Suzanne Barclay - Knight's Ransom

Cat sighed and closed the door.

“Whatever’s going on, milady?” The maid’s narrow face was pinched with concern, her hands knotted in her apron.

“I don’t know, Etta. ‘Tis likely naught, but I’ll find out as soon as Margery and the others retire.” Stiff with dread and frustration, Cat moved through the undressing process by rote, absently lifting her arms as first the sideless velvet surcoat, then the silken undertunic were removed.

“You’ll feel better when this is off.” Etta released Cat’s hair from the braids coiled over her ears.

Cat didn’t feel better. Clad at last in her night shift, she sat on the stool before the fire while Etta tended her hair, but the rhythmic stroking of the ivory comb failed to soothe her frazzled nerves. Nor did any of the ladies appear who shared her room. The watch called midnight, the castle settled down to sleep, except for the occasional muted sounds of a few male voices drifting up from the hall.

Frightened, Cat crept to the door and cracked it open on the darkened corridor. “Garret?” she whispered.

“Aye. We’re here.”

“What news from below?”

A long pause, then, “I dunno. Oscar says he’ll come by and tell ye in the morning,” Gamel replied.

“Then there is something. Does…does it involve me?”

“Oscar didn’t tell us,” Gamel replied. “Only said ye were to stay here till he’d gotten to the bottom of things.”

Things like her sordid past?

That question had Cat tossing and turning all night. She rose early, splashed cool water on her face, hastily braided her hair in a single plait and dressed in a simple woolen gown. Leaving Etta asleep on her pallet by the door, Cat eased the oaken portal open.

Gamel’s face materialized in the still gloomy hallway. “You’re supposed to wait within.”

“I’m starving. What harm can there be in going down to the hall for a bit of food?” And information. “ ’Twill likely be deserted, for the men have all gone to the tiltyard to practice for tomorrow’s tourney,” she added, having heard them clatter out of the courtyard when it was still dark.

“Etta could bring something up,” Gamel said.

Cat shook her head. “I need to stretch my legs. If I have to stay cooped up here another moment, I’ll go mad.”

Gamel and Garret exchanged frowns, then Gamel sighed. “I’ll take ye down to break yer fast whilst Garret gets Oscar.”

Cat jumped at the opportunity, though eating ranked below finding Margery. During the long, sleepless night she’d decided Lady Ela must have become angry because the men pursued Cat and ignored her daughter. Doubtless the lady had told Margery to stay away from Cat so as to not suffer by comparison. ‘Twould be easily set to rights. Cat would promise to dance no more dances, talk to no more men. ‘Twas a small price to pay, for Margery’s friendship was more important than the attentions of any man.

Especially Gervase St. Juste. Cat’s hands clenched into fists and her steps slowed on the narrow stairway. Any man who would stoop to blackmail deserved to be denounced to the world. Sweet Mary, he was worse than Henry Norville, who had at least been honest enough, in the end, to admit ‘twas her father’s money he’d wanted. If she hadn’t feared exposing her sordid past, she would have shouted Gervase’s crime from the rooftops.

Cat paused at the entrance to the hall. Most of the men had indeed left to polish their skills for the morrow, but many women and older nobles sat at the trestle tables partaking of ale, bread and lively conversation. Her mood lightened as she scanned their familiar faces. These were her peers, her friends. With the exception of Clarice and a few of her cronies, these people liked Cat, wished her well. Fatigue and irritation with Gervase must have caused her to imagine the chill in the air last night.

Cat spied Lady Ela seated at the far end of the room, with her usual crowd of older matrons and Margery with them. With Gamel at her heels, she swept into the hall.

The noble diners fell silent suddenly as though they’d all been struck mute at once. Heads swung in Cat’s direction, smiles turned upside down, glances narrowed as they looked down their noses at her. Their contempt stopped Cat in her tracks.

Contempt? What had she done to…?

Nay! It couldn’t be, yet she knew with dread certainty that it was. Gervase had spread the word of her ill-fated liaison with Henry. Shame fired her cheeks and clogged her throat; she prayed for the floor to open and swallow her. When it didn’t, instinct urged her to bolt from the room. Pride kept her rooted to the spot. Damn. Damn. What was she to do?

Hot tears stung the backs of her lids, blurring the sea of disdainful faces. Drowning in misery, Cat sought out the only one whose opinion truly mattered. Margery, how can you think ill of me? she silently asked.

To her credit, Margery stood and started forward, her own eyes brimming with tears. Her lady mother grabbed her arm, jerked her down onto the bench and held her there.

“Come, let us leave.” Gamel plucked at Cat’s sleeve.

Aye. Cat twitched with the urge to flee the hall and keep running till she was back in England, safe in the protective bosom of the loving family who had stuck by her despite her mistake. But her parents had imbued her with their steadfastness. A Sommerville did not run; she stood and faced trouble head-on.

Raising her chin a notch, Cat cast about for an empty table. The only one sat on the dais. Lord John was not here, but by right of her family’s connection with the Angevines, she had often been asked to sup there with His Grace. “I will break my fast before riding out to the tourney field,” Cat said to Gamel. Spine as stiff as her resolve, she marched down the center aisle of the hall, mounted the single step to the raised platform and took the low-backed chair to the left of the duke’s lofty one.

A sullen maid, pressured to serve her by Gamel’s furious glare, set the food down so abruptly ale sloshed over the rim of the cup. Cat watched the liquid pool on the polished oak and felt her throat fill with tears. Though she doubted she could swallow past the fullness, she tore off a bit of bread, popped it into her mouth and chewed. It took two gulps of ale to get the first bit of bread down, but she kept eating.

Gradually the others went back to their own food, and the hum of voices rose to replace the awkward silence.

That they discussed her was a certainty. Unable to meet their eyes, Cat stared at the crossed axes decorating the far wall and contemplated burying one in Gervase’s treacherous skull. Thank God, her parents weren’t here to relive the horror of two years ago, the veiled slurs on her honor and on theirs.

Somehow she got through the meal, though the bread sat in a lump in her belly and her throat was tight with unshed tears. As she stood, an expectant hush once again fell over the assembly. This time she forced herself to look around at those she’d thought were her friends. The women regarded her with disdain. The men, even the old ones, were openly speculative, wondering no doubt if she’d be amenable to a tumble. Only Margery looked back with any measure of empathy and fondness.

What shallow, petty fools, Cat thought, so quickly swayed by a vicious rumor. Though she longed to crawl away and lick her wounds, she’d come to Bordeaux to cheer the Sommerville forces to victory in the tourney, and she’d not be driven away by such as these. “Come, my friend.” She looked to the hovering Gamel. “I’d take a turn in the garden to clear my nostrils of this place.”

Her comment made several of the ladies gasp in outrage, but Cat was beyond caring. Her misery had given way to rage. She was staying for the tourney and attending every function. And she’d find a way to repay Gervase for dragging her name through the mud.