True Love (22 page)

“What, Phelan? Do you really think so?”
Achard's eyes were suddenly sharp as they regarded her.

“It's just a feeling on my part. I may be
wrong, but I will be so grateful if you will attend the hunt and
keep Phelan in your sight. And Eustace, too.”

“Of course, if that is what you want.” With a
last, hard look at her, Achard finally departed.

“Do you want me to leave, also?” asked
Cadwallon, coming up to her.

“No, of course not,” Catherine said. “You
cannot ride with a broken arm.”

“I can if it's necessary. No?” Cadwallon said
when Catherine shook her head at him. “By the look of things I am
the only guest who won't be hunting. I will be here in the hall if
you or Royce should need me, and I'll do my best to prevent anyone
from disturbing you while you are tending to your father.”

Catherine's next stop was Braedon's room. In
her haste she did not pause to knock. When she burst into the room
he had just finished shaving and he stood with a linen towel at his
face, staring at her. Robert nearly dropped a basin of soapy water
at her abrupt appearance.

“Catherine, if your father finds you here
again,” Braedon began.

“He won't,” she said. “He is in bed. He has
been poisoned.”

“Are you sure?” Braedon flung down the towel
and crossed the room to her. Catherine was by this time so upset
that she scarcely noticed he was unclothed.

“He's whiter than the sheet he lies upon,”
she said, her voice trembling a bit. “He is sweating, he has
stomach cramps, and the stuff he has been vomiting has a peculiar
odor.”

“Then you are right. Does he know how it
happened?”

“Or who did it?” asked Robert, looking
shaken.

“Braedon, I came to you because you told me
last night that you keep certain antidotes with you. I gave Father
herbs to make him vomit again, but he needs stronger medicine. Will
you help him?”

“You know I will, though I cannot promise his
recovery.” Braedon snatched the linen undershirt that Robert handed
to him.

“I sent the guests out to hunt,” Catherine
said. “Only Cadwallon remains behind and he has promised to stay in
the great hall, so no one will see you when you leave your room and
you will be able to continue the pretense of being badly
injured.”

“That's good thinking.” Braedon paused in
pulling on his undershirt to smile at her. “Thank you,
Catherine.”

“I pray I did not delay too long in coming to
you, but I wanted the others gone from the keep,” she said.
“Especially Phelan and Achard. How Achard wanted to stay, but I
made him go. Oh, Braedon, I am so afraid for my father's sake.”

“Hush, my love.” His embrace was quick, but
no less tender for that. Before he released her he kissed her
forehead. “From what you've told me, I think ground daffodil bulbs
will be the best antidote.”

Braedon knelt by his clothing basket and
lifted the lid. He tossed the uppermost layer of garments into
Robert's outstretched arms. Both men stiffened, gaping at the
contents of the basket.

“What is it?” Catherine asked.

“I believe we have just learned what the
poison is,” Braedon said, searching through the clothing and the
vials remaining in the basket. He sat back on his heels, a look of
disgust on his face. “The hellebore is missing.”

“How can that be?” Catherine cried. “You keep
the thong fastened at all times.”

“Not all the time recently,” Robert said. “It
has been left open while I've been caring for Braedon, but he or I
have always been in the room.”

“There were the hours when I was sleeping and
you left to fetch water or food,” Braedon said to him. “I suppose
someone could have crept into the room then and taken the packet of
hellebore.”

“Whoever did it would have to know in advance
what he was looking for and where it was,” Catherine said. “We
three know what you keep in that basket. Does Aldis?” she asked of
Robert.

“No, my lady, she does not. I would never
reveal so secret a detail,” the squire answered with no sign of
hesitation or dissimulation.

“I do not believe Aldis would steal
anything,” Catherine reassured him, “only that if she is gossiping,
she might mention what is here and someone could have overheard
her.

“There's another who knows what you keep in
that basket,” Catherine said to Braedon. “Gwendolyn knows. She
warned me about those vials and jars.”

“We are wasting time on a problem best
considered later, after we have done what we can for Royce,”
Braedon said. “Robert, never mind my tunic and hose, just give me
my robe. Then bring the water pitcher and my cup and come with us.
We know my utensils are untainted, but we cannot be sure of Royce's
water or drinking vessels.”

The cowled robe that Robert dug out of a
saddlebag and handed to Braedon was made of dark wool and resembled
a monk's habit. Seeing how completely it covered Braedon and how
the cowl could be pulled up to hide his face, Catherine wondered if
he often used it as a disguise. She put aside all such speculation
when they reached the lord's chamber, for Royce lay on his bed
writing in pain while the sweat poured off him.

“He has been sick again, just as you wanted,”
Ward said to Catherine, showing her the basin. “But now there is
nothing left in his stomach. It's dreadful to see him retching and
heaving with naught to show for all his pain.

“Sir Braedon!” The squire stared as the tall
man with Catherine pushed back his cowl. “We thought you were near
to death.”

“I have just made a miraculous recovery,”
Braedon said, and moved the squire aside to get to Royce.

“If you speak one word to a single soul about
Sir Braedon being here, it will mean your life,” Catherine told the
astonished squire. “Stand by the door with Robert, in case we need
you. Do not let anyone enter this room.”

“My fierce girl,” Royce ground out between
gasps of pain.

“We believe we know what the poison was, and
I have brought an antidote,” Braedon said to Royce.

“You may be too late.” Royce gritted his
teeth against another wave of stomach cramps.

“Nevertheless, we will try to save you.” As
Braedon spoke he was mixing the powdered daffodil bulb in his own
cup, using water from the pitcher Robert had carried from his room.
“This is going to taste like more poison, but you must swallow it,
and make every effort to keep it down. Catherine, come and raise
your father's head while I feed this to him.”

Catherine did as she was bidden. Royce's
stomach was in so much turmoil that he had difficulty swallowing
the antidote, but Braedon proved to be remarkably patient. Sip by
slow sip the healing potion went down and Royce clamped his teeth
and lips together to keep it there. When the cup was finally empty
Royce lay back against the pillows with a sigh. To Catherine's eyes
her strong and vigorous parent suddenly looked much older, and
terrifyingly frail.

“Since, according to both you and his squire,
Royce lost everything in his stomach,” Braedon said to her, “let us
hope he also lost most of the poison he had swallowed. The fact
that he is still alive suggests that may be the case. Or, the
poisoner may have been unskilled. Or frightened. The dose could
have been wrong.”

He looked into her eyes and Catherine saw in
his troubled gaze all the firm purpose that lay behind the oath he
spoke.

“I promise you we will learn who did this,
and the person responsible will be punished.”

It was an hour later and Royce, though still
white-faced and weak, was resting more easily, the antidote having
settled his stomach. When he dozed off Catherine judged it was safe
to leave him in Braedon's care for a time.

“We are going to need more water,” she said.
Picking up Braedon's pitcher she added, “I will fetch it directly
from the well so we can be certain it's not contaminated, and while
I am below stairs I will ask a few questions.”

“Wait.” Braedon touched her arm, keeping her
from leaving the room. “You must take great care. The person who
poisoned your father is calculating and determined. He would not
scruple to poison you, too, if he thinks you are near to learning
his identity.”

“I will be careful,” she promised.

Her father's squire sprang to open the door
for her. After swearing himself to secrecy about what was happening
in Royce's room, Ward had then declared that he would not leave his
master. True to his promise, he continued to guard the door with
Robert.

Catherine found Gwendolyn in the kitchen and
drew her toward the wooden shelter outside the kitchen where the
well was housed. They could speak there without being overheard or
interrupted by the kitchen help. Before Catherine could begin
questioning the maidservant, Gwendolyn began a tirade that was
typical of her sharp-tongued ill humor.

“There's a lot of gossip being whispered
about you and Sir Braedon,” Gwendolyn said. “They say you spent too
much time alone with him last night. You ought to be more cautious
where your honor is concerned. If you ruin yourself, it will
reflect badly on your father.”

“Sir Braedon is severely injured,” Catherine
responded mildly, being used to Gwendolyn's constant scolding.

“Bah! If he was so badly wounded, why wasn't
the castle barber called?”

“Because Robert and I were seeing to his
care.”

“You didn't go to his room until late
evening,” Gwendolyn said. “And while you were with Braedon, Robert
was huddling in a window embrasure with his hands all over Aldis. A
lot of help he was to his master.”

“Were you watching who went into and out of
Sir Braedon's room so closely?” Catherine asked.

“A servant sees things,” Gwendolyn said.

“Yes, I know, and you more than most, for you
have sharp eyes and sharp wits, too. Tell me, who besides myself
did you notice visiting Sir Braedon last night?”

“Are you jealous? Well, no wonder. I did warn
you before that you don't know much about the man. You can't be
sure what he's really up to.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He's always asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About the other guests,” Gwendolyn answered.
“From the first day he came here, Braedon has been overly curious,
and that squire of his is even worse, always poking into corners.
Even the men-at-arms have mentioned how the two of them are always
asking questions. They knew every detail about the plans for the
tournament before it even began.”

“That’s only to be expected,” Catherine said.
“Since Braedon is at Wortham to fight in the melee, it was only
natural for him to want to know what to expect.”

“Then there are the poisons I found in his
baggage,” Gwendolyn said. “What does he intend to do with them,
eh?”

“When I asked him about them he said they
were all herbal preparations carried here in expectation of injury
during the tournament,” Catherine said. “Robert has been using some
of them to treat his master, so I see little mystery there. Braedon
brought those vials here for his own use, and we know he has needed
them. Gwendolyn, have you tampered with any of those
materials?”

“I'd not touch them even if they were made of
gold,” Gwendolyn declared with considerable feeling. “They don't
belong to me. Besides, they are dangerous.”

“Have you told anyone they are in Braedon's
room?” Catherine asked.

“No, why would I?” Gwendolyn looked at
Catherine for a moment before speaking again. “My lady, you have
just asked questions of me which as your servant I was bound to
answer honestly, and so I have done. Now I have a question for you.
If Sir Braedon is so badly hurt, then why did he leave his room
late last night?”

“I am sure he did not,” Catherine
exclaimed.

“Why should you think not? Because he was
stretched on a bed of pain when you and your father left him?”
Gwendolyn hooted with derisive laughter. “Either Sir Braedon had a
midnight visitor or he left his room, for I saw someone coming out
of his door.”

“Who?” Catherine was so shocked that she
could barely force the single word past her lips.

“I couldn't see who it was. The stairway was
too dark. Shall I draw up a bucket of water for you, my lady?”
Without waiting for a reply Gwendolyn lowered the bucket into the
well and began to turn the handle to raise it.

“What were you doing on the stairway at a
late hour?” Catherine demanded.

“Lord Phelan wanted a pitcher of wine taken
to his room. It was after all the excitement on the stairs had died
down. I was helping to straighten the great hall when Phelan sent
one of his squires to get the wine. For some reason he had cuffed
the boy about the ears so hard that the lad was dizzy. I was sure
he'd dump the pitcher on the way back and we'd have another alarm
like the earlier one, so I offered to take the wine to Phelan.

“I knew I'd be safe enough,” Gwendolyn
explained. “I am too homely for Phelan – or Eustace – to want
anything extra from me. As I went up the steps I saw a motion out
of the corner of my eye, just a flicker of movement in the
darkness.”

“Was it man or woman?” Catherine asked.

“I don't know. The person was wearing a dark
cloak or robe, the kind of garment that covers you from head to toe
if you don't want to be recognized. Whoever it was went up the
stairs and disappeared in the dark. At the time, I thought it was
probably one of the lady guests, visiting Sir Braedon in secret. Or
perhaps Sir Braedon was well enough to visit one of the
ladies.”

Catherine did not respond to these remarks.
Gwendolyn's words sent a chill to her heart. What could Braedon
have been doing, creeping around the castle late at night, garbed
in his monk's robe?

“Here's the water,” Gwendolyn said, hauling
the bucket to sit on the rim of the well. “Hold the pitcher out so
you don't get wet and I'll fill it for you. How is Lord Royce?”