitten at her shoulder, Katherine did not feel so miserable. Gazing out the window, she saw the sky grow lighter. The storm appeared to have spent its wrath, and the rain had reduced to a drizzle.

The kitten yawned and began to purr again. Katherine scratched one of its little ears. “What to call you?” Should she name it in honor of her mother or brother? She didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl so she tried to pull the kitten from her shoulder, but it clung tight to her dress with its little claws.

“Well never mind then, it matters not—at least not yet. In any case, I shall give you a strong name.” She let it snuggle back into her shoulder. “A man’s name, I think. Even if you are female, ’twill serve to make you strong. What shall it be?”

The little cat purred instead of answering.

“Mayhap a big name, because you are so small. A name to grow into.” Katherine leaned her forehead on the cold window and looked down into the courtyard. There were several big mud puddles on the ground below. She prayed Finch would leave soon so she could tend the wounded man. If he still lived.

He must live.

But she must get to him soon. Time was passing. Now that the rain had stopped, she should go, even if Finch did not leave. Even without the book. The kitten mewed in Katherine’s ear as if in agreement. Her eyes searched the room, coming to rest on her cloak where she’d left it on the bed.

That’s when she thought of what to call the kitten.

“Montford,” she said. “I shall name you after the family who lived here, the family who owned the book I need. They owned most everything we have, probably at least one of your ancestors as well. ’Tis a good and noble name, and it belongs here, even if they do not.”

A sudden flurry of activity below grabbed her attention. The Finch coach rolled into view and stopped. The coachman jumped down just as Richard Finch appeared. Right before attaining the coach, he misjudged his step and landed in a big puddle. 

Katherine smiled.

Montford purred in her hands.

* * *

Gray clouds leftover from the storm hung low in the sky. Mullein and verbena, burnt for purification, scented the air inside the cottage. To Katherine’s great relief, the man’s condition had not worsened during her absence.

He lay like a pagan offering within a circle of candles. Their amber light cast his face in high relief. Katherine again noted his noble countenance, prominent cheekbones, and full, generous mouth.

“Who are you, my lord outlaw? Displaced royalist turned highwayman?”

Of course, he didn’t answer.

She laid out her supplies, taking some confidence as she lined them up. She had already decided to treat his head wound first, saving the most difficult task for last.

Dipping a cloth into a bowl of water, she bathed his forehead to cool the fever and cleaned a smudge of dirt away. Working carefully, she softened the encrusted area at his temple, pulling away long strands of black hair to reveal a dark ugly bruise.

“Ah.” She lifted a candle to see it better. “’Tis not so big but very bloody. Still, I fear the pain will be fierce when you wake.”

Would he wake with his wits, or would this injury leave him simple like Peter, the tanner’s son, after he’d been kicked in the head by a horse?

Katherine lifted the Raven’s head and cradled it in her lap. Upside down, his face lost its regal bearing; in fact, he looked rather amusing. She traced a finger over his broad forehead, down one cheek to linger on his lips before she realized the liberty she took and yanked her hand away.

What had come over her?

Shaking off her fancies, she wrapped his head twice with a long linen bandage and made a perfunctory knot before placing his head back on the floor.

In the flickering light, she opened the old medical journal and again studied the passage describing the treatment for a lodged-ball wound. Then, releasing a long sigh, she closed the cover and eased the book to the ground. Be it torture or succor, she must do it.

“I shall try not to hurt you, but I fear ’twill get worse before it gets better,” she murmured.

Picking up her scissors, Katherine cut the sleeve of his shirt in such a way that it could be reattached later. Dried blood affixed the fabric to the wound. She wetted the material, peeling it away bit by bit.

She gasped as she pulled off the sleeve to reveal an angry red welt, puffy around the hole where the bullet had entered. Dried blood crusted his skin all the way to his fingertips. She washed his arm, while her body ached in sympathy.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I knew more of what I am doing, Sir Outlaw.”

As if he agreed with her, his full mouth pulled into a grimace. She sighed again and wiped her hands on her apron.

Gritting her teeth, she inserted her finger into the wound. Warm red blood welled up onto her hand. Her stomach lurched. She tried not to gag.

The Raven shifted, murmuring incoherencies. She tightened her grip on his arm while she pressed forward until she felt something solid that moved when she tested it. It must be the bullet.

A great shudder ran through him. 

Katherine’s heart dropped. Bile rose in her throat as her fingers, slippery with his blood, inserted tweezers into the wound.

The outlaw groaned and pulled away, but she held his arm firmly with one hand while probing with the other.

She could not tell if hours, minutes, or mere seconds passed before she grasped the slug, drew it out, and dropped it on the floor. Blood gushed out the hole, bringing with it a sense of urgency and desperation.

Would she kill the man while trying to save him?

She held his arm tight, pressing on the wound until her fingers felt they would fall off. At last the bleeding stopped.

Katherine raised a shaking hand to tuck a strand of hair back into her cap. Now to purify the wound. For this, she’d brought a mixture of comfrey and alcohol distilled this past summer.