True Love (35 page)

Her confidence was borne out almost
immediately. As Desmond slowly walked around the fire to where
Phelan was waiting, Catherine heard a faint sound behind her and
sensed a quick, silent motion in the dark. The man holding her
grunted softly, then released her and collapsed. At the same time,
every one of Phelan's men was caught in the grip of two
men-at-arms. Meanwhile Desmond, grinning in unabashed pleasure,
kept Phelan immobilized at sword point. The key that unlocked the
chains was nowhere to be seen.

Beside Catherine, Braedon stooped to retrieve
his dagger. He wiped it clean on the tunic of the man who had been
holding her, then slipped it back into his boot.

“I trust you are unharmed,” he said to her.
“I apologize for the rough handling you received.”

“I knew you wouldn't run away,” she exclaimed
as Braedon strode past her and into the clearing. “I was right to
think Desmond was trying to warn me not to worry.”

“We wanted to be sure this group here by the
fire was all of Phelan's men, with none held in reserve,” Braedon
explained. “I'm in no mood to be attacked a second time in one
night. Are your women unharmed?”

His cool tone stopped Catherine from going
into his arms. She restrained herself and answered him in a voice
as unemotional as his own.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. “We are all in
good health, merely displeased at being wakened out of a sound
sleep.”

“Robert!” Aldis streaked past Catherine to
fling herself at the squire. And Robert, unconstrained by any oath
made to Royce, gathered Aldis close and kissed her fervently.

“Well, Desmond,” Braedon said, clapping his
friend on the shoulder, “we now have half a dozen more prisoners to
escort to Gloucester.”

“Where is Cadwallon?” Catherine asked.

“Here I am.” He came into the clearing
leaning heavily on Gwendolyn's shoulder. His broken arm, torn from
its sling, dangled uselessly, and his face was streaked with
blood.

“What happened to you?” Catherine cried.

“When the attack began Phelan gathered up his
chains in one hand and used them as a weapon, to slash at me,”
Cadwallon said. He limped up to Phelan. “I now have a personal
grudge against you, my lord. And so will my wife have a grudge when
she sees what you've done to my nose. I'm tempted to turn her loose
on you.”

“Do you think I care one whit for you, or for
your cursed wife?” Phelan shouted. As if he finally realized that
he was well and truly caught and was not going to be freed of
either his chains or the charges against him, Phelan began to curse
Cadwallon and his wife, as well as Catherine, Braedon, and everyone
else in their camp in such disgusting terms that Catherine wanted
to cover her ears.

“Gag him,” Braedon ordered curtly. When
Eustace began to protest the command in vile language even worse
than his father's, Braedon turned on him. “If you speak one more
word, I'll have you gagged, too. I tell you now, Eustace, that if I
weren't sworn to deliver both you and your father to the king, I'd
kill you and save all of us a long and difficult journey. I am sure
you are aware of the pleasure I would derive from slicing you into
ribbons. Manhood first, of course.”

Catherine stared at Braedon in awe, scarcely
recognizing in the commanding speech and cold purpose of the
warrior the warm and tender lover who had taught her the ways of
passion. There was no sign now of the man who had hated the need to
kill a former friend. As far as Catherine could tell, Braedon
spared not a single regretful thought for the villain who had
threatened her.

“How many were killed and how many wounded?”
Desmond asked when Braedon stepped away from Eustace to take a few
deep breaths.

“Two of Phelan's men are dead and six are
prisoners,” Robert answered from where he stood with his arm still
around Aldis. “Two of our men-at-arms are slightly wounded, and Sir
Cadwallon more seriously.”

“I can travel,” Cadwallon insisted. “I will
not delay you.”

“Phelan's men must have had horses.” Braedon
was back in their midst, recovered from his outburst against
Eustace and ready to put all into proper order.

“Some of their horses ran away, but we caught
four of them,” one of the men-at-arms reported.

“Good,” Braedon said, his mouth hard. “We'll
keep them as extra mounts for ourselves in case any of our horses
go lame. Phelan's men can walk to Gloucester. Rope them together.
And if any one of them causes the slightest trouble, run him
through. We have neither time nor sympathy to waste on such as
these.”

While Gwendolyn and Aldis tended the wounded
men-at-arms, Catherine saw to Cadwallon's injuries.

“I am afraid there will be a scar on your
cheek,” she told him, pressing an herbal compress over the gash to
cleanse it and stop the bleeding. “Your wife won't be happy to see
what has become of you.”

“So long as it doesn't fester, I won't
complain,” Cadwallon said.

By the time Catherine had used one of her
scarves to fashion a new sling for Cadwallon's arm, Braedon was
urging everyone onto horseback. They left the campground as soon as
it was light enough to see their way. For the remainder of the
journey they did not camp in the open again. They stayed in castles
or manor houses, or in abbey guesthouses along the way, even when
they had to ride late into the evenings to reach shelter. Braedon
was on constant guard against another attempt to free the
prisoners.

During those long and tiring days in the
saddle Catherine saw a different aspect of Braedon's character, a
knight dedicated solely to duty, who seldom slept and who ate only
because he needed to maintain his strength. He rarely spoke to her
and when he did, it was in brief sentences. Catherine began to
wonder if she would ever see her gentle, passionate lover again, or
if Braedon would permanently remain cold and distant from her.

It took Royce's party twelve days to reach
Gloucester from Wortham Castle. A goodly part of that time was
expended in delays to accommodate Lady Edith, who complained
unceasingly about the rigors of travel, the vile food provided for
her, and the unsuitable accommodations available along the way.

Royce was in no great hurry, so he could
afford to be patient with the lady whose presence was vital to the
successful completion of his work. He knew Catherine was following,
guarded by Braedon and his two friends, all of whom had sworn to
him they would keep his daughter safe and his prisoners secure.

Royce's mouth tightened every time he thought
about Braedon. Between them, they had resolved the question of who
was encouraging King Henry's nobles to intrigue against their liege
lord. After Royce had made his report, Henry would have a good idea
of just how far King Louis of France was willing to go to see his
own choice of heir on the English throne. The mission that Henry
had entrusted to Royce in February was a resounding success. In
addition, the personal mystery that had bedeviled him for more than
ten years was finally solved.

Royce should have been pleased. Instead, his
sense of satisfaction was overshadowed by murderous rage every time
he thought of Braedon making love to Catherine. In anger Royce had
sworn to kill Braedon, the partner who had worked with him during
many previous spying assignments, the same man who had saved his
life on several occasions. The wretch had entered Royce's home as a
guest, and had used his position there to defile Royce's daughter.
It was an insult no nobleman could tolerate.

It did not matter to Royce that Braedon was a
bastard. After all, William of Normandy, the conqueror of England
and parent of the present king, was himself born of a mother who
was not married to her child's father. The problem was that Braedon
was landless, a wanderer completely dependent on King Henry's
largesse, bound to no place, and to no lord except the king.
Because Braedon's work required anonymity, the chances were good
that he would never be publicly rewarded, that he would live out
his life as so many other private agents did, without even a room
to call his own, with only the belongings he carried with him, and
with but a single squire who was, himself, too poor to become a
knight. Such a man could not wed the daughter of a great noble.

And this was the man who had taken advantage
of Catherine's tender heart. Royce blamed himself for not insisting
that Catherine must marry as soon as she reached the proper age of
fourteen. He had allowed her to remain at Wortham as his chatelaine
because, with his wife dead and his son, brother, and nephew all
departed for the Holy Land, he could not bear to see his one
remaining close family member leave. His own weakness had placed
Catherine in a position where she was vulnerable to the
blandishments of a common spy.

Between Lady Edith's constant delays and
complaints, and the guilt over Catherine that nagged at him, by the
time Royce finally reached Gloucester and took up residence in the
abbey guesthouse, he was not in the best of moods. Nor was his
temper improved upon learning that King Henry was delaying along
the way from Westminster, holding court wherever he stopped,
hearing petitions and lingering at various castles to feast with
the nobles who were entertaining him and his courtiers.

Royce was finding it more and more difficult
to control his temper. The many secrets he was keeping were
threatening to burst forth and destroy his carefully laid plans. It
was with a mixture of relief and dread that he watched the king
ride into Gloucester ten days after his own arrival. That same
afternoon Royce spoke with Henry's private secretary and made
arrangements for a meeting two days later. Immediately thereafter,
spurred by an impatience he could not quench, he left Lady Edith
under the protection of his men-at-arms and set out to meet his
daughter along the way, determined that she, and the prisoners,
would be in Gloucester on time for their rendezvous with King
Henry.

The next afternoon Royce stopped at a manor
house where he and Lady Edith had rested during their ride to
Gloucester. The lord of the manor, Sir Gerald, had known Royce for
years and was pleased to tell him of the messenger who was
refreshing himself in the great hall.

“He is one of your own men-at-arms, sent by
Lady Catherine to ask lodging for tonight,” Sir Gerald said. “It's
a hot day and you look as if you could use a tankard of ale,
yourself. You are welcome to wait in the hall till your daughter
arrives. The man-at-arms said she's conducting prisoners, so I am
about to look over the two cells in the basement, to be sure they
are secure.”

Royce was glad of the opportunity to relieve
his thirst, and to accompany Sir Gerald on his inspection of the
cells that were being prepared for the prisoners. It was still
daylight when Catherine's party reached the manor. Sir Gerald and
Royce greeted them in the courtyard.

“Oh, dear,” Catherine said, dismounting into
Royce's arms, “we have prisoners who are walking, which has forced
us to travel so slowly that I never imagined we'd catch up to you.
Shall we leave quickly and go elsewhere to avoid meeting Lady
Edith?”

“No need,” Royce answered. “She is safely
installed at Gloucester. I am here to be certain you are on time
for our audience with the king. You are well behind the schedule I
set for you. Cadwallon, what happened to your face?”

“Phelan tried to escape and used his chains
on me,” the knight replied.

“Chains?” Royce repeated.

“There is much to tell you, Father,”
Catherine said.

“I can see there is.” Royce surveyed the
condition of Phelan and Eustace, who were dismounting under the
watchful eyes of their guards. Next he turned his attention to the
group of bedraggled men being marched into the courtyard by more of
his own men-at-arms. “Where amongst this motley group is
Achard?”

“Hush, Father, we don't want Phelan and
Eustace to know,” Catherine cautioned him.

“To know what?” Royce demanded, his irritable
temper about to flare.

“Royce, I beg your patience for a few
moments,” Braedon said. “Then I'll speak with you in private. Sir
Gerald, all of us thank you for your hospitality. With your kind
permission, Sir Cadwallon and Sir Desmond will dispose of our
prisoners for the night.”

The courtyard was emptied in short order. As
Sir Gerald had observed, it was a very hot day and all of the
men-at-arms were eager to find something cool to drink after their
long ride. Nor did any of the prisoners object to the command to
march into a building that was far cooler than the hot and humid
outdoors.

“We are alone now,” Royce said to Braedon.
“Where is Achard? Don't tell me he succeeded in escaping at the
same time that Phelan tried to flee.”

“Phelan's men attempted to free him during
our second night away from Wortham,” Braedon said, meeting Royce's
cold stare with clipped speech and his own cool anger. “We'd have
been better served if you had kept those brigands at Wortham as I
wanted. Cadwallon would still have an unscarred face to take home
to his wife, and Catherine would never have been threatened with a
slit throat.”

“Catherine, threatened?” Royce found it hard
to force the words out of his suddenly constricted throat.

“Aye, my lord Royce.” Braedon's voice dripped
sarcasm. “Once again, your careless folly has put your daughter
into a danger from which I had to rescue her. What the devil have
you been thinking of during these past weeks?”

“I have had other subjects on my mind,” Royce
answered, unwilling to reveal any more than he absolutely must.
“Matters that you know nothing of.”

“So I have gathered. Whenever we worked
together in the past, you kept me fully informed. You know I can be
trusted to be loyal to King Henry. There is no excuse for what
you've done.”