Geoffrey Condit (23 page)

    Relived and concerned, Peter watched the gate close.  His squire placed a robe over his shoulders.  “God’s Blood,”  Peter swore.  “The man always seems to have the last word.   There is something unnatural about that.”  He gestured, exasperated.  “Seems to be only one way out of this dilemma, and I can’t take it.  Perhaps our duke will raise his banner and allow it.  Would we be so lucky.”

14

Catharine sensed Peter’s nearness before she saw him.   Heart beating fast in pleased anticipation, she cantered forward on her young mare. 

    “Catharine, child, you won’t see Peter for miles yet.  Slow down, girl,”  Agnes said, face sour.  “You should have stayed home growing the child.”

   They’d been riding for three days under escort by a detachment of Peter’s soldiers.  His letter said the King had disbanded the Royal Army after Buckingham’s rebellion fizzled out.  Peter sent Sir Hugh and his two thousand soldiers home with an extra month’s pay, keeping with him a thirty man escort.  He waited her in the walled city of Shrewsbury, in Shropshire.

    Her armed escort grinned and closed around her, keeping pace.  The sun glinted off chain mail.  Peter’s squire Ned ordered men back to see to the baggage train.

    “No, he’s close.  I feel him, Agnes.”  A giddy quickening seized her breast.  “He can’t be far.”  She spurred her horse toward the next rise.  Her green hood fell back from her head, and flipped the fur fringed robe up exposing her ankle.  The cold air raced in her lungs, and heightened the feeling of anticipation.

    “Slow down, my dear.  Think of the child growing beneath your heart.”  Agnes snorted.  “If ye canna think of that, think of an old woman’s bones.  This madness to join him ... ”

    She left the rest unsaid, subsiding after a glaring look from Catharine.  

    Her relief that Peter wouldn’t have to fight Buckingham and Carnahan washed away every fear.  For a hundred nights the memory of Carnahan swearing vengeance over the body of his dying son, Castor Breckenridge, had haunted her.  And with it, the hatred and agony of wanted revenge in both Peter’s and Carnahan’s faces in the manor courtyard that day with Buckingham.  Now it is finished, and we can go home.  To create a family.  To be together.

    Topping the rise, she saw Peter sitting on Grey Harold.  The great war horse pranced a little, and Peter reined him in.  A cheer went up from the men.  Bare headed, in blue doublet, white shirt and brown silk hose, he turned at the sound.  For a brief second they stared at each other.  Her heart raced at the sight of him.  All the rush of longing, the needing, flooded within.  He dismounted, waiting with open arms.

    She urged her horse next to him.  He lifted her from the saddle.  The touch of him sent a shudder of relief through her.  The wet on her cheeks, then he was kissing all her cares away.  “Catharine.”  The music of his voice curled her toes, and she wished for the privacy of his tent, her longing physical as well as emotional.  She reached up and touched his square face, clean shaven, smooth to the touch.  The scar, hard and rigid under her fingers, gave way to the broad curve of his chin.

    Finally they were in the privacy of his pavilion, in the sleeping quarters.  “Mother of God, it’s been so long,” she said, her voice starved and shaking.

    “I know.”  His hands roamed her, seeking, cupping, loving all the secret places.

    She fumbled with the laces of his shirt and hose, until finally they gave way, and everything was removed.  Their clothes in a shambles on the carpeted floor told of their need.  And afterwards, they lay refreshed, sated in each other’s arms, marveling.  “You are indeed breeding,” he whispered, kissing the full swell of her breast.

    She giggled, under her breath.  “And whose fault is that, Master Seducer?”  Eager to love again, her hands moved below his waist.  He shifted in surprise, and then accommodated her.

    A long time after they sat dressed, and eating in another chamber of his pavilion.  “So the King has released you?”

    “Aye.  The terrible rains and flooding dispirited Buckingham’s forces.  He was not well liked or trusted.  Few joined his banner, and most who did fled.”

    “Has the King captured his Grace of Buckingham?”  She sipped light ale from a silver goblet, and raised a helping of meat pie to her lips.

    “No, he is still at large.  But not for long I suspect.  There is a reward.  A manor ’s to be given to whoever leads to his discovery and apprehension.”

    “Betrayal?”  She paused, adjusted the top of her chemise to his close scrutiny.  She’d deliberately left the chemise low and open, hiding little, and was pleased at his attention. The new swell of her breasts delighted her.  Running a tongue over her lips, she said, “Desert later.”

    “Yes. Well, betrayal seems to be the coin the King hopes will flush out this traitor.”   He watched her, plainly distracted.

    “But we are done with him in any case,” she said, secretly pleased at his interest.

    “True.”

    She sensed his regret and felt the old terrors begin to resurrect, to course their ancient fears through her again.  “You want to fight him?”

    He fingered the goblet, his eyes avoiding her face.  “Yes.  There’s a score to settle.  The man did everything in his power to destroy our happiness and our House. Several times he almost accomplished it.  I wanted the pleasure of making him pay.”

    “And Carnahan?”  She watched his weathered face tighten.  His eyes hardened.   “Remember, you killed his son.”

    His scar quivered. hard lines carved into his face.  “I know I did.  But you can’t say I knew the relationship.  Carnahan created a monster in his own image.  Better that Castor be dead than ruining people’s lives.”  He offered her lamprey in saffron sauce, and at her nod ladled some onto her trencher.

    “Carnahan.”  He shook his head.  “I thought he might be out of my life after the butchering I took from him.  For years I prayed I’d revenge myself on him one day.   Then he resurrects himself in our lives by working for Buckingham.  God-a-mercy, talk about getting your prayers answered.  Too close for comfort.  I’ll watch what I pray for next.  Castor Breckenridge, the kidnapping of Bess, and your escape, and release by Buckingham.”  He tasted the lampreys.  “Good. Splendid.”  His face relaxed. 

    “I don’t know what to think.  A large part of me wants to make Carnahan suffer for what he did.  But when I saw him weep over his son, my heart ached for him.  I felt tears in my eyes.  I never thought a man like that could love.”   His thick hands flexed, he interlaced his fingers, and bent his head over them in contemplation.  “I had hoped to meet him in battle.  As the duke said, he is beneath my rank.  Unless he attacked me or I met him in battle I wouldn’t be able to fight the man.”  He opened his hands and gestured.  “Now I guess it is a moot point.  It’s over.”

    “But you’ll always carry the need to destroy Carnahan in your heart,”  Catharine said.   “Is it true?”  She tasted the lampreys.

    “True. Or at least I’d wonder.  It’s baggage I’d rather not have, but I do.”  He set his knife down beside his trencher and leaned toward her.  His white cambric shirt fell open, the points  untied. 

    Catharine could feel his skin with her mind, smooth with light hairs.  A coursing need ran through her body.  The blood rushed to her face.

    His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head.  “Desert, my lady?”

    The man walked out of the woods into the dying sun, across the narrow field toward Catharine.  “Lady Catharine Trevor,”  he called.

    Catharine reined in her horse, men-at-arms surrounded her.  Far ahead, exercising Grey Harold,  Peter heard  the shout, and turned.  By his dress, Catharine could see the man was a gentleman.  When he grew closer, she could see his clothes were torn and dirty, beard unkempt, and the creases of his face seamed with dust.

    The man stopped twenty feet away aware of the vigilant armed retainers who slipped their swords loose in their scabbards.  Three bows with knocked arrows sprouted in the hard hands of Catharine’s guards. She waited.

    “I am Harry Barristar.”

    Peter cantered up, and halted.  “God’s Blood, what happened to you, man?”  He dismounted  and tossed his reins to a squire.

    “No time, my lord.  You wanted the Duke of Buckingham.  I know where he is.”   Harry Barristar tugged at his short beard, glanced around and swallowed.

    “It may be a trick, my lord,” one of Peter’s squires said.

    Barristar stiffened.  “I would not blame you for thinking such, considering who is my master, but I have never played you false.”  He squinted at them.

    “Why should you betray your master?” the squire continued.

    “He is sick with an illness called treachery.  A man of power subverted to ambition by a false priest.”  Barrister’s face convulsed with anger.

    “Bishop Morton?”

    “The bishop was at Barcon Castle poisoning Buckingham’s mind.  He was there when the duke raised his banners, giving God’s Blessing on the venture while dressed in his episcopal robes.  Calling King Richard usurper.”  Barristar registered disgust.  “But he fled in the night when he thought Buckingham was in trouble.   A faithless creature best suited for the gallows.”

    “Where is Buckingham?”  Peter said, face grim.

    “He’s holed up at Lacon Hall by the village Wem.”

    Peter’s eyes darted to Catharine.  “God’s Blood.   That’s scarce three miles from here.  Who is with him?”

    “Three servants and his sword master, Allen Carnahan.”  Barristar studied Peter.  “Are you ill, my lord?”

    “No,” Peter said, voice low and intent.  “Rob Andrews,” he called.  A swarthy man in chain mail raised his head.

    “Take two men.   Find the Sheriff of Shropeshire, John Milton.  He could be in Salisbury or Shrewsbury.  Bring him to Lacon Hall at once.”

    “Indeed, my lord.”  Rob turned to two man-at-arms.  “Jamie.  Mark.”  He turned and spurred his horse into a gallop, Jamie and Mark close behind.

    “Ned.”  Peter turned to one of his squires.  “You stay here with ... ”

    “No.”  The passion in her voice surprised Catharine, too.

    Peter swung to Catharine.

    “I will see an end to this also,”  she said.  Damn this to Hell. Why now?  When we’re so close to home.  All her fears began to resurrect themselves.  Terrible images of personal tragedies.  Needless death and injury.  They swarmed within, clutching at her heart, ruling her emotions.  She fought back the tears of anger, and heard her voice, strong within her ears like someone else speaking.  “You go on ahead.  I will follow.”

    Peter face blank, nodded.  “Ned ride with Lady Catharine with half the men.  Assign three men to stay with the baggage train.  I’ll take the rest  with me.  Give Mr. Barristar a spare horse.”  He stared hard at the tired man, and mounted Grey Harold.  “Are you up to it, Mr. Barristar?”

    “For this?” he said, accepting the horse’s reins.  “Nothing would keep me away.”

    The intent look on Peter’s face washed away any hope from Catharine’s mind.  He had one thing in mind, revenge.  His face, now hard, eyes frosted and strangely vacant.  God, what he must be thinking.  The tortured agony of Carnahan working his blade slowly in Peter’s face had created this unforgiving memory that blotted out everything else.  She might as well not be there.  His fierce hope for confrontation seemed to be coming true.  Nothing else mattered.

    In three minutes the men were organized and Peter thundered away, leaving a cloud of dust.  Catharine breathed a prayer for his safety.

                                                                                                                 -

    Dusk had settled into an uncertain twilight when Peter galloped into view of Lacon Hall.  He reined in to survey the lush manor below the rise.  Blood beat in his ears, and hope nurtured in agony welled within, begging for release.  He shook his head, trying to clear his mind enough to think.  Bile ran up his throat and burned, a bitter taste in his mouth. 

    “My lord?”  His men  waited expectant, unused to indecision.  In five minutes a coherent plan took shape, and he sent his men to surround the manor and its outbuildings.  Torches flared in the gathering night, shining off burnished steel helmets and chain mail.  Swords, lances, and bow and arrows readied in sweaty hands.  Nervous muted voices, the  nicker of horses, and the surprise of confronted servants greeted the night.  A breeze kicked up, and the veil lifted from Peter’s mind.

    He pushed open the iron bound manor house door.  Hinges hissed.  The great stone hall with arched wood ceilings spread before him illuminated by his torch and the fire from the large hearth.  The Duke of Buckingham sat with two servants at a trestle table next to the fire.  Unsteady light flickered off tired glazed eyes, exhausted faces.  Swords and leftover of a hasty meal were strewn on the boards.

    “Baron Trevor.”  Buckingham wiped his jeweled fingers across his seemed face. “I should have expected you.”

    “I owe you much, Harry,” Peter said.  He let a faint smile cross his face. “It is fitting.”

    “Who - ”  the duke stared past Peter. “Traitor,” he roared.  “You have been ever the faithful servant, Barristar.  Why now?”  He leaped to his feet, hand nearing his sword.  His two servants ranged themselves at his side, swords ready.

    Harry Barristar stood at Peter’s side, dirty face grim and said,  “You have caused enough mischief.  Too many men have wrecked themselves on your schemes.  Their wives and children cower uncared for while they run like hunted rabbits before the King’s men.”