True Love (6 page)

“Thank you for the reading,” Catherine said,
and stepped out of the dark tent into the bright, late morning
sunlight.

“How frightening for you.” Aldis put a
comforting arm across Catherine's shoulders. “What will you
do?”

“It was all nonsense,” Catherine said, as
much to reassure herself as Aldis.

“You cannot be certain of that,” Aldis
exclaimed. “Oh, how I wish I had not insisted on visiting that
tent.”

“Do not tell anyone what Mab said to me,”
Catherine ordered. “You may say whatever you like about the
predictions for your own future, but say nothing of mine.”

“Of course, I won't say a word. Are you
frightened?” Aldis certainly appeared to be terrified.

“Not in the least,” Catherine told her. “But
I cannot help wondering if Mab bears ill will toward my father and
if that is why she said what she did.”

“It's unlikely,” Aldis said. “She claims to
travel from place to place to earn her living, so she probably
doesn't remain anywhere for more than a few days. If that is so,
how could she know Lord Royce?”

“Perhaps she encountered him during her
travels. Aldis, I am weary of discussing this. We will say no more
on the subject. Look, there is Robert, and he isn't with the brewer
after all. He's buying a meat pie. You may join him if you wish.”
Catherine was too distressed by the fortune teller's remarks to
embark upon the stern advice she had intended for Aldis. She
decided she would talk to the girl later about Robert.

Aldis needed no urging to join the squire.
She hastened to Robert's side as if she believed he was the
handsome future knight who would claim her. Catherine watched them
together for a moment or two, until it struck her that Braedon was
not in the immediate vicinity, neither at the booth where meat pies
were being sold, nor in the group of men standing where the village
brewer was still dispensing ale.

Since Braedon was so tall, he ought to be
easy to find. Catherine scanned the crowd, finally discovering him
at the far side of the fair. He was standing with his back toward
her while he conversed with a handsome blond man in a brilliant
blue cloak, a man who looked to be angry. As Catherine watched, the
blond man scowled and said something, then stalked away from
Braedon. Catherine started forward. Braedon was heading for the
open space between the fairground and the river. The blond man,
being of average height, was quickly lost among the fairgoers.

As Catherine hurried past a booth displaying
rabbits, birds, and other small livestock for sale, she heard a
familiar and distinctly unpleasant voice coming from behind the
booth.

“You will do as I command,” Phelan said. “You
are to obey my orders.”

“I outrank you, Phelan.” The second voice was
filled with arrogance and contempt. “I take no orders from you, or
from anyone else in England.”

Catherine peered around the side of the
booth. She could not see Phelan, but she caught a glimpse of short
blond hair and a blue cloak before the pair moved on and she could
hear them no longer. She did not doubt that Phelan's companion was
the same man who had just been speaking with Braedon.

Did this mean there was a connection between
Braedon and Phelan? Were they working in concert to harm her
father? She wanted nothing to do with Phelan and he despised women
so completely that she was sure he would refuse to tell her
anything. She decided to confront Braedon.

She made her way through the crowd as rapidly
as she could, keeping Braedon's tall form always in view. When she
caught up with him near the river, he was not alone. A stranger was
with him, the second man in an hour whom Catherine did not
recognize. By the posture of Braedon and the other man and the way
they spoke and nodded to each other, this connection seemed to be
more agreeable than the first one. The stranger noticed her and
bowed politely.

“My lady,” he said. “I was just leaving. We
will talk again, Braedon.” With another bow to Catherine, the man
left them.

“Who was that?” Catherine asked.

“An old comrade in arms,” Braedon said.

“He is not a guest at the castle. I would
remember him if we had been introduced. What is his name?”

“Shall we return to the booths?” Braedon
suggested. “I see Robert and your maidservant. Perhaps we ought to
join them.”

From the suddenly closed expression on
Braedon's sharp-featured face, Catherine knew he wasn't going to
tell her anything, wasn't going to answer any of her many
questions. She looked from Braedon to the retreating form of the
man who had just left them, to the booth behind which Phelan was
probably still carrying on his discussion with the blond
stranger.

She was fast growing weary, and more than a
little angry, with men who refused to confide in women, as if the
women would babble everything they knew into the ears of the first
person who smiled at them. She considered her belief that her
father was keeping something important from her, and she thought of
her reservations about the entertainment that had brought so many
people to Wortham Castle.

Then she thought about the fortune teller's
frightening words. Mab had only confirmed what Catherine already
believed. She felt as if a net was slowly being drawn tighter and
tighter around Wortham, and around her father and herself. She did
not know what was happening, or why, or who was behind the menace
she perceived.

She did not know
yet,
she corrected
herself. For she intended to solve the mystery, and soon.

The midday feast was just beginning and Royce
and Catherine were on their way to their places at the high table
when a newcomer presented himself in the great hall. Catherine was
not at all surprised to see the pale hair and bright cloak of the
man she had noticed at the fair.

“My lord Achard,” Royce called, stepping from
the dais to greet the blond man. “I was beginning to think you were
unable to come. How glad I am to see you. Catherine, this is my
dear friend from Normandy, Count Achard de Ferrars.”

“Welcome to Wortham Castle, my lord.”
Catherine made her curtsy.

“It is a great honor to meet you at last, my
lady,” Achard said, bowing over the hand she extended. “I have
heard much of you, and not all of it from your affectionate father.
Tales of your beauty have traveled across the Narrow Sea to
Normandy and beyond, to more distant realms.”

“You are too kind, sir.” Catherine was forced
to drag on her hand to make Achard release it. He beamed at her as
if he was enthralled by her supposed loveliness.

Catherine knew she was not homely, but
neither was she beautiful. Perhaps it was her father's wealth and
power that made her attractive to Achard. Or perhaps it was just
his friendship with Royce that generated such extravagant
compliments.

“Well met, Achard,” Braedon said, coming
forward.

“Old friend, it's good to see you again after
so long.” Achard clasped Braedon's hand as if they had not met, or
spoken in anger, earlier that same day.

Catherine looked from Achard to Braedon, and
back again. Achard was remarkably handsome, and from the way he
carried himself Catherine suspected he knew it. Under the fringe of
blond hair his brow was wide and smooth. His eyes were a light,
sparkling blue, his nose straight and exactly the right length for
the rest of his face. His cleanshaven jaw was square and firm, and
his generous lips possessed a humorous upward tilt.

Compared to Achard, Braedon was a dark and
dangerous figure, a man rough-hewn, reserved, secretive. Where
Achard appeared to be open and sunny by nature, Braedon was
tight-lipped and intense.

On the whole, Catherine preferred Braedon.
She did not know why it was so. She only knew that Achard's
repeated compliments to her during the next few hours while he sat
next to her at the high table, his easy conversation about his late
parents, his land holdings in Normandy, his need to find a suitable
bride so he could produce an heir, and his openly expressed
admiration of Royce, all combined to set Catherine's nerves on
edge.

In contrast, Braedon sat quietly several
places away from Catherine. He joined the conversation only when
someone addressed him directly. Occasionally, his eyes met
Catherine's, but she had no inkling what his thoughts were. On
first meeting Braedon, she had found it difficult to keep up the
appearance of polite talk, but confronted by Achard's constant
chatter, to which she must reply or seem rude, Catherine wished
Braedon could exchange places with the newest guest. A few silent
moments would allow her freedom to chew her food, as well as giving
her a chance to think about the meaning of Achard's sudden
appearance at the castle after he had already met two of her
father's guests at the fair.

When Phelan and Eustace arrived in the hall
half way through the meal, and Phelan in his overbearing,
blustering way insisted that Royce must introduce him and his son
to the new guest at once, Catherine's suspicions were thoroughly
aroused. Phelan acted as if he had never seen Achard before that
hour, yet Catherine knew that wasn't the case. At least Braedon had
acknowledged a previous acquaintance with Achard.

As a course of sweet custards, cakes, and
dried fruits was served, Catherine decided she was through with
subterfuge. She wanted honest answers to all of her questions,
explanations for the secrets she could sense but not unravel. She
recalled Mab the fortune teller's declaration: “So great a tangle
of conflicting purposes.” Catherine rose from the high table vowing
that before the day was over she was going to untangle as many of
those purposes as she could.

With the meal finished most of the guests
left to return to the fair. Some of the men decided to ride out to
look at the melee field as Braedon had already done that morning.
Royce excused himself to speak with his seneschal for a short
time.

It was in the small office where Royce's
clerks kept the account books that Catherine finally confronted her
father. She waited outside the office until the seneschal's
business was completed. As soon as he left, Catherine stepped into
the office and closed the door for privacy. Royce was sitting at
the big table, frowning over a parchment. He looked up as Catherine
approached him.

“I see a question in your eyes,” Royce said,
smiling at her.

“You see many questions,” she responded. “The
first one is, who is Count Achard?”

“As I have told you, he is an old friend from
Normandy.”

“No, Father, that won't do. I will not be put
off with statements that tell me nothing I need to know.” Catherine
spread her hands on the table and leaned forward until she was nose
to nose with her father. “Did Achard ever join you in your secret
work for King Henry? Is that how you met him?”

“You know better than to ask me about my
work.” Royce sat back in his chair, moving away from her, putting
distance between them. His smile suggested he was about to utter
some loving, fatherly excuse for whatever problem Catherine
intended to present to him.

“I have never questioned you about it before
today, though perhaps I should have done so,” Catherine said. “I
raise the subject now because I think you should know that this
morning I accidentally overheard Achard talking with Phelan behind
one of the booths at the fair.”

The fond smile vanished from Royce's face. He
sat very still for a time, then said, “You cannot be sure it was
Achard you heard. You did not know him until he appeared in the
great hall today.”

“While I was at the fair I noticed Achard
talking to Braedon. It looked to me as if the two of them were
exchanging heated words,” Catherine said. “A short while later I
caught a glimpse of the same man and I heard Phelan speaking to
him, telling him to follow orders.”

“Hmm.” When Royce did not appear to be either
surprised or disturbed by the information, Catherine drew what she
thought was the obvious conclusion.

“Father, is Achard working with you now? Is
that why he came to Wortham? You must tell me! I don't know what to
think when I observe our guests holding secret conferences, and I
see you treating Phelan and Eustace like friends, though I am sure
they are your enemies. What of Braedon? Is he involved in your
secret work?”

“Like all the others, Braedon is here as my
guest. As for Achard, I suppose I ought to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Catherine straightened,
planted her fists on her hips, and began to tap one toe on the
floor. Royce's smile returned for a fleeting instant, before he
sobered.

“I want you to consider Achard as a possible
husband,” Royce said.

“
What?”
Catherine gaped at him. “You
have always said you will not force me into marriage.” She had
guessed some years ago that her father allowed her to remain single
out of fear that someone would marry her for her dowry and in order
to get closer to him, and then would kill her when her death became
convenient.

“Nor will I insist you make a marriage you do
not want,” Royce responded. “But, my dear girl, you are growing
older and I will not live forever. I want to see you well settled
before I die.”

“Are you ill?” Catherine cried in alarm.

“I am in the best of health. And Achard is
the best of friends. Will you consider the offer?”

“When did Achard ask for my hand?” Catherine
demanded.

“When we last saw each other in Normandy,”
Royce said.

“Before ever he met me,” Catherine muttered.
“There is more to this than you are telling me.” It was on her
tongue to refuse Achard's offer then and there, but Catherine
paused to think before she spoke, and she decided to be cautious.
“Thank you for telling me about this, Father, though I do think you
should have said something before Achard appeared at Wortham.
However, since you recommend him, I will seriously consider his
proposal. I make no promises, so please give Achard no
encouragement. The man is rather overwhelming; he talks constantly.
I cannot imagine the endless compliments he will spew forth if he
believes I am on the verge of agreeing to wed him.”