My Lady Imposter (11 page)

The old man’s black eyes were suddenly shrewd. “I will say nothing, not yet. Leave the child with me, Ralf. You hover about like an attendant nurse-maid. She will be quite safe.”

Lord Ralf paused a moment, but could hardly refuse. Bowing stiffly, he left them.

Sir Piers met Kathryn’s big eyes with a smile. And yet there was a sparkle in his gaze, a hint of wicked amusement. And suddenly she realized she liked him, very much.

“Now, child. Tell me about...”he hesitated, while her eyes fixed on his. “Tell me of your journey from Pristine,” he went on smoothly, and if he noted her sigh of relief, he pretended he had not.

He watched, rather than listened. Watched the play of expressions on her face, the flicker of lashes over her eyes. He seemed content to watch, and when she had done, said:
“I am a dying man, child. An old man without an heir. The king is my liege, he will take my lands, and yet he is my deadliest enemy. On my son’s soul, I have sworn to hate him. I have no wish to leave him my de Brusac. I need an heir, to foil him. You will be that heir.”

She gazed at him, tears swimming in her eyes. “My Lord, I—”

But he held up his hand. “No. Say nothing. You must say nothing at all. You are my heir, Kathryn. I swear it, and will put it to parchment. The world will and must accept it.”

She bowed her head over his wrinkled hand, and kissed the heavy ring he wore. “My lord.”

“Go now. I must rest. I am very old. When I am rested, I will make out the papers declaring you my heir. I have a priest here, who can write them in the proper form. Tell Ralf that, child. And tell him also this...” His eyes slid to her, opaque. “After you are dead, de Brusac will go to
your
children,
your
heirs. It will not go to your husband.”

She went out into the hall, dazed with his words and their meaning, or seeming meaning. They were in the room off the hall, Lord Ralf and Wenna, Sir Richard standing by the hearth. It was he who came to take her hand as she stood in front of them. His hand was warm and strong, and she looked at him in surprise, noting the angry weal upon his cheek.

“You have not had your hurt tended,” she said. “I shall do it now.”

“My lady is most condescending,” he murmured, and the laughter in his eyes made her flush.

“I would do the same for anyone,” she said shortly, and brushed past him to where Lord Ralf stood.

“Sir Piers says I am his heir,” she said, “and that he will draw up papers tomorrow with the help of the priest.”

For a moment the golden eyes were lit like sunlight. And then he had turned to Wenna, whose own cold grey eyes were narrowing with pleasure. “We have won, then.”

“Did he question you?” Wenna asked sharply.

“Only of our journey from Pristine.”

They exchanged glances again. Sir Richard’s step sounded behind her. “Mayhap you need not have gone to the trouble of choosing someone with similar coloring after all?”

“There will be others less careless of questions than Sir Piers,” was the grim reply. “The servants have told me that his mercenaries will be returning shortly, and there is a knight among them, a Sir Damien, who already treats de Brusac as his own.”

“Then we have only him to deal with,” Richard murmured, and laughed. “We could take him between us like a felled tree.”

“Aye, we could,” Ralf s smile was affectionate towards the other man. He frowned, “Let the wench see to your cheek, man! I will seek out the priest and see what manner of man he is.”

He went out, and Wenna, after a single glance, followed.

“Our sweet Wenna stabs you with her eyes,” Richard murmured at her side, half-amused, half-mocking.

“She is a whore,” was the cold reply. “I take her of no account.”

“And you are not?” the eyes still mocked, and yet the mouth was hard. “I have yet to meet a Pristine peasant girl who has not given out her favors to some dolt.”

The black eyes were so angry for a moment it was as if firelight flickered in them. “Then you have met her!” she hissed. She took a breath, seeking control of her trembling anger, and managed, “Sit down, I will dress your wound.”

His eyebrows had risen up. “As my lady pleases.”

Scorn twisted her lips, but she turned to the serving girl and gave her a clipped order. The woman bustled off, and soon returned with water and medicines. Kathryn began to wash the wound with gentle fingers, trying not to think of him as the hateful Richard Tremaine. The fact that his flesh was cool and smelt of leather meant nothing. She rubbed salve onto the already mending wound, frowning as she noted the way his eyes slid down her soft, white throat, where the gown gaped a little over her bosom.

“It will heal without poisoning now,” she said, and stepped back abruptly with her bowl and towel.

“Tis not often so great a lady would soil her hands with a common soldier,” he murmured.

“Spare me your wit!” she burst out, angry and embarrassed by his smile.

He laughed, and rising suddenly strode towards her so quickly she was unable to retreat. He took the bowl from her hand and placed it on the table at her side. “Where did you learn your skills?”

She watched him, unable to hide the uneasiness in her gaze. “From my mother, before she died. Not only great ladies know of hurts.” Bitterness there. She bit her lip in dismay at having revealed it to him.

He put his hand out, his fingers curling into the tendrils of her hair at her shoulder. She felt herself drawn closer, and, bemused, came up against his hard chest. He stooped, setting his lips against the soft flesh of her cheek, in the shadows near her jaw. “Thank you,” he breathed, stirring her hair with his breath, and drew back. The blue eyes still mocked, but there was something else in them, something which made her being ache in the region of her heart. The meeting of their eyes lasted fully ten seconds, while his blue gaze tangled with her black.

And then she had backed away, mumbling something incomprehensible, and fled from the room and up the winding stairs. She threw herself onto the bed, and lay with her face buried in her arms for a long time, wondering why she felt so elated, and yet so miserable, all at the same time.

Sir Piers sent for his priest that afternoon, and the papers were duly drawn and signed. He seemed, Kathryn thought, much weaker than before. As if now his mind was settled over his land, he had no longer anything to hold him on the earth. Kathryn sat with him for a short time after it was done, but he did not speak to her and she was almost glad to leave. She had seen death often in her young life, and it was not something she liked to dwell on.

He lingered on for two more days, and then, on the third day when she came down for the meal, Lord Ralf came and knelt before her, and Wenna came to curtsey. For a moment she stood, straight and stiff, not understanding. And then Ralf said, “Sir Piers has died, Kathryn. You are the Lady de Brusac now.”

The golden eyes gleamed with triumph. He had won his gamble. He led her out into the castle yard with all due pomp and ceremony. She kept her chin high as she spoke. She didn’t know where the words came from. It seemed to her, at the time, that she was but an instrument for them. She faced the upturned faces of the people of de Brusac, and told them how she would make the castle’s heyday come again, how she would dispense justice with fairness and with firmness. She spoke for a moment with the fervor of a true de Brusac, and when she had done, weariness hit her like a stone in a well. She gazed about her with waking eyes, seeing for the first time the effect of her words.

The servants were listening, most of them were weeping. Lord Ralf’s face, beside her, was aglow with pleasure, Wenna’s was cold with disdain and dislike. Richard was staring at his feet, his fingers playing with the hilt of his sword. Kathryn put her hand to her brow, swaying, and a woman rushed to her with a goblet of wine, muttering words of sadness and hope and love.

“Kathryn,” Ralf breathed, when the servant had gone. “You have sealed our victory.”

But her speech had drained her, and his words gave her no pleasure. Instead there was a spark of shame, that he could use her heartfelt words for his own treacherous ends.

Beside her, Ralf and Richard had begun to whisper. Kathryn felt stifled; de Brusac being hers was suddenly a weight dragging her to her destruction, and she needed to be alone. She had not realized before what being the lady of such a place would mean.

She ate little, and when Wenna rose to retire was glad to follow her without protest. But it was not to bed after all. She must keep vigil, it seemed, by the old man’s body. She had to sit and kneel and pray and cry, while a withered little priest performed the rites and said prayers for the old man’s soul.

She remembered little of it. She slept in between the rising and sitting. The murmur of the priest’s voice soothed her fears and doubts. It seemed like a dream.

When Wenna came in the morning, sharp tongued, to harry her to her bed, she could hardly stand. She slept until afternoon, and woke refreshed and hungry.

The girl, Emma, brought food, eyes alight as they rested on Kathryn with an emotion she realized, uneasily, was love. Her speech, it seemed, had won her loyalty, but it had also won her the love which was less often its partner. She allowed herself to be reverently dressed, and went down to the hall, still wondering at her conquest.

The room was crowded. As she hesitated uncertainly upon the stairs, Wenna came hurrying up to her with a whispered, “The mercenaries are returned! Mind your tongue, girl, and don’t gawk!”

Grim men, tough and warlike. She scanned them, noting the tools of their trade, the swords and axes and daggers. They had seen her too, and silence fell over them like a cloud, as they turned to look at her. Her legs didn’t move. She had the sudden, sharp presentiment that she would not be able to go through with it.

And then Richard was striding towards her, parting the crush as he came, his spurs striking the stone floor so determinedly, so confidently. “My lady,” he said, his voice loud and clear, and reaching the bottom of the stairs, held out his bare hand.

She came down lightly, almost running, and her fingers clung to his. He stooped to kiss her hand, and in a whisper said, “They are not so eager as Sir Piers to believe in you. Guard yourself well!” He had straightened almost immediately, and, still retaining her fingers, led her towards one of the men at the forefront.

Broad shoulders, a face hardened with battle and treacherous work. The man bowed to her only slightly, almost insolently, and his pale eyes scanned her suspiciously.

“This,” Richard murmured close behind her, “is Sir Damien, your commander-at-arms.”

“Sir Damien,” she repeated. “I hope you will accept me in my grandfather’s stead.”

The man bowed again, murmuring some civility, but he was not happy. He had obviously hoped for de Brusac as his own, perhaps he meant to act as proctor for the king, and now she had taken it from under his very nose. He hated her, and she hadn’t the heart to blame him.

“My lady?” Richard had her hand again, drawing her from this man to that. She kept her smile on her mouth, though she ached to turn and run. But his hand held hers, and for some reason she could not turn coward, with him there so smooth, so seemingly untroubled by the danger.

When it was done, he led her across the hall and out into the garden. She took a sharp breath of the air, lifting her face to the warmth of the sky. For a time they were silent, and when at last he spoke to her it was without his usual humor.

“My Lord Ralf fears you cannot be left alone here, Kathryn. Damien is a problem, and must be kept under the thumb. You know nothing of guarding a place like this. You realized, did you not, that you would not be left to rule alone, despite your charming speech of the other evening?”

She bowed her head and said nothing, the weariness cloaking her once again.

“Ralf must go to London; the King is there.”

“Why?” she said, sharper than she meant.

“To show his loyalty, Kathryn!” The exclamation mocked her.

“A false loyalty. Why does he show it if he means to rebel?”

The blue eyes narrowed. “To test the air, to stave off suspicions. You are too curious, lady. Watch your tongue in any other presence but mine. I would dislike my bride to be a mute.”

She turned and stared at him with her mouth open. He closed it gently with a finger under her chin.