My Lady Imposter (10 page)

“Then I will explain, my lord. You had a daughter. The Lady Alys?”

“Alys?” The black eyes wandered, at last, to Ralf, and fixed there. “What of Alys? She is long dead; died as meekly as she lived.”

“I met her once at Court, Sir Piers. I remembered her well. I was impressed by her sweetness, her goodness.”

“Oh, she was good enough,” the old man sighed impatiently. “Too good for this world mayhap. But she had no substance. Come Ralf, women should have some substance, eh? Where would we be if they were all saints?”

“She was indeed a saintly woman, my lord. But—” he bit his lip. “Did you see her before she retired to the Convent of St Ursula, Sir Piers?”

A pause and the eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me this is my daughter’s bastard?”

“My lord...”he lifted his hands, let them fall.

“The story comes from the girl’s own lips, and from the nuns. A girl was born to your daughter over seventeen years since, shortly after she entered the convent, and the child was brought up by the nuns. Your daughter, it seems, did not wish to have her shame known, and refused to notify you. I chanced upon the girl when I was in Bristol and saw at once the resemblance to your family and yourself, my lord.”

“I see it too.”

“She is like your daughter... your son, too, my lord. Do you not think so?”

The old face twisted, as if at some great, hidden pain. The eyes returned to Kathryn and fastened there. Ralf s hand on her arm pressed her forward again, towards the bed, and she curtseyed deeply. The withered hand waved her up, stretching for hers. She gave it, trembling, and glanced uncertainly down at the gnarled fingers.

The black eyes wandered over her, as if uncertain of her reality. “I see the eyes, and the mouth. But still... any wench with such eyes might be taken as one of the de Brusacs, my Lord of Pristine. We are a French family, from the south, who came after William had taken England from Harold. We all have black hair and eyes, and the black passions to go with them!”

“My lord,” Ralf looked affronted. “I come in all good faith. I –”

“Enough. I am dying, Ralf. I have no time for the niceties. You know what will happen to my lands when I die. That butcher Plantagenet will take them for his own and his favorites. I have no heirs left. He has already killed my beloved son. I do not want to give him all this. Do you wonder I question the miracle you claim to have found me?”

“I know how much it must mean to you, my lord, to have an heir,” Ralf said softly. “Both of us hate him equally, I think. The girl is your kinswoman. Look at her! She is yourself in female form.”

“Aye, she is.” The black eyes closed suddenly. “Bring her again in the morning, when the light is better. I will look again then.”

“My lord—”

“Never fear. I will live that long,” he said drily. Ralf frowned, but gestured Kathryn out. She went gratefully, all but stumbling on the threshold. Sir Richard’s hand came out to catch her arm and steady her. He had been waiting there, no doubt listening to every word.

“Quietly now, my lady. De Brusacs do not run from their fears, they turn and face them.”

She scowled at him, hating that mockery in his eyes, but Lord Ralf had joined them. “Take us where we may refresh ourselves,” he told the servant sharply. “Move man. The lady is weary and wishes to repose herself.”

The servant’s eyes skimmed her as they were lowered, insolently, and then he had shuffled past them, candle high. Far above, the stone towers and turrets echoed with the rumble of thunder. A storm was brewing as night closed, and Kathryn shivered. The castle was huge and draughty and dirty. She had no wish to remain in it. Her body ached, her stomach growled. She longed for Grisel’s familiar scolding voice, and jumped when Sir Richard whispered in her ear, “Take a firm hand with your servants, lady. They will resent an interloper, but they will respect you if you are firm.”

She turned to glare at him, as the servant’s candle receded in the gloom. “I have no intention of doing anything, Sir Richard. I am not staying here.”

He smiled a little. “Are you not? You have no choice, for the time. Did you think you had only to come and speak once with the old man? You will need to do more than that, if we are to win his lands and castles to our cause.”

“Your cause?” she murmured. Then, “He hates the king.”

Richard shrugged. “His son died in one of the interminable French battles. He says the king slayed the boy. He is a bitter man, and Ralf plays upon it for his own gain.”

“Why do you tell me this?” she demanded loudly.

“Hush!” He glanced down at her again, suddenly somber. “I am your friend, Kathryn. Remember it. If you have need of me, I will be here.”

“You?” she repeated in amazement. “Why should you be my friend?”

“I am instructed by Lord Ralf to protect you against all evil.”

“I doubt he meant his own,” she murmured.

“He will not harm you. Not yet. You have not finished what you must do. And the heir must continue to live, must she not, to take possession after Sir Piers dies? No, he will not harm you yet, Kathryn.”

She hurried after the others, trying to dismiss his words. She could look after herself. She needed no help from such as he. She had no friends here, and needed none.

Wenna was waiting for her, cold as ice. As if she had never ridden hard from Pristine and been attacked by brigands. There was a serving girl, sly-eyed and untidy.

“Emma,” Wenna said, “this is the Lady Kathryn de Brusac.”

The girl’s slow eyes widened a little at that; she made a hasty curtsey. “You will serve her from now on, and obey her orders.”

Another swift glance, and the girl looked expectantly at Kathryn, who stood uncertainly at the threshold. Wenna made an impatient noise, “Help her to tidy herself, girl!”

Kathryn submitted to the clumsy fingers, though made complaint over the rough handling of her long hair. Wenna watched with a cold quirk to her lips, and when all was done, took Kathryn aside with:
“Well, what did the old man say?”

She told her briefly, without any inflection in her voice. Wenna frowned thoughtfully at her long, slim fingers. “He hates the king so much, mayhap he will overlook the strange luck of your story, for the sake of that.”

“He seems very ill.”

The grey eyes mocked. “He will be dead soon enough, never fear. And then de Brusac will be yours. Curb your impatience for power a little while yet, Kathryn.”

“Power?” she repeated in puzzlement.

Wenna smiled coldly. “You will be the mistress of de Brusac. The lady of all the lands and estates adjoining. What think you of that?”

Kathryn could find nothing to say for a moment, the idea seemed so improbable. She, Kathryn, lady of this place? And for how long? Would Ralf let her live long enough to enjoy her new status?

The other woman moved impatiently, saying, “Come. We will go down to our supper now. And remember,” sharply, as Kathryn made to move past, “you are a docile, devout lady. Act as one.”

The hall had been brightly lit, and the table set with trenchers and jugs. Sir Ralf was standing by the fire, staring into the dancing flames, while Richard stood at his side, murmuring close to his ear.

Like, Kathryn thought in disgust, the devil tempting our Lord. She would not trust him, nor count him her friend. She had already made up her mind about that. She had only herself to depend upon here.

“My lady,” Lord Ralf cried, when the two women appeared from the stairwell. He came hurrying across, and Kathryn stepped aside, expecting him to take Wenna’s hand. Instead, to her surprise, he came to her and bent low at her feet. She stared at him in some amazement and it was only when she met Sir Richard’s mocking blue gaze over his head, that she realized she was gaping like a peasant.

“Rise, please, Lord Ralf,” she murmured and flushed wildly. Still, her ill-ease did her no harm. A girl used to convent walls would surely have blushed.

“Come, my lady. There is a repast prepared,” he said, taking her hand firmly on his arm. “Sit down here, near to the fire. Wine!”

Wine was brought hastily, and poured. She smiled at the hopeful glance of the page and watched him color. Lord Ralf cut the finest meats for her, and selected the finest pastries out of the poor selection. Her trencher was overflowing. She smiled and thanked him, as she had been taught, but the strangeness of it all was trying to her spirits and she ate little.

“How long do we remain at de Brusac?” Wenna asked softly, when the meal was almost done. “As long as Sir Piers lives,” was the reply. He glanced over his shoulder, but the servants were out of earshot. Lord Ralf leaned forward. “He seems much alone here, apart from a few men-at-arms. His knights have deserted him and the brigands made his forests their home. I like it not. He has his mercenaries out now, as you heard, trying to rout them.”

“Mayhap he knew of our arrival all the time, and ordered our attack,” Wenna whispered.

“A dying man does not bother with such pretence. No, he knew nothing. It is not him I fear. The mercenaries, Wenna, are the danger. Will they accept Kathryn? If not, we must battle them and turn them out. It can and will be done, if necessary, but...”

There were weapons high upon the grey walls, just as there had been at Pristine, and Kathryn eyed them across the table. Moldy-looking tapestries hung over doorways, to stop draughts. Dogs gnawed bones by the huge fireplace. Far away, the hundreds of souls who served de Brusac went about their endless business.

Opposite her, Sir Richard caught her eye. He wore the mocking look she hated. She wondered if he mocked her because his pride rebelled at giving her, a peasant girl, an impostor, his hard-earned allegiance.

After the meal, one of the pages sang them a ballad accompanied by a dulcimer. This pleased Kathryn immensely, for she had been unused to music played for her pleasure alone. She clapped her hands in pleasure and demanded, in a suddenly unguarded voice, that he sing again. Ralf frowned, and she remembered she was supposed to be docile, but the page had heard and, smiling, began again. The outbursts had charmed her servants, who had thought her poor spirited before.

Wenna finally rose and, catching Kathryn’s eye, announced her intention of retiring. Kathryn rose too, reluctant to leave the music, and they went up a twisting stair in the wall to their rooms. She had not realized how tired she was, until now, and though the memory of the brigands disturbed her momentarily, she soon fell asleep.

Wenna was particularly short-tempered the following morning, and when Kathryn could not keep still for her dressing, she pulled her hair and called her a fool.

“At least I don’t whore for my daily bread,” Kathryn returned pertly, and was as stunned by it as Wenna. The color slowly faded from the other woman’s cheeks. They were already enemies, and now nothing could alter it.

Lord de Brusac was propped up in his bed, his head supported by an unyielding bolster. His black eyes fastened upon Kathryn as she curtseyed, and he beckoned her closer. Today, the shutter was opened to the morning light, and sunshine spilled coolly across the rugs on the stone floor and the embroidered bed curtains, picking out Kathryn’s clear skin and black, curling lashes.

“What eyes,” the old man breathed softly. Lord Ralf, in the background, smiled. Kathryn glanced up at de Brusac suspiciously, but he smiled and said, “Come child. Tell me what you think of being removed from your sheltered cloister-life by my Lord Pristine here?”

She bit her lip in thought before replying carefully, “I mean no disrespect, my lord...”

“Feel free to speak as you feel, child.”

“I did not like it half so much as I like it here.”

He nodded. “The piousness of such a place is all very well for those with the gift for it, like my daughter, but for those, like yourself, with so much life... I think you have spirit, Kathryn, and it would be a shame to see it quenched by the nunnery. Turn sideways, child, that I may see your profile.”

She did so, and stood with her head tilted up. There was a long pause, and then the old man sighed. Lord Ralf came hurrying forward, ready with his excuses if something were amiss. But the old man merely said, “She could pass for a de Brusac, my lord... She has the features and the coloring.”

“But you are not convinced, my lord?”