True Love

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Published By Flora Speer At Smashwords

Copyright 2014 © by Flora Speer

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To my son-in-law, Kevin, with thanks for all
the help and advice he provided for this book.

Windsor Castle

February, A.D. 1121.

“Cursed intriguers,” the king muttered. “They
are plotting against me, attempting to subvert my will. I wish I
could order all of them hanged.”

“A highly impractical desire, my lord,” Royce
the baron of Wortham responded. “Under the present circumstances,
plots are to be expected.”

Henry I, ruler of England and Normandy, swung
away from the window to face the man who was the only other person
in the royal chamber.

“You are right, of course,” the king said
with a sigh.

In the previous November, Henry's two
legitimate sons, William and Richard, had been drowned in the
sinking of
The White Ship
off Barfleur. The tragedy left
Henry with illegitimate sons aplenty, but no legal male heirs. Even
before the dreadful news was carried to him, his barons had begun
their scheming, each hoping to influence the choice of a new heir
to his own advantage. Swayed by the pressure of so many voices and
hoping for a little peace, the aging, long-widowed Henry decided to
marry a second time, to the daughter of the count of Louvain.
Adelicia was young and sweet-natured, and Henry's intent was to
produce a son with her. The wedding was to take place on the
morrow.

Royce had, ostensibly, traveled to Windsor
for the celebrations. The real, private reason for his presence was
this secret early morning interview with the king. In the past
Royce had undertaken so many clandestine missions for Henry that in
certain circles he was known with some contempt as the king's
spymaster, for spying was considered a dishonorable activity,
unworthy of a nobleman. Royce cared nothing for the opinions of
others. He knew how valuable his covert activities were to the
king, and he surmised that the royal summons meant there was more
work of the same kind to be accomplished. Furthermore, he suspected
that he already knew what the royal command was going to be. He was
delighted to hear the king confirm his expectations.

“I have read with great interest the report
you sent about Phelan of Sutton and his son, Eustace,” Henry said.
“And I have heard rumors about them from my courtiers. Since
Phelan's daughter married into your family, those two have been
using your name as if you are in agreement with their activities. I
know it's not true; still, the connection with Phelan makes you the
ideal man to discover what his intentions are, and who else is
involved with him and his son. I fear there is more at issue here
than who my heir will be. Phelan and his associates may be
contemplating treason.”

“There will always be a few disloyal souls,”
Royce said. “Then there are other men who, at heart, are loyal to
you, yet who are eager to use an unhappy situation if they see a
way to increase their own wealth and importance. Fortunately, those
are the souls who can be made to understand their error.”

Royce was pleased – and comforted, for he
loved his king and worried over Henry's prolonged grief – to see
the royal eyes suddenly blazing at his words as they used to do in
earlier, happier times.

“I prefer to avoid executions whenever
possible. Nevertheless, unrepentant traitors will be punished,”
Henry said with great firmness. “I believe there is a large market
held in Wortham village each year during the weeks just before and
after Whitsunday?”

“There is, my lord.” Royce understood that
the king's abrupt statement was not a change of subject.

“My Whitsuntide court is to be held at
Westminster,” Henry said. “Ordinarily, I would expect you to
attend. However, I am pleased to make an exception for you, since
you will have other duties this year. You, my friend, will be at
Wortham, hunting vipers. Use whatever means you deem necessary to
rout them out of their dens.”

“It is always a pleasure to serve you, my
lord.” Royce bowed low. When he lifted his head to meet the king's
gaze, the two men smiled at each other in perfect
understanding.

Wortham Castle

May, A.D. 1121.

“I will never understand my father,”
Catherine said. She watched Royce greeting the most recent
arrivals, while around her the great hall bustled with the crowd of
noble men and women who were to be their guests for the next two
weeks.

In addition there were the servants,
men-at-arms, youthful pages, and squires who had come with the
guests, as well as the usual complement of men and women who lived
and worked at the castle. Both the inner and outer baileys were
filled with huge warhorses, with the gentle palfreys that ladies
usually rode, and packhorses laden with the armor and baskets of
clothing which had yet to be taken to the guest chambers. The
stables were already overcrowded. The castle baker was overworked.
The cook was frantic.

“It's not strange for Lord Royce to invite
guests,” said Catherine's cousin and companion, Aldis. “We have
housed and fed more folk than this on other occasions. Do you
remember Christmas two years ago, when eight barons came from
Normandy to celebrate with us? This is not so large a crowd as that
was.”

“But why now?” Catherine asked the young
woman who was a dear friend as well as a close relative. “Why at
this particular time?”

“Because of the Whitsuntide feast, of
course,” Aldis said. “Not to mention the great Wortham market. Just
think of all the wonderful goods, the fabrics and jewelry and
trinkets brought right here to Wortham from far away. The ladies
will enjoy themselves and the merchants will make handsome profits.
And then, there's the tournament for the men. Two days of glorious
mock combat. What fun it will be.”

“Perhaps.” Catherine doubted if Whitsunday
was the true reason for the gathering. Nor could she think it would
be much fun for those who were hurt during the tournament. It was
her duty to see to the preparation of clean linen bandages and
various herbal remedies. Tinctures reputed to speed the healing of
open wounds, liniments for aching muscles, and salves to soothe the
rashes that were inevitable when men wearing chainmail armor fought
for long hours under the hot sun, were all stockpiled in the
stillroom, ready for immediate use. She devoutly hoped no one would
be killed.

She simply could not comprehend why her
father, who had seen enough of the horrors of warfare to be
uninterested in playing at it, should insist upon holding a series
of armed contests. It made no sense to her, and Royce's evasive
response to her probing questions had left her unsatisfied and
feeling oddly uneasy.

She did not mind the extra work involved in
planning food and lodging for close to one hundred people. Having
served as her father's chatelaine since the death of her mother
almost a decade ago, when Catherine was not quite fourteen years
old, she was used to entertaining on a grand scale. But she was
convinced there was a hidden motive to Royce's decision to hold a
springtime festival that was intended to last for two weeks. She
did not for a moment imagine the decision had anything to do with
the Wortham fair. She was sure Royce was using the fair as an
excuse.

And why had King Henry given permission to
hold a tournament when he was said to despise the violence involved
in mock warfare, which too often resulted in serious injuries or
even death?

“Oh, no!” Aldis exclaimed. The way she
clutched at Catherine's arm conveyed utter dismay. “Lord Phelan of
Sutton and his son have just arrived. How dare they come here?”

Catherine stared in disbelief at the two men
who were greeting her father at the entrance to the great hall. The
older man was stocky and red-faced, with coarse features. The son
was larger and brawnier, but with a dull expression that Catherine
knew from past acquaintance was caused by a combination of
naturally slow wits and constant heavy drinking.

“Lord Royce cannot have invited them,” Aldis
gasped. “Surely, he would not, not after Phelan was so angry
because you and I helped Lady Margaret to run away from her wedding
this past Yuletide.”

“In the end, Phelan was pleased to see his
daughter married to my brother instead of to his original choice
for her,” Catherine said. “He proclaimed his delight at becoming a
member of our family to anyone who would listen. It was disgusting
to watch him fawning over my father.”

“Eustace hates you,” Aldis said, “because you
and Margaret inspired his poor, abused wife to leave him and return
to her father. Eustace cannot be pleased to be here.”

“Eustace will do what his father tells him to
do.” Catherine fell silent, watching the three men who stood just
inside the hall. She saw in her father's smile and his apparently
pleasant conversation with Phelan and Eustace a new puzzle to add
to her many unanswered questions.

She was well aware that there were matters
her father could not discuss with her. She knew he frequently
undertook secret missions for King Henry, but never before had he
invited enemies into the castle that was his stronghold. She did
not doubt that Phelan and Eustace were enemies, nor did she doubt
that her father knew it. Why, then, were those two at Wortham as
honored guests? The question nagged at her, prickling the too-ready
curiosity which she knew was one of the worst flaws in her
character.

From across the hall Royce motioned to her.
Catherine moved forward to join her father in greeting the guests
from Sutton and bidding them welcome to Wortham.

“My lords.” She made a polite curtsey, but
could not bring herself to extend her hand to either man. She did
not want to touch them. The contempt she saw in Phelan's eyes and
the undisguised look on Eustace's face as he took in her scarred
cheek were all the proof she needed to know they had not forgiven
her for the events of Twelfth Night when she had aided Phelan's
daughter in her flight from an arranged marriage to an elderly and
dissolute baron.

Catherine decided she would seize every
possible opportunity to avoid Phelan and Eustace during the next
fourteen days. She would spend her time with her lady guests and
leave the men to her father. With a hasty excuse about being needed
in the kitchen, she stepped away from Royce's side.

So intent was she on escaping the presence of
Phelan and his son that she did not notice the man who was coming
through the doorway until after she bumped into him. She halted
with her nose pressed against a broad, very firm chest. A pair of
strong hands caught her shoulders to steady her.

“My lady,” said a deep voice from someplace
high above her head, “have a care. If you charge at me so fiercely,
you will overcome me before I can enter the tournament. Then where
will I be, without a chance of earning a prize?”

“I beg your pardon, sir.” Did she only
imagine that the stranger's hands caressed her upper arms as he
removed them from her shoulders, or was he really so daring while
in full view of her father and the guests? “I did not see you.”

“You wound me deeply,” he said. “I thought I
was unmistakable.”

Catherine looked up – and up again, tilting
her head back, for he was a tall man. His short hair was dark and
his face was sharp-featured, with a long slash of nose and a firm
mouth. She had the impression that his eyes were as dark as his
hair, but she could not see them well, because his black lashes
were lowered. He seemed to be gazing at her mouth. Or, perhaps, it
was just that she was so much shorter than he, and thus he had to
look downward to see her at all. Catherine did not even reach to
his shoulder. She felt suddenly very small, very fragile, and more
than a little breathless. Her left hand came up to cover her
cheek.

“I do not know you,” she said, startled by
her own reaction to a man who was a complete stranger.

“A sad truth which I shall rectify at once,”
he responded. “I am Sir Braedon, known to my fellow knights as
Braedon the Wicked, and I am an invited guest at Wortham.”