True Love (21 page)

“Agreed.” Braedon forced himself to put aside
the tender memory of Catherine so he could think about what he was
commanded by the king to do. “I swear I will do nothing to betray
or harm you, either.”

“You already have.” There was no charm or
warmth left in Royce's icily composed face. “We will talk again
later, after I have decided what our next move will be.” He left
the room just as Robert entered it.

When Catherine reached her bedroom she found
Aldis waiting anxiously.

“What happened?” Aldis cried. “After that
noisy signal I provided, I thought you would be here before me.
Catherine, look at you! Your hair, your dress – what have you been
doing?”

“Making love with Braedon.” Catherine saw no
reason to conceal the truth.

“Oh, good heavens!” Aldis clapped both hands
over her mouth. “Did he ravish you?”

“It was more as though we ravished each
other,” Catherine said. She smiled faintly, remembering the heat of
Braedon deep inside her, and the cascading, shimmering climax of
his lovemaking. “I am not sorry for it, though I fear I have caused
great trouble for Braedon. My father knows.”

“Dear saints in heaven,” Aldis gasped. “What
will you do now?”

“Defend Braedon as best I can,” Catherine
said.

As she spoke Royce entered the room without
knocking. Having heard her last few words, he sent a swift glare in
her direction before transferring his attention to Aldis.

“It is clear to me what part you have played
in this incident,” Royce said to her.
“Aldis of the fallen
pitcher,
you are more clever than I realized.”

“Dear uncle,” Aldis began.

“Say nothing,” Royce told her, “lest you – or
I – regret your words later.”

“I would do anything for Catherine,” Aldis
declared stoutly.

“And so you have,” Royce said with a frown.
Then he demanded of Catherine, “How could you be so foolish? The
man is a spy.”

“So are you.” Catherine saw Royce wince as
the accusation hit home, but he recovered quickly.

“Furthermore, he is a landless bastard, his
mother was a commoner, and his father's identity is unknown.”

“That is not entirely true,” Catherine
protested. She was about to say that Braedon did know who his
father was, for he had applied to the man when he needed help for
his cousin, Linette, and the fact that his father had been able to
influence an abbess to take Linette into her convent proved that
Braedon was the son of a nobleman. Royce cut off her words before
they were spoken.

“There can be nothing between you and
Braedon.”

“There is a great deal between us, and it
will not cease because of your command,” Catherine said, defiant
and ready to face down her furious parent.

“I should have seen you married years ago,”
Royce snarled at her.

“To someone like Achard?” she cried. “Father,
I am angry with you, and I have a right to be. If only you had
trusted me with your plan.”

“I did trust you, Catherine. You have had
more freedom than most noblewomen, wed or unwed. That freedom ends
here and now. You will stay away from Braedon.”

On those words he turned on his heel and left
her before Catherine was able to offer any of the many protests
that rose to her lips.

“Good morning, my lady.” Lord Cadwallon
greeted Catherine as soon as she reached the great hall. He was
moving more easily, his aches and pains from the tournament
apparently having healed, with only the arm in a sling left as a
reminder of his injuries. “I have been looking for your father, but
I cannot find him. Do you know where he is?”

“I expected him to be here in the hall. He
always rises early.” Catherine had been dreading the next
confrontation with her irate parent and had braced herself for it.
As she glanced around the hall a faint uneasiness began to stir
within her mind. Too many of her father's guests were involved in
secret games of their own, and any of those games could turn
dangerous. “Lord Cadwallon, did you ask if my father has gone to
the stables?”

“The guard at the entrance says that Royce
has not left the keep this morning,” Cadwallon responded.

“How very odd.”

“When you see him, would you tell him I'd
like to have a word with him in private?” Cadwallon asked. “I'll do
the same for you if I find him first.”

“Of course,” Catherine said. “Is there some
problem that I could help you to resolve?”

“Oh, no.” Cadwallon responded just a shade
too quickly and the ruddy color in his cheeks increased. “It's a
manly thing having to do with the weapons for the tournament,
nothing of interest to a lady.”

He was lying; Catherine was certain of it.
Was there no one among all the people at Wortham who was
not
keeping a secret?

“What have you to do with weapons?” Catherine
asked. “You will be unable to participate in the final day of the
tournament.”

“To my regret,” said Cadwallon. “But Royce
laid a task on me, so I wouldn't feel left out of all the activity,
and I wanted to speak to him about it.”

“I see.” She thought that was a half truth,
for Cadwallon looked a little less uncomfortable as he excused
himself and went off to join a group of men who were breaking their
fast at one of the trestle tables.

“Aldis, there you are.” Catherine hurried to
the screens passage through which Aldis was just coming. “Has
Robert mentioned whether Braedon is still in his chamber?”

“Robert just took some food to him,” Aldis
said, not bothering to pretend that she hadn't spoken with the
squire. “Gwendolyn is to carry hot water up for Sir Braedon to
bathe, so I assume he is there. Why wouldn't he be?”

“And my father?”

“I don't know, I haven't seen him,” Aldis
said. “Or Lady Edith, either.”

Aldis spoke no more on that subject but
Catherine could guess what she was thinking, for the same
possibility had occurred to her. An hour passed, during which
Catherine applied herself to her morning duties as chatelaine.
There was to be a hunting party that day and some of the guests

were becoming restless, wanting to begin.
Royce still had not appeared, though Lady Edith did sweep into the
hall attired for riding in a bright green gown with her hair caught
high into a net.

“When we parted last night Royce promised an
early start to the hunt,” she said to Catherine. “I cannot believe
your father has forgotten.”

“Neither can I,” said Catherine. “I will see
if I can find him, or one of his squires who will know where he
is.” At least, Catherine thought rather sourly, she could now be
sure her father was not in private with Lady Edith, so she would
not be interrupting a passionate interlude if she knocked on the
door of the lord's chamber.

She found the door unlatched and Ward, one of
Royce's squires, holding a basin for his master, who was sitting on
the side of his bed, being violently sick.

“Why didn't you call me?” Catherine
cried.

“He refused to let me bother you when you are
so busy with the guests,” the squire said.

“What nonsense. The guests can look after
themselves for a while.” Catherine thought it was far more likely
that Royce wanted to avoid another argument with her when he wasn't
feeling well. She reached for a damp cloth that lay on a stool near
the bed and used it to wipe her father's face. Royce was white and
his uncovered upper body was damp. When Catherine laid her hand on
his chest, she discovered that his heart was beating much too
rapidly.

“I must have eaten something that disagreed
with me,” Royce said. “My stomach is cramping badly.” His glance
caught and held hers, as if he was relaying a silent message.

“Let me see that basin,” Catherine said to
Ward. She took it from him and bent to look at the contents. “Take
this to the garderobe and dump it there. Then wash the basin
thoroughly and scrub your hands with hot water and soap,” she
ordered. “Do not ask questions, simply do as I say.”

“Do it,” Royce said when the squire looked to
him for confirmation. He waited until Ward was gone before he spoke
again. “I gather that your suspicions are similar to my own.”

“This is not an illness caused by spoiled
food,” Catherine said, her voice quavering with fear. “You have
been poisoned.”

“I believe I have. Food was merely a
convenient excuse. I feared that Ward would raise a loud outcry if
I mentioned poison, and I don't want the guests to know of this.
It's best to keep it quiet for now.”

“Do you know what the poison was, or when it
was administered?” When Royce shook his head Catherine made a few
quick decisions. “Stay here. I won't be gone long. Do not eat or
drink anything until I return.”

“Not much chance of that,” Royce said weakly.
“I cannot keep anything down.”

The first thing to do was brew a mixture of
herbs that would make him vomit again, so he would lose still more
of the poison. Catherine ran down the steps and headed for the
stillroom.

“Catherine?” Aldis came into the entry hall
just as Catherine reached it, and she followed her cousin. “What's
wrong now?”

“Father is ill. Can you get a jug of hot
water from the kitchen?”

“Gladly. But, why?”

“It will save time if I don't have to boil
water in the stillroom,” Catherine responded. “Don't say anything
to the guests. And hurry, please.”

When Aldis returned a few minutes later,
carrying a jug of steaming water with a towel wrapped around it to
protect her hands, Catherine had the herbal mixture ready in a
small pitcher. She added the hot water and stirred, then laid a
napkin over the pitcher to keep the vapors inside.

“I have just fended off a great many
questions,” Aldis said. “We are going to have to tell the guests
something, and soon.”

“I know.” Catherine picked up the pitcher,
sniffed at the brew, and nodded her approval. “Will you bring the
jug along? We may want the hot water.”

Royce was still sitting on his bed, arms
tightly hugging his middle, his face pale and damp with pain.

“Drink this.” Catherine poured some of the
herbal potion into a cup and thrust it into her father's hand.

“If I do, I'll be sick again,” he gasped,
trying to give the cup back to her.

“That's the idea,” she said. “Ward, be
certain he drinks every drop that's in the pitcher. Then wash his
face and hands. It will make him feel a little better.”

“Catherine,” Aldis cried when they were
heading down the steps once more, “would you care to tell me
exactly what is going on here?”

“Please, just trust me and do as I ask of
you,” Catherine answered. “I will explain everything later. Now,
the next thing we have to do is get this crowd of guests out of the
castle.”

“My lords and ladies,” Catherine said,
raising her voice as she entered the great hall, “I am sorry to
tell you that last night's fish has temporarily laid my father low.
Is anyone else sick?”

As she expected, the only ailments that
morning were a few minor injuries resulting from the tournament,
Cadwallon's broken arm, and a dozen or so aching heads from too
much wine.

“If our host is ill, what are we to do for
entertainment today?” grumbled Phelan, sounding like a sulky child.
“I wanted to hunt.”

“So you shall, my lord,” Catherine told him.
“Allow me to take advantage of your frequent claim to be a member
of our family.”

“What do you mean?” Phelan asked with a wary
look that indicated he thought she was up to no good.

“As our nearest healthy male relative present
on this day, you shall lead the hunt. There is no reason why
everyone else should be inconvenienced because of my father's minor
indisposition. I believe the horses and dogs are awaiting you, so
there should be no delay in starting. Aldis will go with you as my
surrogate. She will see to the midday refreshments that will be
provided in the field.”

Aldis looked surprised at Catherine's
announcement, but made no objection. Apparently, she saw the wisdom
of keeping the guests occupied until Royce was well again.

Catherine's plan met with instant approval,
though a fair number of her father's friends, including Lady Edith,
did pause on their way out of the keep to ask her to carry their
wishes for his quick recovery to the sick room. Catherine thanked
them politely while she wondered who among them had done the
terrible deed and while she heartily wished them all miles away
from Wortham.

“Why are you doing this?” Phelan demanded in
his most hostile manner.

“Because I believe you are the man best
suited to take my father's place today.” She smiled at him, hoping
he would not see in her face what a lie that was. Phelan stared at
her as if convinced there was some trickery involved, but finally
he did leave, pulling Eustace away from his ever-present wine jug
as he went.

Achard was more difficult to move, and
Catherine was growing both impatient and very apprehensive about
her father. With every moment that passed the danger to Royce
became more serious.

“My dear lady, I will stay with you,” Achard
said. “I cannot in good conscience leave when you may have need of
me.”

“My lord,” Catherine replied, suppressing
with great difficulty her desire to see him kicked down the steps
of the keep and into the bailey, “you will serve me best by helping
Phelan to make this day's hunt a successful one.”

“But you will be left here alone, with only
servants.”

“I trust the servants,” Catherine said. “They
obey my clearly stated orders. I wish you would do the same.”

“Catherine, dear heart, your coldness wounds
me.” Achard reached for her hand.

“Don't you understand?” Catherine cried,
tugging her hand out of his with some difficulty. Desperate for him
to be gone so she could get back to her father, she used the first
excuse that popped into her mind. “I want you to watch Phelan for
me in my father's absence. I fear he is hatching some nefarious
plot.”