Sharon Schulze (16 page)

Rannulf joined him. “He’s a tough lad to withstand so much. He’ll make a fine squire.”

“I hope you’re right.” Ian took one last look at Padrig before he left the chamber.

But he couldn’t escape his fears so easily. He knew the memory of that pale, battered face would haunt him until he found Catrin.

C
atrin sat atop the mare, stunned by the filthy, ramshackle scene before her. The outside of Ashby had been shocking. But this—this looked like the portal of hell.

Not ready to sort out the chaos, she focused her attention on Nicholas. Watching him now, she was sorry she’d laughed at Clarence’s crude reaction. Nicholas had enough to deal with at the moment without that.

All she could see of Nicholas was his back, but even that limited view told its own tale. The shoulders beneath his grimy mail were taut with tension, his spine so straight she wondered it didn’t snap.

She doubted his response had any connection with the reasons he’d stayed away from Ashby the past four years and everything to do with the filth and depravity littering his keep.

Groups of people—servants by the look of them, both men and women—clustered about the bailey in various stages of dress and cleanliness. One quick glance at the raucous frolicking revealed drinking, dicing and wenching. Did no one do an honest day’s labor here? And how did they happen to arrive in the midst of this? Perhaps
’twas a feast day she didn’t know about, or a special celebration of some kind.

But she couldn’t believe either reason was true, and a moment’s thought didn’t reveal any other excuse for the neglect and debauchery surrounding them. No explanation could defend this state of affairs. ’Twas past time someone exerted control over these people. Since Nicholas hadn’t done anything yet, she would have to take up the reins of responsibility.

As Nicholas continued to stand there, Catrin noticed the sheer volume of noise seemed to ebb. People were becoming aware of him, ceasing their revelry to turn and stare. But despite their attention, no one came forward to take the horse or greet them in any way.

She’d seen enough of their disregard for their master’s presence. Granted, she and Nicholas didn’t appear overly impressive at the moment, but he had stated his name, and the man on the walls had confirmed his identity. Furthermore, anyone with eyes to see couldn’t fail to notice Nicholas’s air of command.

Even chance strangers seeking shelter for the night should have received more attention than this.

But hospitality appeared to be in short supply at Ashby. If none was offered, Catrin decided they would go after it themselves.

Disregarding the throbbing ache in her back and the trembling weakness pervading her entire body, Catrin summoned all the arrogance at her command—no small amount, she thought with a wry twist of her lips—and leapt into action.

“You there,” she said, her voice loud in the growing silence. Biting her lower lip against the pain, she slid down from the mare with as much grace as she could muster, then stood tall and straight. She pointed to a
shabby youth hovering nearby. “Yes, you. Come here and take your master’s horse to the stables.”

Mouth agape, the boy stared at her for a moment, then limped toward them. Nicholas’s expression was not welcoming; the youth hung back, looking as if he’d bolt at any moment. “Go on,” she urged, making it clear with her voice and demeanor that she’d brook no disobedience.

He looked at her again, taking her measure. “Aye, milady,” he mumbled, bobbing his head awkwardly in acknowledgment. He cast a defiant glare at the others still gathered about. Then, hand outstretched, he moved a step closer to Nicholas. “Take yer horse, milord?” he asked, his voice more steady. Nicholas gave him the reins and he led the mare away, his mouth curved in a gap-toothed smile.

Catrin ignored Nicholas’s scowl, sending him a challenging look and silently daring him to interfere. Since he responded by folding his arms and gazing at her expectantly, she felt free to proceed.

“Where is the seneschal?” she asked, speaking loudly enough to be heard by all. When no one replied she scrutinized the crowd, one eyebrow raised in question. She paused on a face every so often, simply to underscore her power.

Just as she was ready to scan the throng again, one of a bevy of unkempt women lounging near the gatehouse stairs stepped forward, dragging a groaning man with her. “This be Clarence, milady, but he ain’t much good to ye now, is he?”

“Ain’t much good, period,” another woman said, inspiring a burst of laughter from the others.

The woman holding up Clarence released her grasp on the front of his tunic. He crumpled into a heap at her feet,
belching loudly as his head hit the muddy ground. Moaning, he closed his eyes and lay unmoving.

Catrin motioned the woman closer. At this point, she didn’t dare ask more of her legs than to hold her upright. “What is your name?”

“I’m called Tildy, milady.” Smiling ruefully, she tugged her loosened bodice into place. “Beg pardon, milady.”

“You seem a strong woman, Tildy. I’d wager you’re capable of a hard day’s work.”

“Hard night’s work, more like,” a male voice called out from the midst of a large group to Catrin’s left. The laughter that greeted his remark faded quickly when Catrin turned and glared.

Tildy scowled at the man, then gave Catrin a grateful look before answering. “Aye, milady. Used to work in the laundry, I did, carryin’ and scrubbin’.”

“Good. You’re just the person I need,” Catrin said. “I want you to find two or three others who don’t mind working—if that’s possible in this place,” she added with a scornful glance about her. “Lord Nicholas and I each require a chamber, and we also need a decent meal as soon as one can be prepared.” Her gaze was drawn back to Clarence, still sprawled on the ground. “And find someone to take care of this offal.”

Two men immediately hauled the seneschal up and carted him away. Perhaps there was hope for Ashby yet, with a bit of guidance. She raised her voice. “I’m sure everyone else can find something useful to do until Lord Nicholas has refreshed himself. You may wait in the hall after the evening meal for your orders,” she said, dismissal in her tone as well as her words. Amid a buzz of mumbling, the groups began to disperse.

She didn’t dare permit her shoulders to droop until she
was safe from curious eyes, but, oh, how tempted she was to slump into a heap where she stood. She looked down. On second thought, she had no desire whatsoever to touch that muck with anything beyond the soles of her boots.

Nicholas noted the iron control Catrin exerted over her weariness. While he admired her strong will, he couldn’t believe she’d lasted so long without wilting. When she looked up, he unfolded his arms and stepped closer. “Are you through ordering my household, madam?”

“Someone had to do it,” she snapped. The fire in her eyes dared him to disagree.

“Aye.” He stifled his amusement as he met her glare. “And you’re far better at it than I would be. My usual method is to flay about me with a sword. Since I’ve lost mine, I believe I’ll leave such things to you.”

He could see she’d spent her burst of strength. Scooping her into his arms, he headed for the stairs to the keep. Other than a little squeak, she didn’t make a sound, but the tension on her face eased immediately. She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder, apparently comfortable even though she rested against the rough weave of his hauberk.

“How long will it take those sluts to clean a room?” he asked. He paused at the top of the stairs and opened the warped door. As pleasant as it was to hold her, he couldn’t continue to do so. He had much work to do before nightfall.

“I couldn’t say,” she murmured against his neck, her lips on the skin of his throat sending a jolt of fire through his veins. “Depends on how filthy it is.”

“Then it might take days.” He laid his palm on her forehead and frowned. The fever, though less intense, still burned within her. Catrin needed comfort, care and good
food, but he had doubts about whether she could get them here.

Perhaps she’d been better off in the cave than in this sty.

He hoped that after Catrin regained her strength, he could take her to l’Eau Clair and then be on his way to Llywelyn. It had been nearly a week since the attack. Surely Catrin’s absence had been noted by now.

Her family would be worried; he had no wish to cause them further pain. Messengers would set out for Gwal Draig and l’Eau Clair at first light.

He should not wait long before continuing on his journey, either. ’Twould take very little to push him out of the king’s favor altogether, especially since last year’s debacle. King John still hadn’t forgiven him for losing l’Eau Clair to the Earl of Pembroke’s foster son—Rannulf FitzClifford. The king had wanted a man in control of the Marcher Keep whose first allegiance was to him—not to a man whose power nearly rivalled his own. Although Nicholas knew he’d done the right thing by encouraging Rannulf and Gillian to wed, he also realized—now—that the king had planned for
him
to marry Gillian.

That
would have been a mistake for all of them. Though he loved Gillian well, he thanked God she belonged to Rannulf, not to him.

But for the moment, Catrin was his concern. She’d begun to worry about Gillian once she began to feel better. He wasn’t sure that Catrin’s health would improve completely while she continued to brood about her cousin. But the journey to l’Eau Clair would have been too much for her, he was convinced of it. Despite the conditions at Ashby, coming here had been the right decision.

He stood in the doorway of the hall, squinting into the gloom. Shouldering aside the door, he carried Catrin into
the room. “Kindle some lights here,” he shouted. Not waiting to see if his order was obeyed, he crossed the chamber to a group of benches and chairs in front of a shadowy area he took to be the fireplace.

He stepped carefully through the debris that littered the floor, glad he couldn’t see what it was. Judging by the stench, he’d rather not know.

As he lowered Catrin into a chair, a maid brought several lighted tallow candles and placed them on a table. The smoky flames provided the perfect illumination for the shabby furnishings.

“Perhaps the candles were a mistake,” Catrin said as she surveyed the room. “It looked better before.”

He took up a candle, intending to start a fire, but the hearth was piled high with ashes and he didn’t see a stick of wood nearby. “I wonder how long it’s been since the place was clean?” He kicked at a large bone lying among the tattered rushes. “Likely not since my uncle died.” He slouched onto a bench and plucked the dagger from his belt, studying the edge of the blade, avoiding the curiosity in Catrin’s eyes. He sighed. “I think Clarence managed well at first. I received an adequate income from Ashby. The past two years the amount had dwindled, but Clarence wrote that they had trouble with the crops.”

“You should have come to see for yourself,” Catrin said quietly. “’Tis too much of a temptation for a weak man, to allow him free rein over your affairs.”

He forced himself to meet her steady gaze. “And thus I pay for my ignorance.” He indicated the disorder around them with a sweep of his hand.

Shoving the knife back into its sheath, he stood and paced the expanse of the hearth. “I’m almost too weary to care. I tell myself it doesn’t matter—I never had anything
of value before. But I owe my people better than this. It’s past time I attended to my duties.”

He looked beyond Catrin to see Tildy descend the spiral stair to his left. “Beg pardon, milord,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “We’ve cleaned a chamber, leastways enough so yer lady can rest. Couldn’t help but notice ye’re ill, milady,” she added with a nod toward Catrin. “And I told them lazy knaves in the scullery to haul up water so ye can bathe, if ye like.”

Nicholas found Tildy’s assumption that Catrin was his wife amusing. Doubtless Catrin hadn’t noticed, else she’d have flown into a temper by now. But he said nothing to correct the woman’s mistake; surprisingly, the notion didn’t bother him as it once would have. “That’s fine. See that food is brought for her.” Once Tildy left, he picked up Catrin again.

“You did that very well,” Catrin said as he carried her up the winding stair. “You see, you do know how to give orders. A little courtesy wouldn’t be amiss, but that will come with practice.”

At her teasing tone, he responded in kind. “Your flattery will turn my head, milady. If you persist, I’ll become as arrogant as the king himself.”

“I look forward to seeing you deal with the entire household.” She giggled.

The sound startled him. “You won’t be there to see it,” he told her, infusing his voice with mock severity. “You will stay in your chamber and rest.”

“Aye, milord,” she murmured so softly he could scarcely hear her.

Suddenly he wished he could see her face, but the stairwell was dim and Catrin had nuzzled her face into the hair at his nape. As it was, her breath on the back of his neck was enough to drive him mad. Wanting her had
made him crazy; knowing she’d been raped, he should consider her beyond his reach, unattainable, a nun.

He certainly shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like to run his hands over her until she giggled again.

“I could grow accustomed to being carried about,” Catrin whispered, her lips tickling his ear.

“Stop that,” he growled as his loins tightened in response.

“Stop what?”

Nicholas didn’t know if he should trust that innocent tone. She couldn’t possibly be trying to provoke him…

Could she?

Whether it was intentional or not, Catrin had succeeded in heating his blood.

He hurried up the last few steps, slipping past the goggling maid in the doorway and nearly dumping Catrin onto the bed. “I have to leave now,” he said, his breath coming much too fast.
Before I make a complete fool of myself,
he added silently, staring down at her as she sprawled across the mattress. “Enjoy your bath.”

He sped out the door.

Wrapped in a length of linen fragrant with the scent of roses, Catrin drowsed in a cushioned chair by the fire. The bath had been sheer luxury, a true surprise, given the state of the keep. She’d soaked in the perfumed water until her skin was wrinkled and all the warmth had vanished. Tildy took away the tattered remains of her clothes, promising to find her something to wear by the time her hair dried.