A Lord for Haughmond (44 page)

     Would that she could flee. Katherine yearned to cover her ears and not endure this woman’s humiliation. Her husband’s mother deserved better. But she stood silent—and terrified. She and her child were equally helpless.

     Sir Geoffrey’s sarcasm continued. “Did you think of me when you were banished to a nunnery? Did you blaspheme me when you endured a life of celibacy?” He quirked a brow. “Did you ever touch yourself? Like this?” He fondled her breast once again. “Or like this?” His hand pushed her skirt between her legs.

     With her hands clenched in fists, Sister Mary Margaret met Katherine’s gaze, her eyes raw pools of shame and misery. Helpless to do aught for the nun, Katherine struggled to calm her squalling babe—and her own fears.

     A footfall, sharp and urgent, sounded from the corridor. Katherine’s heart leaped with hope. Thanks be to Saint Winifred, someone had arrived to save them.

     Anne must have reckoned the same, for she called out, “Pray, help us!” But in the next moment she shrank back with a frightened cry.

     Lady Adela swept into the chamber with her black cloak swirling about her ankles and her black eyes flashing with anger. They settled on Katherine, bore into her as though she were hollow.

     As Aunt Matilda had feared, they were at Adela’s mercy. Katherine could hardly breathe.  Forsooth,
all
her aunt’s grim predictions were coming to pass.

     Lady Adela’s penetrating gaze lowered to Robert. His cries began to lessen, as though he too feared this woman. Or as though he had been given a silent command. Was Lady Adela not a witch?

     Katherine’s world stood still. Panic nigh choked her. She clasped her precious burden tighter to her breast.

     But Lady Adela’s attention was fleeting. Closing the chamber door with a firm snap, she swung to face Sir Geoffrey. “Our success depends upon your restraint, sir.”

     Her low and clipped tone sent chills coursing down Katherine’s spine. Plainly, these two had a scheme. New fear and panic overwhelmed her. Hanging onto Robert one-handed, she drew her sister closer.

     Lady Adela continued in the same, startling tone. “You needs be reminded of our arrangement, no doubt?”

     “Our plans are recast.” Sir Geoffrey’s voice, restrained and controlled, was clearly meant to appease.

     Never having heard so cajoling a tone from his lips, Katherine hung on to his words. He seemed to expect dissension from Lady Adela. It was the first time in her memory her stepfather displayed a lack of aplomb. Did he fear Lady Adela? Katherine tried to breathe normally. What would become of them? Only small, stuttering gasps remained from Robert’s outburst. Thanks be to Saint Winifred, ’twas easier to think more clearly without his frantic cries tearing at her heartstrings.

     “I know of no change.” Lady Adela’s tone betrayed the depth of her indignation, as did the firm set of her lips.

     Sir Geoffrey looked her square in the eyes. It seemed to Katherine almost as though he dared her to repine. “Katherine is to be our guest at Myton,” he announced in a firmness that brooked no argument.

     Reeling in disbelief, Katherine’s breath deserted her. Her legs threatened to give out beneath her. ‘Twas Anne’s strength alone that kept her from falling to the floor. At Myton, she’d be at Adela’s mercy. Like her mother, she would not survive. Robert would not survive! To be able to flee, to find sanctuary elsewhere within the abbey.

     But Lady Adela stood at the door.

     Could she dash past? Did she dare place herself close to the witch? Clearly Sir Geoffrey intended her to be his prisoner—to keep her beneath his masterful hand at all costs.

     “Nay,” cried Sister Mary Margaret with a mutinous expression.    

     Plainly taken aback by the knight’s words, Lady Adela’s eyes narrowed. “To what purpose does she come to Myton? I cannot vouchsafe such a scheme, sir. Do not provoke the king’s wrath.”

     “My husband will not allow it.” Katherine spoke with all her conviction, hoping to sound strong, though she trembled within. “I doubt me ’twill be to your benefit once your son hears of it. He will lay siege to Myton. He will have the king’s blessing, thereto.”

     Lady Adela stepped closer to Sir Geoffrey. “I beg you, heed the bitch’s advice. You chance to lose your standing with Edward. He mislikes having his barons squabble. You could lose Myton. Edward could banish you—banish us both.”

     Sir Geoffrey seemed to weigh the counsel, for he held his silence. But a dark scowl built on his face. His mouth twisted in a snarl. “Begone, you feckless creature. You do not interfere in these matters.”

     Lady Adela’s dark eyes burned with resentment. “A young and beautiful woman within the walls of Myton means but one thing. Summon a priest. Let him join us in holy wedlock. You promised me this, that my children would be your heirs. I carry another child as we speak. He shan’t be born a bastard as the others. Let him be your true heir.”

     Sir Geoffrey shook his head and spoke as though chastising a wayward child. “You must bide your time, Adela.”

     Lady Adela stepped closer, clenching her fists in outrage, her eyes snapping. “You will take her to bed the moment my head is turned.”

     From betwixt Anne’s fingers covering her mouth, a broken sob filled the chamber. Her fearsome trembling—like a tree on Haughmond Hill in March—shook Katherine as well. Would that she could calm her dear sister. Would that she could calm
herself
.

     Natheless, she took heart. Let them argue. It offered precious time, time in which she might flee or someone might hear the arguing and intercede.

     “For shame, Adela. You must not speak thus of my son’s wife.” Though Sir Geoffrey scolded vigorously, his blue eyes glowed with eager anticipation.

     Katherine’s stomach heaved at the despicable thought. Her mouth dry, she could barely swallow down the bitter taste in the back of her throat. Her gaze darted frantically from Lady Adela to Sir Geoffrey to the closed door.

     Lady Adela glared her anger and spoke through set lips. “Can I not persuade you to forbear this wicked plan? Will naught prevent you from debauching her?”

     “’Tis not wicked,” said Sir Geoffrey, throwing a sly smile at Katherine. “’Tis most clever.”

     A wolf cornering a hare could not be more threatening. Katherine leaned against her sister.

     His smile broadening, he sneered, “’Tis the most fitting revenge against a family who has been my bitter gall for many years. The favored ones of the Marches are short of luck this day.”

     “Have I not planned judiciously all these years?” Lady Adela’s beseeching voice grew into a screech. Her dark eyes showed her desperation. “Though you would kill your lady wife with each babe she could not bring forth, I kept Constance alive so the world would think
our
children were hers—so you could retain Haughmond, so you could retain your power. She didn’t die until I took matters into my own hands. I suffered greatly, yearning to be your lady in her stead. ’Tis my time to be the lady of Myton. Fetch a priest, I say. Keep troth, sir. Or you will rue the day you opposed me.”

     Lifting her head, Katherine held her breath. For the first time in her life, she prayed Lady Adela would win the day.   

     A questing brow was all that broke Sir Geoffrey’s deadly stillness. “You dare to thwart me?” he asked, his voice low and determined.

     “We had a plan.” Lady Adela’s voice rose to a shout. “You don’t cross me, not when I rid you of your enemies and keep you powerful.”

     Sir Geoffrey raised his arm. “Silence, woman!”

     With a frightened cry, Lady Adela pushed behind Katherine and Anne. “He slew your father, did you know.” Her grip on Katherine’s arm became painful while she rasped into her ear with hot, labored breaths. “He poisoned your precious aunt with my belladonna. All to keep Haughmond.”

     Sir Geoffrey stepped forward, his dagger flashing. Horrified and sick at heart, Katherine twisted sideways, using her shoulder as a shield, trying desperately to keep the knight and his dagger away from Robert.

     “I’ll slice your deceitful throat if you utter one more word, whore,” he growled.

     Katherine tried to push towards the door. But Anne clung to her, and Lady Adela was as desperate.

     “You must not allow him to take you,” Lady Adela murmured again into her ear. “He will fill your belly with his bastards.”

     The door opened, slamming against the wall behind it. Dafydd and his drawn sword surged into the chamber. Behind him, Simon brandished his own sword, while Gilbert hefted a spiked club in his raised fist.

     Dafydd thrust his blade at Lady Adela’s face. “Unhand my wife!”

     With a startled yelp, Lady Adela released Katherine and darted away.   

     Katherine lurched back from Sir Geoffrey’s threat. “Watch, Rhys, he has a knife!”

     Too late she realized her mistake. Panic glazed her husband’s face. New terror swept through her. How easily she had relinquished his secret, as he had claimed she would.

     Though armed with a mere dagger, Sir Geoffrey did not appear intimidated by the threatening sword. He rocked back on his heels. “So you are both men, are you?” He glared at Dafydd. “You do plot against me, Dafydd. Or is it Rhys? Young Katherine should mind her nimble tongue.”

     Wrenching off his shaggy moustache, Dafydd knew the time of reckoning had come. But it terrified him. His careful planning had come to naught. And his worst fear—what he had sought to prevent—had come to pass, thereto. Sir Geoffrey stood betwixt himself and everything precious. He could not engage the knight with Katherine and his son within his father’s vengeful reach. And those eyes—so like his own—bore into him without compassion.

     Verily, one of them would slay the other this day.    

     His mother must have realized it. She clasped his arm. “Set aside your vengeance, Dafydd,” she implored. “Do not soil your hands with his blood. Do not imperil your soul.”

     Sir Geoffrey’s gaze narrowed. “Vengeance? Of what do you speak?”

     Dafydd gripped his sword tighter. “I came to Shropshire to slay you, to vindicate my mother’s honor.”

     Fear twisted his mother’s face. “Let it be!”

     Sir Geoffrey’s lips curled in a sneer. “How noble, a son’s revenge to right past wrongs. I should have aimed more carefully that day at the river.”

     Katherine gasped. Her eyes widened with shock. “Aimed? You attacked my husband? ’Twas not the Welsh? But he is your own son.”

     “One who plies treachery,” Sir Geoffrey snarled. “By God, a weak hatchling have I sired!”

     Anne, in a trembling voice, cried out, “Rhys, he means to take Katherine to Myton.”

     A growl filled the chamber. Vaguely aware ’twas his own, Dafydd hefted his sword and stepped closer to Sir Geoffrey. “I doubt me he will do that.”

     Sir Geoffrey lunged. Not at himself, protected by armor and sword, but at Katherine. In an instant she was yanked up against his armor, his knife blade pointing at her throat. A droplet of blood trickled down her neck.

     Dafydd’s heart wrenched at her cry of pain.

     “I’ll take your wife and son with me as surety for safe passage. You seek a blood bath. But I won’t allow it. You won’t cleave me in twain.”

    Gritting his teeth at his helplessness, Dafydd stood panting, his breath loud and labored.

     Before anyone moved, Sister Mary Margaret rushed forward and seized Robert from Katherine’s shaking arms. She ducked past Dafydd and Simon and fled to the corridor.

     Katherine’s relief was obvious. Her knees buckled. She would have slid to the floor had not Sir Geoffrey hauled her back up. His dagger pricked her neck once more.

     “You shan’t harm my sister!” Anne’s fervent exclamation, sounding like a battle cry, startled them all. She grabbed Sir Geoffrey’s arm and pulled with all her might.

     A fleeting vision of loyal sisters bent on protecting each other from an attacking hound flashed across Dafydd’s memory.

     Katherine’s elbow slammed into Sir Geoffrey’s ribs, bringing a sudden “woof.” She ducked beneath his arm and was free.

     Helpless fury glittered in Sir Geoffrey’s eyes. His arm, already poised in midair, swept in a downward arc.

     “Nay,” cried Katherine, raising a protective hand.

     “Nay,” bellowed Simon, thrusting with his sword. His long blade drove into Sir Geoffrey’s ribs.

     The knight grunted and stumbled back. But his blade had found a mark. Blood cascaded from the side of Anne’s neck.

     With a yell of rage, Simon whirled toward her, exposing his back to the reddened dagger yet within Sir Geoffrey’s fist.

     Dafydd, knowing from battlefield experience Anne had suffered a grievous blow, lunged, fueled by rising grief. His sword plunged past the metal links of Sir Geoffrey’s armor, through the worn leather hauberk, through to bone. Twisting the blade, it slid deeper. He yanked the weapon free and waited, poised for another attack.

     But ’twas unnecessary. His father fell back against the stone wall. While Katherine’s heartbreaking scream pierced the air, the knight’s knees gave way and he slid to the floor.

     Dafydd swung back, grabbed for Katherine. But she was already foundering beneath Anne’s limp weight. The sisters collapsed in a heap of black cloaks and flowing blood.

     Bloody spittle trickled from Anne’s parted lips. Her jaw worked in a soundless struggle for air. ’Twas horribly obvious the effort was in vain. Death shown in her panic-filled eyes.

     On her knees, Katherine pressed frantically against the gaping wound. “Help us, Saint Winifred, help us!”

     But even as she sought to staunch the blood, even as it spurted unerringly from betwixt her fingers, Anne’s eyes lost their luster, lost their panic. Her head fell back against her sister’s arm. She no longer struggled for breath. 

     “Anne! Anne!”

     Katherine’s wail and his own grief brought Dafydd to his knee. The cry seemed to come from afar, drowned out by drums, loud and ponderous, thrumming in his head. Destruction was part of warfare. Women mustn’t be subjected to it. On the stone floor Anne’s outstretched leg jerked once, twice. Beneath his armor, beneath his jerkin, his stomach roiled at the death spasms. He wrapped his arms about his wife’s shaking body, allowed her anguish to flow through him, pressed himself to her back while she sobbed into Anne’s tangled hair, and while the sweet innocent damsel’s hot blood flowed over his hand.