Fire Raven Page 18

  “How did Grandmother Tanner die?” she asked Kit quietly so the chattering redheads wouldn’t overhear.

  He didn’t seem to sense her unease and answered matter-of-factly enough, “There was an unfortunate accident. Though Meredith was married and the mother of four sons, she was still ardently pursued by several swains at Court. Father was powerless to put a stop to it, I fear, and since the queen demanded Merry’s presence at every Court function, Mother had no choice but to go.”

  “What happened?” Kat persisted.

  Her uncle hesitated, his eyes shadowed. “Two of Mother’s love-struck courtiers got into a violent quarrel over the favor of a dance with her. Words shortly turned to weapons in the yard. Mother tried to stop them, I was told, but to no avail. In all the confusion, she hurled herself between the men just as they lunged for each other.” Uncle Kit shook his head, obviously reliving his role as a terrified young boy who had seen his beautiful mother’s broken, bleeding body brought back to Ambergate.

  “Of course, Bess Tudor was appalled and sent both of the guilty fellows promptly to the block. Yet even our mighty queen could not restore a mother to her sons.”

  Kat vigorously rubbed her arms up and down to banish a sudden chill in the gallery. “I’ve not heard such a tale before. I’m sure I wouldn’t have forgotten it.”

  “Your father, Slade, was the youngest of us boys. He was only four or so when it happened. I’m sure he doesn’t remember it himself. There was no reason for him to repeat such a sad tale to his own offspring. In fact, I confess I’m guilty myself of distorting the truth at times. I’d rather remember Mother enjoying her old age here at Ambergate, as she deserved. I’ll wager, Slade’s stories about your grandmother are more my invention than reality.”

  Kat didn’t reply. She couldn’t. While Uncle Kit had told her of the unfortunate tragedy, she thought not of her grandmother. Instead, she remembered Merry’s innocent laughter as she flirted with a mysterious man calling himself Count Saville.

  Chapter Thirteen

  IT WAS A BLESSING, Winnie realized, whenever Lord Trelane left Falcon’s Lair for a time. Never had she dreamed to rue the day when the Master was home, yet in the last three months, she found herself hoping he would be delayed somewhere whenever he rode away to attend to his demesne.

  Ever since Mistress Kat had departed, the Master had been in a mood blacker than the hell the good Father painted for sinners. He was short and curt with all the staff nowadays — including the Careys — and downright merciless with those who truly earned his wrath.

  The former steward, Renfrew, who had terrorized the villagers and burned the Widow Sayer’s cottage, was recently located in Tregaron, where he was discovered gleefully drinking down the last of the Lord Trelane’s pilfered coins. Renfrew was seized, publicly whipped in the city street, and driven from Wales without so much as a shirt on his back or a crust for his supper. Those who lived in the village were forbidden to aid the man or shelter him in any way, on pain of death.

  Lord Trelane bought another stallion to replace Idris; unlike the noble black he had once ridden through the hills, this ugly roan was so evil-tempered that Winnie’s husband, Lloyd, was unable to handle the beast. Bit by bit, the Master had cleansed Falcon’s Lair of each and every trace of Kat, from the gowns she had worn to the poor faithful Patches, whom he sold to a gypsy tinker wanting a nag to pull his cart.

  The Devil Baron, in truth, is what himself is now, Winnie thought with a shudder. Nothing more, nothing less. At first she had no idea the Master’s angst went so far as to succumb to the nightly ease Gwynneth offered him. Winnie only noticed the serving girl getting too full of herself. When she sought to bring Gwynneth up short one day, she was shocked.

  “Mind your place, nosy old cow,” Gwynneth retorted in a tone of pure insolence. “The Master’s got no complaint with me, you can be sure. He’ll not take kindly to your nasty remarks. You and the others best take heed; you will all be sent packing before me.”

  At last Winnie understood. Old and slow she might be; blind she was not. She did not understand the Master’s choice, though. He was hurting, that obvious to everyone. Yet Winnie knew there were better ways to fill the void Kat had left in his heart than with common trash like Gwynneth.

  One day Winnie could not bear the maid servant’s insolence any longer. She dared speak her piece to Morgan himself, risking his wrath.

  “What you need is a wife, milord,” she said. By this time, she had had quite enough of his ill temper and Gwynneth’s blatant disrespect. “You need a lady wife of proper breeding; one who’ll give you a league of sons to fill Falcon’s Lair’s empty cradle.”

  She spoke out of place and out of turn. To her surprise Morgan looked thoughtful, as if seriously considering her advice.

  “I believe you are right Mrs. Carey,” he said at last, albeit in a somewhat ominous tone. “I shall make some inquiries.”

  To Winnie’s considerable shock, he had. Lord Trelane had simply and nonchalantly informed her and the rest of the staff that he would be gone to London for a time. The unspoken inference was that he sought a wife.

  As she watched the Master ride away on a fine summer day, with Jimson acting escort, Winnie shook her head. She prayed the Master would return in better spirits, preferably with a bride as sweet-natured as he was sour. She wiped her hands on the apron protecting her skirts, sighed, and returned to the keep. She was confronted at the door by Gwynneth. The girl’s furious, tear-splotched face told a tale of its own. Judging by Gwynneth’s violent reaction, Winnie knew it was true: Trelane had decided to take a wife.

  “You gave him the idea, you old witch!” Gwynneth shrieked, raising her callused hand as if to strike Winnie. Winnie was tired of the girl’s hysterics. Grabbing Gwynneth’s wrist with her strongest hand, she wrenched the girl’s arm down and held it fast at her side.

  “I’d best be avoiding any talk of witchcraft, if I was you, wench,” Winnie retorted. “I hear tell of your love potions and binding spells, missy, and wonder if there’s not far more brewing up on Madoc’s Craig than thunderstorms.”

  Gwynneth paled. Her mouth turned down in an ugly sneer. “I’ve more power here than you’ll ever dream of having, you old cow,” she hissed, yanking her arm free and fleeing from the keep.

  Winnie let the girl go. Her gaze narrowed after Gwynneth. Something must be done about that one, she mused, before the Master returned with his new bride.

  MORGAN MADE GOOD TIME en route to London. His new stallion, as yet unnamed, had a wild streak and carried him south at a reckless pace. His man, Jimson, was hard-pressed to keep up but didn’t dare grumble. His Master’s temper was infamous nowadays for good reason; none of the servants wanted to cross the man known as the Devil Baron even in his younger years.

  It was true enough, Morgan intended to fetch an English bride. What Winnie and the others didn’t know was that the contract had already been drawn up and signed over a month ago. Winnie’s suggestion made Morgan realize what he was missing. Damme, he was a man, and a man had a right to heirs and some small portion of happiness. To this end, he needed a woman, a girl of good stock and decent upbringing, who would give him strong sons to carry on the family name.

  Once, not long ago, he had shied from the thought of forcing any woman to take his name and bear his children. Now he no longer cared. A properly raised maid wouldn’t question her fate; arranged marriages were the norm throughout the Tudor realm. A biddable wife was all he sought and, according to his London source, he was betrothed to a Mistress Margaret who should prove suitable enough.

  Morgan scarcely glanced at the miniature he received after negotiations were settled. He had little interest in how the wench looked. She might well be as ugly as himself — indeed, it might be preferable — and then he should not feel inclined to apologize for his own appearance.

  When he and his manservant stopped to sup at an inn on the way to London, Morgan found curiosity getting the better of him, at last. He dug thro
ugh the saddlebags to find the sheaf of correspondence from London, accompanied by a small, painted portrait of his intended. He had not requested the miniature. By tradition, the girl’s family supplied it along with the contract.

  Morgan found the papers and the miniature. After a hasty supper of boiled lamb and cabbage in the inn, he retreated upstairs to his private room, lighting a second candle in his room to better reveal the miniature’s detail.

  Even as he studied his fiancée’s ordinary and agreeable features and idly noted the flaming red hair, Morgan compared Mistress Margaret to another woman he had yet to forgive, or forget.

  Kat. Damme her brilliant green eyes and night-dark hair. Morgan also cursed the memory of her upturned face. Lips sweet and soft as rose petals, parting delectably under his own. Glorious tresses of ebony silk. With a disgusted noise, he tossed the miniature aside. How could he do honor by Mistress Margaret and her family, when he wasn’t able to rend that traitorous bitch from his thoughts?

  Heirs were what he needed. A brace of strong sons by this English girl to assure that the Trelane name would not die out. Then mayhap … God willing, someday he might forget.

  AFTER A BRIEF SOJOURN at Hampton Court, the queen’s retinue retired to Whitehall for the remainder of the summer. The novelty of traveling with the Court had quickly worn thin for Kat, as did the endless parade of coxcombs seeking her favor. She seized any opportunity for privacy and soon discovered her favorite place was the garden.

  One fine August day, she occupied a stone bench alone, alternately contemplating the charms of the Shakespearean garden and the irony of her life. Royal sword lilies and handsome yellow broom contrasted the wild sweetbrier, and humble Michaelmas daisies the clove-scented gillyflowers. Bees droned around her, adding a lazy touch to the pastoral scene.

  She had slipped away from her duties in anticipation of a moment of rare peace from the usual hustle and bustle. Her time at Court had been fraught with difficulty — much of her own making, she knew. Kat doubted she would ever fit into her sister’s worldly frame. Merry might find scheming and flirting as natural as breathing; indeed, she seemed to enjoy it. Kat was already weary of the trite and shallow lifestyle she lived beneath the shadow of the throne.

  She discovered she was no more cut out for curtseying and gossiping than Merry was for striding a deck. As ludicrous as it was to imagine her sister commanding a crew at sea, it was no less laughable whenever Kat tried to lisp as Merry had taught her or effect a simpering air whenever a man glanced her way. It went against her grain. Kat soon rebelled against the notion altogether.

  Since her arrival, she and Merry argued constantly over Kat’s failure to fit in, from refusing to adopt the role of a helpless female to executing a proper curtsey. After her presentation at Nonsuch, Merry had rebuked Kat for donning men’s garb in order to ride with the hunt. She still cringed whenever Kat was called to attend the queen in chambers; fortunately it was not often.

  Kat suspected Elizabeth Tudor recognized her true nature and was content to let her alone, as long as Kat did not corrupt Merry or her other ladies-in-waiting. Though, Kat thought, it would be hard to corrupt such a gaggle of goose brains, unless one tried to inject some common sense into their empty little heads. She loved her sister with all her heart, but Merry exasperated her quicker than anyone she knew — even Morgan.

  A shadow fell over her in the garden, blocking the light by which she admired the blossoms. Kat glanced up with trepidation, startled from her reflection. It was not Count Saville, as she had feared.

  “Lieutenant Navarre,” she exclaimed with genuine pleasure and surprise, her gaze drinking in the familiar features of the soldier who protected her during the long journey to London. It seemed so long ago, yet Kat had never forgotten his generous deed, nor would she ever be able to repay him in kind.

  “Captain Navarre,” the golden-haired man modestly said in his accented voice. He offered her a formal bow and doffed his feathered green hat, tucking it beneath one arm. Lucien’s golden hair was longer now, drawn back into a queue with a black velvet ribbon. Kat admitted to herself he looked dashingly handsome in his green and white Tudor uniform. A wide golden sash accented his lean waist.

  “I confess, I have been promoted since we last met. I am delighted to make your acquaintance again, Mademoiselle Katherine.”

  “Doubtless shocked, as well,” Kat said with a smile, patting the empty space beside her on the stone bench. Both spoke French without a second thought. “Please do join me.”

  “Why should I be shocked?” Navarre asked, looking bemused as he sat beside her.

  “You must have believed me a criminal or traitor to the Crown.”

  Navarre shook his head. “Non, never a criminal,” he softly said. “A lady fallen upon unfortunate circumstances, perhaps.”

  “You are kind.”

  He offered Kat a broad smile of white teeth flashing against his tanned skin. “I confess, I was relieved to learn the truth came out through Her Majesty’s persistent inquiries.”

  “Then you knew my fate?”

  “I fear gossip is as commonplace here at Court as rain in the English spring, Katherine. Even so, I admit I noted your arrival at Whitehall with more than a passing interest.”

  Kat’s heartbeat quickened when she saw the open admiration in his sky-blue eyes. “Captain Navarre — ” she began.

  “Lucien, s’il’ vous plait,” he corrected her. “I must also confess I have admired you from a distance these past months, as you graced our Court. Though I am doubtless not the only man enchanted by your beauty and your wit, I finally decided to presume upon something so small as our past acquaintance to gain your attention.”

  Kat plucked nervously at the folds of her murrey-colored silk gown. Though she was delighted to see him again, Navarre’s intensity made her uneasy. Part of her feared he was laughing at her — if only a little — for she was hardly a favorite at Court.

  “’Twas not necessary to presume upon anything, Lucien,” Kat said at last. “I am glad to see you again. I fear, however, I am accounted more a viper than a true wit. I’truth, before you greeted me, I was reflecting how hard ’tis to hold my tongue whenever that gaggle of courtly geese start yammering.”

  Lucien laughed at her wry remark. “I find your honesty refreshing.”

  “As I am ever grateful for your kind assistance whilst I was suffering dire circumstances. I welcome the chance to thank you again.”

  Lucien extended his index finger and raised Kat’s chin so he might gaze into her eyes.

  “Would I be amiss in asking you to show your appreciation by accompanying me to the queen’s masque a fortnight hence? — Unless you have already found a partner.”

  Kat shook her head. Merry had tried to badger her into going with every suitable courtier from here to Yorkshire. But she had gradually withdrawn from all social activities, except those where the queen herself specifically requested her presence.

  Aye, Kat knew she would never be suited to the same sort of tiresome life her sister was. She longed for something else, something more, and something beyond her grasp, as ever. She succumbed to a sudden, ridiculous urge.

  “Yea, I accept your escort, Lucien. I have only one trifling favor to request in turn.”

  Lucien raised a golden eyebrow, clearly anticipating a feminine wheedle for jewelry or such.

  “I want you to practice fencing with me.”

  “C’est tout?” He stared at her a second and tried to laugh off her request. “Surely you jest, Katherine.”

  “I do not, sirrah.” Kat raised her chin a notch, stung by his laughter and the incredulous look in his eyes. “You need not fear that I shall prove a poor pupil. I am a trifle rusty, aye, yet not wholly unfamiliar with a sword.”

  Lucien licked his lips and glanced about, as if he expected a party of jesters to materialize from the shrubbery. When he realized she was serious, he shook his golden head.

  “It seems incredible, but somehow I belie
ve it. You are unlike any woman I have ever met, Katherine.”

  She smiled, deciding to take it as a compliment. Unwillingly, her mind flooded with longing thoughts of Morgan, as she gazed at the hopeful, handsome Lucien.

  “Will you be my fencing partner?” she asked him.

  “Oui. Against my better judgment. Where may we practice?”

  “Right here, each daybreak. The courtyard is large enough to serve, I think.”

  He nodded, glancing about the enclosure. “It is a trifle small, yet there seems enough room to move. May I assume it is important that others do not learn of our little assignation?”

  Kat reached out and mischievously patted his knee. “Certainement,” she whispered, delighting him with her sudden playfulness. Perhaps each hour she spent in Bess Tudor’s realm had not gone to waste. Kat had forced herself to learn coy mannerisms in order to eavesdrop upon the vague and troubling phrases Saville murmured in her sister’s ear.

  She had been unable to dissuade Merry from seeking out Saville’s company during the Court’s progress, however, and a great rift had grown between the sisters. Kat was still wary of the French count and suspected his motives were based upon anything but honor.

  As she chatted desultorily with Captain Navarre, she realized she had a perfect opportunity to get some answers.

  Before Lucien departed, Kat asked him if he had heard of Saville. He looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Oui, I know a little of him. It is rumored the count is a wealthy courtier visiting from the Bourbon Court, yet I found it odd I had not heard of him, as I grew up in Paris.”

  Kat jumped up from the stone bench and paced the garden path. Lucien rose, too, regarding her sudden agitation with dismay and obvious concern. She turned to face him and demanded, “Is’t possible Saville is an imposter?”