Chapter Ten

The moon hid behind clouds, stars shining dimly in the dark sky. The fire crackled, and the embers glowed. Catherine sat on a comfortable, wide rock by the pit, tired after a long day and even longer evening of trying to get information from Emperor Conrad while evading his advances. She was losing her touch.

Mamie might have better luck.

Wood smoke lingered, mingling with the scent of roasted hare.

Gaston tore into a juicy leg. Her heart warmed at the sight, despite his messy face and hands.

“Are you full yet?” She laughed quietly.

“I don’t think I will ever be full.”

Most everyone else had found a place to sleep. The noblewomen shared tents. Some of the men slept on the ground, enveloped in coarse blankets and cloaks.

De Montfer insisted he was not tired, and she didn’t want to call him a liar in front of the boys. Jacques said he wasn’t tired either, though she’d caught him yawning.

Gaston refused to leave the dying fire and plentiful meat. He tossed the bone into the coals and wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand.

She reached over and ruffled his hair. “You are such a boy. You make me miss my brothers.”

Stephen, the youngest of her brothers, who were all older than her, would be twenty-three now.

Jacques sat up straighter. Sixteen? The dark scruff at his jaw marked his entry to manhood. “Don’t worry. I won’t ruffle your hair.”

He gave a shy smile and exhaled.

“You will be a heartbreaker.” She tapped her chin. “Do you already have a girl?”

“Non. Lord de Montfer says women are a distraction.”

Catherine glared across the embers at Payen, who scratched his ear without comment. She bit her lip and turned back to Jacques. “Really? Well, someday you will find a woman who makes you realize differently.”

“I hope she is as pretty as you, Lady Catherine.”

She leaned to kiss his cheek, noting the heat of a blush and finding him adorable.

“My father liked lots of women,” Gaston said. “But it never went well when the abbot found out.”

Catherine nodded empathetically, afraid to speak for she might laugh.

Payen stood, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “I think I’m tired after all.”

The boys grumbled.

Payen pointed toward the river, his cool expression brooking no argument.

After a whispered good night, the boys walked to the river to wash the grease from their hands and faces before racing back to their tent.

Payen stretched his arms over his head, his joints cracking. She noted the width of his chest and the length of his muscular legs.

Catherine nipped her thumbnail and sighed, her gaze traveling up.

In his amber eyes, desire was tangible.

She immediately looked away. Sweet angels of mercy, keep me from flinging myself across the fire and into his arms.

The air was thick. She stared at her brown boots scuffed with dirt. “Sleep well,” she told him via the ground.

Her necklace heated. Would Ragenard never let her rest? Perhaps if she could sleep, de Montfer could not so easily break through her defenses.

“I can come back once the boys fall asleep.” Payen’s voice was husky.

“Non, non,” she said, clearing her throat. “That won’t be necessary. I will seek my own pallet soon.”

“Catherine?”

She dared to meet his eyes.

He hesitated, as if uncertain, which made her wary. Payen was always certain. “Emperor Conrad will use you, then discard you.”

“What?” She tossed a small rock into the fire pit, and smoke plumed. Had Payen been jealous of the way she’d spoken with the emperor? “Why do you say that?”

“You think nothing of flirtatious laughs, casual touches.” Payen spoke dispassionately. “But I think he wants more from you. If the emperor demands your body, would you, as subject, feel compelled to give him what he wants?”

She rose on shaky legs. She sought only to gain Conrad’s trust and invite a revealing conversation about Emperor Manuel. What would she do if he asked her for more? She crossed her arms. “And how would you respond if a royal wanted you in bed?” She glared. “Or did you already comply?”

His jaw tightened before he deliberately relaxed and laughed. “Whatever a monarch wants, oui?”

She trembled, staring at his back as he left the dying fire.

She kicked at the embers until she found a piece of charcoal cool enough to touch. She searched for a piece of tree bark smooth on the inside, perfect for drawing on.

Sweet Virgin Mary, give me strength to see this journey through.

Catherine propped herself against a tree, settling the bark on her knee so she could sketch the surrounding night tableau. Crickets chirruped, and fish splashed in and out of the river. A frog sang in baritone while an owl screeched.

She let her mind wander, studying the shading of a limb over the rushing water, remembering the times she and Ragenard bathed and swam, frolicking as if their love would never end.

In the span of a week, she’d lost her husband in a joust and killed his only brother. George, his only surviving relative, attacked her. As she sketched, she allowed herself to remember the pain of losing Ragenard, which had become so entwined with self-condemnation. Grief and guilt were as one in her soul.

She drew absently as her mind quested. Could she forgive herself? She had sought absolution by the pope. Now she and de Montfer were taking care of the pope’s illegitimate grandson. Eleanor’s wily nature saw the child as a pawn, but her maternal nature would see the pawn treated with love.

Catherine’s eyes drooped, her body exhausted after so many sleepless nights. She didn’t feel the charcoal fall to the dirt.

Panic. Fear. She faced George for the first time since running away with his brother. Now she brought him more sorrow. “I’m sorry, George.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No!” She splayed her blistered fingers. “I sold everything to bring Ragenard to you. He asked if he could come home.”

After being strong for days, her knees buckled.

George reached out to support her. “You might as well come in.” He pulled her inside the dark hall of his home. It smelled musty, old.

“What of Ragenard’s body?” She turned back toward the door. He was her responsibility. All she’d been focused on.

“Simms will bring him inside. He can be buried in the family mausoleum, like the other Clemonts before him.”

Relieved, Catherine swiped at her tears. “Merci, merci.”

They reached a dusty dining hall, where George paused, as if hesitant to ask her to sit. “Where will you go now? Knowing my brother, I assume you did not live well.” He eyed her. “Frayed hems. Your hands. You have fallen far. No longer a lady.”

“I . . .”

His cruel observations held the weight of truth. What would she do? A widow without money or skill. She’d decided to throw herself at the mercy of her family. Surely, they could see past her youthful mistake and, if not welcome her, at least sustain her until she found her way.

“Where will you go?”

“I hope to go home.”

“Your family has disowned you. Have you ever received a message?”

“No. But where would they send one to? Ragenard and I traveled the countryside, too poor to make a home.”

“And you never bothered to send a note either. I know.” George tsked. “I know. We all know.”

Catherine’s shame welled. She would be forced to wander the road of fortune—but this time alone. As a young woman in love, she craved the adventure. By herself? The thought made her tremble.

“How will you do it?” His tone mocked her misery.

She patted the necklace Ragenard gifted her on their wedding day. “This is all I have, and I can’t sell it. Ragenard wanted me to keep it.” She covered the diamond pendant with her palm as if touching Ragenard’s hand. “He asked me to bring him home. I did not think of anything after that. I have my gown, the shoes on my feet. I traded everything else to get him here.”

“What did he give you?” George rose to his full height. “What do you have under there?”

“A necklace.” She pulled the pendant free from beneath her gown. “A symbol of his love.”

George lurched toward her. “Ragenard gave that to you? I thought it stolen.”

“Stolen?” Her belly clenched.

George grabbed the silver bowl from the sideboard and threw it across the room into the wall. Plaster chipped and fell with a clatter.

Her feet felt rooted to the carpet.

“I never dreamed the thief would be my own brother’s wife.”

“Non, it was a gift. When we married.”

“Were you really? Perhaps I should call you my brother’s whore?”

“We were!” She remembered the simple ceremony, Ragenard’s vow to protect her, love her. Why had she come here? “How could you say such a thing? Ragenard wouldn’t steal.”

Would he? They’d run away so fast. She’d assumed the necklace had been his to give.

George leaped at her, tearing her gown.

She ducked but tripped over a stool.

He hauled her to her feet. “Thief. Whore!” His gaze was distant, unfocused, as he repeated the words over and over. He gripped her throat. Black dots appeared. He would kill her. His brother’s body, her face, the necklace—the sights had sent him into the abyss.

Not willing to die, she stomped on his foot, then his knee, freeing herself at last. She sprinted for the door.

He chased her. Spittle at the corners of his mouth, George demanded the heirloom, but she couldn’t break free long enough to return it. He tore at her flesh, his nails raking down her neck. He squeezed again.

She could barely breathe. “Please let me go.”

“Never!” He pushed her back into the wall, the sideboard clipping her hip. The silver. “Die. You left me for my brother; now I send you back to him.” His thumbs dug into her airway, and she knew his anger would be her death. Did she deserve it?

“Non!” Summoning the last of her strength, she reached out to the sideboard, finding a silver candlestick with her fingers. She grabbed it, slamming it down on George’s head.

He dropped, blood spewing from his temple. When he tried to stand, she stomped on his gut.

He grabbed her ankle.

Sobbing, she tugged free, falling.

He lunged on top of her.

Leveraging her strength against the wall, she kicked out and rolled on top of him, bringing the heavy candlestick down once, twice, three times. Blood sprayed her face.

She heard an inhaled breath and looked up from George’s limp body.

The butler, Simms, stood at the threshold. “You killed him! Murderess!”

Certain the rest of the staff was behind him, she jumped up and ran toward him, ducking into his unsuspecting belly. He flew backward, and she escaped, running, running down the hall, out the front door, to the cart and Ragenard’s body. “Ragenard, why?”

“Wake up, Catherine,” Payen whispered. Because of Eleanor’s request, he knew where she’d fallen asleep and listened for her from his nearby tent. He knelt by her prone body.

“Ragenard,” she said before mumbling something incomprehensible.

No wonder the lady fought their attraction so hard. She grieved for her deceased husband.

He brushed his thumb over her plump lower lip. “Wake, Catherine, before you alert the others. Do you want people to think we are under attack?”

There. That was a joke. A fine one, and yet she’d slept through it.

He gently shook her shoulder. “Catherine.”

Her pale green eyes opened, and he saw the same emotions he’d seen in Louis’s eyes when he’d wakened him from a nightmare brought on by the massacre at Vitry: confusion, terror, bloodlust.

What disturbed the lady so?

She sat up. Looking around, she scooted back, her heels scuffing the dirt. “What happened?” Her voice was higher than normal. “Why are you here?”

As he had with the king, Payen centered her with details. “We are camped along the river on our way to Pergamum. You must have fallen asleep.”

Her charcoal-smudged cheek and the twig in her hair did nothing to mar her beauty. “I had a bad dream.”

Payen sat back on his heels. He had to assume the dream was worse than bad, judging by the scream. “Beset by demons?”

She looked away before a smile teased her lips. “Are you trying to be amusing?”

He raised his palms and shrugged. “I went in search of a sense of humor.”

“I have none to spare.” She gathered her knees to her chest.

“Would you like my cloak?” He stood, then realized he wasn’t wearing it.

“Was that a jest?”

“No. Poor planning.” He had come running once he’d heard her scream. He knelt and turned away to point toward the trees. “If you come back a little more, there is shelter. The trees will block the wind.” And privacy, so he could find out what drove her from restful sleep.

His heel crunched something, and he lifted his boot. A piece of charcoal. And a long stretch of bark. With markings on it. He discreetly tucked the bark inside his boot.

“I am not kissing you again.” She shook her head, her sable hair falling loose from its plaited bun. His fingers itched to smooth the soft strands.

She lifted her chin. Her porcelain skin made the charcoal smudge stand out.

He reached out and wiped the mark free.

Would she let him kiss her?

She watched him warily.

Payen dipped down, scooping his hand under her elbow, lifting her with him. “Come. I know what an awful storyteller you are, so I will entertain you.”

Glaring at him, she snapped her fingers and looked down, searching for something on the ground. After a moment or two, she gave up with an exasperated sigh.

What did he have secured in his boot? Should he give it to her now or find out more about the mysterious Lady Catherine? He could always return it later. His curiosity piqued, he kept his voice modulated. “Afraid, Catherine?”

“Never.”

“I will keep you safe,” he said, though she seemed fine now.

“How many times do I have to tell you—I can take care of myself.”

“Night terrors don’t play fair, do they? King Louis has them too.”

She stilled.

“You’ve been attacked, haven’t you? And that is what keeps you from sleeping. I’ve seen it in soldiers but never thought to look for the signs in a woman.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

The lady spun from his hold and ran toward the line of tents. She slipped into the one shared with her fellow ladies of the guard.

He waited for the rest of the night.