The suspicion that something was amiss gnawed at me. I had learned long ago to trust my instincts, and this time they were telling me to flee. However, my own safety was of little concern; what spurred me on was William’s.
Godwin was raising an army and I did not want William caught in the middle of it. It was imperative that my message reached him, but I dithered, wondering whether it was best to return to my room and try again tomorrow, or whether to continue with my quest to find a lad willing to carry my letter tonight for a coin. Or should I risk taking it myself? The letter had almost fallen into the wrong hands once already, and I was not prepared for it to do so again.
Decision made, I reluctantly headed towards the depths of the palace. If I wanted to catch the old man in the tavern, I would have to make my move now, otherwise the opportunity would be lost for another day. I needed to become Cat, because to leave the palace as Caitlyn, traipse the streets to find a tavern, then try to return unseen and unchallenged was nigh on impossible
Even as Cat, the risk I was taking was great – changing from Caitlyn to Cat and back again meant four more transformations this evening, and each time I turned I increased the chances of being seen. I would simply have to be careful.
The palace had yet to settle down for the night, supper was still in full swing, and servants and soldiers alike were in abundance. Several times on my way to the granary my scalp prickled and I had to turn to check whether I was being followed.
No one was there.
Nerves shredded, I nevertheless fought to keep my pace unhurried, ignoring the curious stares of any servant I passed, until finally when I left the busier areas and headed down some steep steps and into the bowels of Baldwin’s palace, the noise of the castle gradually abated, until it faded away altogether. It was then that I thought I heard quiet foot-falls and soft breathing. I imagined the rustle of clothing and the scrape of metal on stone, and more than once I felt certain that someone was behind me.
I made two mistakes that night, and both of them contributed to a man’s death, but I was focusing too hard on my task to listen to that inner voice urging me to abandon my mission and try again tomorrow.
I kept imagining the old man drinking the dregs in his tankard, slowly rising to his feet and reaching for his staff. Undoubtedly he would be there tomorrow, and the next day, but I was reluctant to wait, so instead my thoughts led me to imagine his eyes flicking cautiously to me as I walked through the door, and the realisation on his face that I was the one he had been waiting for these several evenings. I would give him the parchment, and we would go our separate ways.
Damn, but I wished I had the foresight to steal an old cloak. My gown was too rich for the likes of the women who frequented taverns. I should have—
What was that?
My hand was on the granary-door latch when I heard a rustle. I cocked my head, listening intently, peering back down the passage, my eyes trying to pierce the gloom.
These subterranean corridors were ill-lit, only one brand burning in each, and the light they produced was not enough to chase away the shadows in my mind.
A rat ran over my foot and I bit back a cry at the suddenness of it, before letting my relief out in a long, slow breath. Rodents did not bother me unless they walked on two legs instead of four, and I chided myself for my jumpiness.
Satisfied that I was alone, I opened the door and slipped inside. This had to be quick. I wanted to transform swiftly and be on my way. The sooner I reached the inn, the sooner I would be back in the palace and curled up in the relative safety of my own bed.
It was not to be.
Tostig’s man caught me in mid-change, although I wasn’t aware of his presence at first, too engrossed in the pain of becoming Cat. His gasp of revulsion swiftly brought me back to myself, and I could only guess what sight I presented.
The shock of seeing a man with a knife in his hand and an expression of horror on his face was enough to halt the transformation process for a heartbeat.
The faint light from the open door behind him fell on me, sufficient enough to show him the hideousness of the half woman, half cat which I had momentarily become. His eyes bulged in their sockets and his mouth was agape.
I expected a cry or a scream, or even a roar of rage, but what he said shocked me. ‘Lady Gytha was right,’ he whispered in a horrified voice.
Gytha – even as I heard his words, I was shouting at myself for my own stupidity. When would I learn to trust my instincts? I had known in my heart that Gytha had made a connection between Cat and Lady Caitlyn.
There was nothing for it – it was him or me. One of us had to die. I suspected it was probably going to be me, by the murderous look in his eyes. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live” rang in my head as clear as the bell for mass, and I understood that my time in Flanders was done, either way.
Never before had I tried to reverse the process of transformation halfway through, and I wasn’t sure it was a conscious attempt on my part, or whether whatever magic was at work had decided that Caitlyn was better than Cat in this situation.
Without waiting for the change to be fully complete, and ignoring the agony crashing through me, as soon as my limbs lengthened and my half-formed paws became hands once again, I launched myself at him.
His reaction was instinctive.
He brought the knife up, slashing at me even though he was falling, knocked off balance by my unexpected charge and the horror of the grotesque creature coming at him out of the dark. My weight and his revulsion drove him backwards through the open door behind him, and he fell heavily onto the floor, his head hitting the flagstones with a loud crack.
He went limp underneath me, and I collapsed on top of him, fully Caitlyn once more, and hurting more than I had ever hurt in my life. I had killed him. Thank the Lord.
The fight went out of me as suddenly as it had come upon me, but for a while I was unable to move, so I lay there, sprawled on top of a corpse and praying no one would choose this moment to need a bucket of oats.
A faint shifting below me, made me stiffen, and I waited for it to come again, guessing what it might be, trying to will away the torment still coursing through my limbs and the rest of my poor, battered body.
The steady rise and fall of the corpse’s chest gave lie to my assumption that my attacker was dead, but a dreadful realisation that I soon might be occurred as the pain coalesced to a point just below my ribs, and I knew what had happened.
With a groan, I rolled off him clutching at my side where his blade had cut my flesh, warm blood seeping through my fingers. I wasn’t sure whether the pain still flooding my body was from any other wounds or the aborted transformation, and I had no time to examine myself. I had to get the man inside the grain store and put an end to him before he regained his senses.
No, wait, think, Caitlyn. He is insensible now, but he might not stay that way for much longer. Better to kill him now, then move the body. Whether he was unconscious or dead made no difference to the weight of him, but if he became conscious when I was trying to shift him…
The knife was on the floor a foot away, the blade listening darkly with my blood.
Saying a silent prayer, although whether it was for myself or for the hapless man I was about to dispatch into God’s keeping, I was uncertain, I reached for it and grasped the hilt, raised my arm high then plunged the knife into his heart.
His eyes flew open and he tried to hitch a breath, the rasping gurgle far too loud in the quiet.
I stabbed him again, and then once more, just to be certain, and as the twitching of his limbs diminished the life faded from his open eyes.
I sat back on my heels. What had I done? I had killed a man, not quite in cold blood, but not in hot blood either. I should have continued to change and attempted to escape as a cat, but my body had other ideas and had made the decision for me. Or was it the spell which had been responsible? After all these years, I was still not certain how the magic worked. I do not think Arlette had been either, but that was by the by, and I understood that my mind was rambling from shock.
Forcing myself to do what was needed, I considered my options. There weren’t any, apart from concealing the body, and hoping it would not be found until I had decided on my next course of action.
I could do nothing about the stains on the stones beneath him, and I did not even try. I was hoping they wouldn’t be discovered until morning, and maybe not even then. So instead, I clambered unsteadily to my feet and staggered towards him.
My grimace as I took hold of his ankles, turned into a rictus of pain as I began to drag the dead weight of him through the door.
After shifting him a foot or so over the granary door’s threshold, and unable to move him any further, I stopped, panting, and checked the corridor once more. It was empty and I sagged against the door frame, my fingers going to the wound in my side. They came away sticky with blood and I wondered just how badly he had injured me.
I could hardly traverse the length of the palace wearing a bloody dress. It would not take long for two and two to become a very accurate four. If I intended to treat my wound, I would have to do so myself, here and now, before I lost any more blood and became any weaker.
I undid my bodice and eased the fabric off my shoulder, peeling it away from my side, the already congealing blood sticking nastily to the skin. With my breath whistling between my clenched teeth, I gingerly traced the length of the wound with one shaking finger. Two to three inches, I guessed, lifting my breast out of the way for a better look.
The edges gaped like a mouth and I wished I had some catgut handy to sew those lips together. Catgut for a gutted cat. I stifled a wild laugh, realising that shock was setting in, or maybe it was blood loss. The thought chilled what little blood I imagined I still had left running through my veins.
Giving myself a silent talking to, I picked the slick, wet knife off the floor and used it to slice a couple of strips from the bottom of my petticoat. Folding one piece of linen to make a pad, I pressed it against the cut, before awkwardly winding the other strip one-handedly around my ribs.
He had sliced me rather than stabbed me, which was fortunate. The wound wasn’t a fatal one, unless it became infected. Wounds often did, and the thought was of some concern. I had seen enough men, and women for that matter, die from infection, and that particular death didn’t appeal to me.
Wait…
The letter! Where was it?
I dropped awkwardly to my knees and felt around for it in the half-dark, and when I eventually found it after a mad scurry and some frantic patting, I remained on the cold stone, too weary to move.
I had no idea how long I stayed there, but when the bell for matins rang, faint down here, but still audible, I realised tomorrow was already upon me. The messenger was long gone and so was the night.
Stiffly and with great effort, I clambered to my feet, wincing with each and every movement. Taking a tottering step forward, I eased the door open, letting a small amount of light into the storeroom, and craned my neck down to peer at my injury once more.
While I was insensible, the cut had bled profusely, and the white linen was dark and clotted. But at least the blood didn’t appear fresh, and my probing fingers came away from the fabric sticky but not slick.
Would I be better off as Cat or Caitlyn? Cat carried the least risk. If Tostig’s man was found and I was unharmed, I might have tried to bluff my way out of it. Yet with a gash in my side and covered in blood, I had no chance of denying any involvement. Plus, I could barely walk, so even if I did change my dress, I could hardly appear normal. Tostig would smell the lie on me as easily as a wolf smelled blood.
There was only one choice – Cat.
I sank carefully back to the floor and considered my options. As Cat, I wouldn’t be able to give the message to the old man in the inn, therefore I would have to change back into a woman before I met with him. That meant I had to find somewhere safe, and where there was a dress handy, for I could hardly walk into a hostelry daubed in blood and clutching at my side. The odds of finding such a place was slim to none.
I gradually came to realise that I didn’t have a hope in hell of passing the letter on and I also came to understand that the only safe place for me was with William. I needed to get to him and ensure the Duke received the information. Therefore I needed to be Cat. That was the essence of my plan – travel as a cat and hitch a sneaky ride in any cart heading to Normandy.
The choice was actually no choice at all.