The Catherine Kimbridge Chronicles #1, Inception (35 page)

“It’s quite simple, my young friend,” Raymond answered. “You’re now the Commander of the King’s personal guard.” 

“…And you’re going to kill the queen before she gives birth to that half-breed abomination,” the dark-haired woman finished.

“Cat’s instinctively know those who love them. On the same token, they also know those who have not yet been converted.”  -
Facts Well Known
 

Eight razor sharp claws and a score of sharp teeth dug into his exposed and defenseless foot. By instinct, as much as thought, he flung his leg hard, tossing his assailant across his small sleeping chamber.

Considering the abrupt nature of her flight, the kitten landed with considerable grace. Casually, and with a complete lack of interest in anything else, Catechizes sat down to lick a forepaw. Satisfied her mission complete, the purring grey and white cat continued grooming; seemingly engrossed with some unseen speck of dust. The large male that her mistress, the girl child, adored was up and would soon see to her feeding.

Still grumbling to himself, Thomas GrimHolden swung his legs over the side of the bed. There would be no going back to sleep this day. Too many things were going on to be lazy even for a few minutes. In an odd sort of way, he was grateful that Jewel’s cat had awakened him, not that he intended to admit it to Jewel...or to Keysis as she often called her kitten.

He had been having the dream again. He smiled, a wane, self-depreciating smile. He dreamt as much as any man, but for him there were dreams and then there was THE dream—a fire enveloping everything and everyone that had ever been dear to him. Sadly, the dream was true—the last remaining specter of a horror that had occurred nearly sixteen years earlier. He had been a much different man then when his beloved brother had been king.

To be sure, he was still powerfully built, standing over six feet tall and almost half that in width. Despite his size and middle years, his body was well toned and his muscles rock solid. He was a monastic soldier, a knight, in the Grimedian Order of Knights. Even more importantly, he was Grim. Not in demeanor, but in title. He was the head of the Order of Grim. Many of the knights added Grim to their surname when they took their ecclesiastical vows, but tradition dictated that only the head of the order was addressed by that honorific alone.

Looking about the spartanly furnished, but thoroughly cluttered room, GrimHolden’s eyes fixed on the kitten daintily licking her paws. Only an occasional flutter of her tail, illuminated by lamplight from the adjoining antechamber, gave any indication that she was aware of his scrutiny. GrimHolden walked to the chest, deliberately choosing a path through the pile of his cluttered belongings that would take him by the cat. A quick twitch of his foot sent it scampering out of his way and through the door to the antechamber. He sifted through his clothes, which were piled haphazardly on the chest. He was looking for a pair of trousers both clean and not in need of mending. Keysis peeked through the door, drawing her back along it as if to scratch something unreachable by paw.

“Why do you look to me, cat? I’m not your owner. I don’t even like cats...” He paused, considering, and then sighed, “But then you know that, don’t you?”

He sighed again, as much to himself, as to the cat. He had never been particularly fond of cats. God, however, in his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to burden him with an orphaned niece who adored (and was adored by) cats—cats of all ilk and ownership. How many times had he sat in the Petitioner’s Hall listening to some great noble woman or merchant’s wife complain bitterly over the loss of a cat, only to have the feline in question make an inopportune entrance from the adjoining library, usually in the company of his ward, Jewel. Again he sighed; he was not being fair. In truth, Jewel did very little to encourage the cats and she was far from a burden. If he had a daughter of his own, he would have been no closer to her than he was to Jewel. She was his daughter, in all but name.

Satisfied that he was not going to find a better pair, GrimHolden selected one of the less crumpled tan breeches and a shirt that had seen better days almost a decade ago. Perela would not be happy with his selection. She never was.

Perela was the Mistress of the Kitchens and unofficial Mistress of the Monastery. She considered all knights and their families to be her children. And she was not above scolding those children when she felt the situation warranted.

She found GrimHolden a special challenge. He had defied all her attempts to secure for him a suitable mate. Rumor had it she had promised his mother on her deathbed that she would see him “wifed” and by God that was one promise she seemed intent on keeping. When GrimHolden left the palace in Pershara and took up residency in the monastery, she even went so far as to leave her royal post and assume a similar role with the Order.

The knight wrinkled his brow. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry. It wasn’t even a lack of willing partners. He was a handsome man—despite his affinity for old and misused clothes—furthermore, he held a powerful position and came from the noblest of families. For GrimHolden, however, there was one aspect of a marriage that he would not – could not – do without – love.

Many years ago he had given up the crown in favor of a younger brother whom he loved and, who quite frankly, had been better suited to wear it. His brother had shown GrimHolden the importance and value of waiting for the right love. Despite the pressures from court, Randolph his brother, the King, had refused to marry until he had found a woman he could love with all his heart and who would love him back in kind. His patience had been rewarded.

GrimHolden’s bother had been blessed with a wonderful wife and a loving marriage. The woman had been a treasure beyond all-price and had stolen Grim’s heart too.  That simple fact and the love he bore the memory of a brother that had been King haunted GrimHolden and would not allow him to compromise on the issue of marriage.

When the palace burned those many years ago, Grim’s brother had died trying to protect his bride and newborn daughter. He had made the ultimate sacrifice. GrimHolden knew from his brother’s example that there were some things worth dying for.

Giving his boot one final tug and slipping his ever-present sword into its scabbard, he proceeded through the door into the antechamber. Sitting in an overstuffed reader by the fireplace was a younger man of perhaps thirty. He was trim and, if anything, more muscular than GrimHolden. He was holding a small grey and white kitten—stroking its forehead with a finger that seemed disproportionately large for such a task. Keysis was purring loudly enough for GrimHolden to hear a full twelve feet away.

“Good morning Duncan. I see that damn cat is no better a judge of character than the barmaids at O’Kieffy’s tavern.”

Duncan GrimBennett grinned. “Of course she is. She’s sitting on my lap and I didn’t even have to buy her an ale.”

The older man chuckled.  They had been close friends for longer than either cared to admit. Duncan was the Master of Arms, a post he filled two years ago when GrimHolden vacated it to become the Grim. It was unlikely that anyone in the monastery could best Duncan with the sword, bow or lance – No one except perhaps the Grim.

“Speaking of ale, I could use a little something before we head out this morning.” Duncan continued.

“Well, perhaps you’re right at that,” GrimHolden grinned. “Shall we see what Perela has cooking for breakfast?”

“And what we can steal for this little one.” The younger knight was still holding the cat as he joined Grim in the hallway.

The hallway was dark with patches of flickering torchlight illuminating the chiseled stone walls. Skylights spaced every dozen yards or so were dark.

“Good Lord, man.  Its still night. What time is it anyway?”

“It’s half an hour before first bells. I thought you would want to get started before Father Thomas 'asked' you to do the morning Mass.”

“Good thinking,” GrimHolden agreed. Many of the knights were ordained and could conduct a Mass or give absolution. In truth, they seldom did. That was what the monastery’s Father Superior was for. At least that was how GrimHolden saw it. Father Thomas took a different point of view, especially where the ecclesiastical duties of the Grim were concerned.

Rounding the corner, Duncan and Grim entered the kitchen. A score of cooks and their apprentices scurried about. The smell of cheese breads in the ovens mixed with the heady aroma of the ox that was slowly rotating on the spit over glowing coals. The coals sputtered as hot juices dripped on them. The smell made GrimHolden’s stomach rumble in anticipation. The Grim was noted for his hearty appetite.

Across the room, Perela saw the two men enter. Her look was anything but pleasant when she saw what Duncan was carrying. Hoisting her skirts with a stately gait that belied her generous size, she stalked over to the two knights. Her gaze was stern, but as she approached, it was obvious that her stare was not meant for the knights but for their small furry charge.

“What are you doing here?” the woman challenged.

Duncan gave Grim a quick “we’ve been caught” look before turning back to the Mistress of the Kitchens. “Ah, Mistress Per...,” the younger man began before a sharp look from the woman cut him off.

“I told you to be at the back door when the milk wagon came in the morning,” the stout woman said in a stern voice while shaking a finger at the kitten.  The kitten responded by attempting to bat the finger. “It’s a good thing for you, I was there, or you’d be not getting any cream!”

Ignoring the reaching paw, Perela took the kitten. “Good morning, Gentlemen.” she said with a nod as she turned her back on them to head back into the kitchen proper.

“Good morning to you, Mistress Perela...” Grim began.

“We were hoping to make an early start for the town” Duncan finished.

Perela paused and peered at the two men over her shoulder. Both men nodded in unison. Perela looked from one to the other, sizing up their obvious attempt to secure her permission. As if she had any say in what men did, she thought.

“Heading out early to the Harvest Fair are we? Aye and I suppose you’ll both be wanting your breakfast in a basket now too, won’t you?”

“Aye, that we would,” Duncan answered with just a touch of the same eastern accent the old cook was affecting for their amusement. It was hard for Duncan to resist teasing the woman, especially when she seemed to be in a good mood.

“Aye, well, you’ll not be the first,” Perela chided back smugly. “Your girls beat you here by a good half hour.”

‘Your girls’ almost certainly meant Jewel and Elainia, Grim thought. Half an hour meant they’d be well along the Dunshire road by now. “Well I guess we had better follow her if we don’t want Jewel stealing every cat in town!”

“You’d think that girl was a dragon, the way she draws cats” Duncan agreed.

“You shouldn't joke of such things!” Perela admonished. “And she such a pretty thing. Reminds me of myself at her age, she does.”

Somehow Duncan had trouble picturing that, but for once his better judgment had the upper hand, and he said nothing.

“The baskets?” GrimHolden prompted.

“Hold your horses,” Perela said as she bustled over to a big table by the bread ovens. “I’m just an old woman. There’s a limit to how fast I can move at my age.”

Duncan grinned broadly. He had seen this woman box the ears of a knight twice her size and knew that she would never be ‘just an old woman.’ To him or anyone else in the monastery.

But before Perela had lifted the lid to the first basket, there was a firm and somewhat disappointed cough from the corridor behind Grim and Duncan.

As one, the two knights turned. Standing behind them, with his arms crossed, was Father Thomas. Grim gave up any thought of making an early start for the festival.