Splendor, page 3
“And where will you be?”
Rolfe’s gaze remained fixed on the pair who were silhouetted in the moonlight high above him. “Here. I plan to return on foot.”
“I think you’d draw suspicion—leaving, then returning.”
“Dressed in a priest’s robes, I doubt anyone will question me.”
“A priest’s robes?”
“Aye,” Rolfe said, watching the couple as they embraced. “At dawn I’ll be in the chapel, ready to receive the Lady Catherine’s confession.”
CHAPTER
2
“IT IS LATE, MY SON. IF YOU WISH FOR ME TO HEAR YOUR confession, come again on the morrow. Right now I intend to seek my cot.”
Two fingers of Rolfe’s left hand hooked the ties of the cloth bag that was slung over his shoulder. He remained silent as he continued his trek across the wooden floor toward the apse and the priest. From under the hood of his cloak, which was pulled low across his forehead, he eyed the scrawny man, gauging his height.
On his return from the courtyard, Rolfe had kept watch on the clergymen who were seated near the head table, trying to determine which one was the castle chaplain. True, Clotilde could have easily supplied the answer he sought, but he decided not to approach her, mainly because of her aunt.
Rolfe had no desire to tangle with the plump Eloise. It wasn’t her girth that caused him anxiety but her tongue. Attracting attention to himself was the last thing he wanted. So he’d waited.
Several hours elapsed, the revelers slowly taking themselves to their pallets in the upper chambers. The betrothed couple had retired long before, but not until they’d made their rounds, greeting many of their guests as they went.
On their approach, Rolfe and Garrick had escaped their places. Once the two had journeyed on past their table, the men regained their seats and continued their vigil. But as time crept by, Rolfe grew uneasy.
Then a thought occurred: Instead of returning to the town and its church, which lay only a short distance away, the group may intend to spend the night. Rolfe prayed that it wasn’t so, or his plan would unravel like a tattered piece of cloth.
Finally, and to Rolfe’s relief, the bishop and his clerics departed the hall. It was then that Rolfe received his answer.
Having bade his brethren farewell, the priest withdrew to the chapel, obviously unaware that Rolfe was fast on his heels. Presently Garrick stood just outside, ensuring that the pair were left undisturbed.
“Did you not hear me?” the priest asked.
“Aye. I heard you.” Falling silent, Rolfe bore down on the man whom he’d concluded was only a few inches shorter than himself.
“Take your leave, sir. Return tomorrow and I’ll hear your confession then.”
“Since my conscience is clear, I have no need to confess anything,” Rolfe said as he neared the altar.
“Then why do you invade these premises at such a late hour?”
“I have need of your robes.”
Surprise showed on the man’s face. “My robes?”
Rolfe stopped before him. “Aye. Your robes.”
“Who are you?”
Alarm lit the priest’s eyes. Unexpectedly he caught hold of Rolfe’s hood and pulled it downward, a definite mistake. The man had no time to react, for the speed with which the fist met his jaw was blinding. He crumpled into Rolfe’s arms.
“Sorry, my reverend friend, but I saw no other way,” Rolfe whispered, easing the unconscious man to the floor. Quickly he relieved the priest of his vestments, including the linen coif that covered the man’s tonsure. Then Rolfe went to work.
Devoid of clothing, his hands and feet bound with strips of leather, his mouth gagged and his eyes blindfolded, the chaplain looked like a plucked fowl, trussed and ready for roasting. Rolfe dragged him behind the altar. “Sleep well and long, priest. Be aware, though: Should you awaken too soon, you’ll be sporting another bruise.”
Gathering the cleric’s garments from the floor, Rolfe placed them into the cloth bag, positive they would fit him. Then he made his way from the chapel.
“’Tis done?” Garrick questioned, shoving his shoulder away from the wall.
“Aye.”
“Now what?”
“To the stables,” Rolfe answered as they began wending their way down the stairs.
“Are you certain it is wise to leave the castle? What if the guards refuse to again allow you entry? Worse yet, what if the priest awakens, or is found before you return? ’Twould be like walking into a nest of vipers.”
Rolfe looked at Garrick as they stepped from the tower into the crisp, cold air. “Aye,” he responded. A quick death would be merciful, but Rolfe knew there was always the threat of torture. “I appreciate your concern, my friend. But such are the chances I must take. Come. Let’s make haste. Dawn is not that far off.”
“Clotilde! Take your head from the clouds and pay attention,” Eloise admonished. “Now fetch milady’s comb.”
Catherine poked her head through the top of the deep crimson bliaud. Made of soft wool, the overtunic was bordered in gold embroidery at hem and sleeves. Beneath the bliaud she wore a white linen ground-length chainse, which covered a chemise of fine samite, a gift from Miles. As Eloise draped a blue woolen mantle over her mistress’s shoulders, fastening it at the neck with a jeweled brooch, Catherine kept her eyes on Clotilde.
The young woman, who was nearly Catherine’s age, acted wistful. Catherine had never seen her behave thus. Though unsure of herself, Clotilde was always attentive, doing what she was told the instant the command was issued. However this morning was different, and Catherine wondered what had overcome Eloise’s niece.
“Tend to the Lady Catherine’s hair,” Eloise stated on Clotilde’s return, “while I see to emptying her bath.”
Seated on a stool, Catherine waited to feel the pull of the comb through her waist-length hair. The stroke never came.
Turning around, she noted that Clotilde was staring into space, a dreamy look on her face. “You’re lost in your thoughts today, Clotilde. What is it that has made your mind wander so?”
Before Catherine’s eyes, Clotilde’s cheeks flushed with color. The girl quickly looked away.
“’Tis a man, I’ll wager!” Catherine exclaimed softly. Clotilde’s blush deepened, and Catherine knew she’d hit upon the truth. “Tell me: Who is he?” she asked, her excitement for Clotilde growing.
“I don’t know his name, but he is truly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”
On hearing the reverence in Clotilde’s voice, Catherine smiled. “When—how did you meet him?” she asked, genuinely happy for her maid.
“Last night, while I was serving, he approached me and asked that I meet him later on. He said he was intrigued by my gentleness. Most women are too bold. Oh, milady, can you believe it was my shyness that fascinated him so?”
“Yes, I can believe it. There is a sweetness about you, Clotilde, that is appealing to all who know you. Tell me: Later, did you meet him?”
“No. I had to be up early to help milady dress.”
Catherine marked the disappointment in Clotilde’s voice. “I’m truly sorry you couldn’t meet with him as you’d wanted, all because of me. Does he live here in the castle?”
“Since he said he’d be here only a short while, I believe he is one of the guests.”
“You mean a servant of one of the guests, don’t you?”
“No, milady. His raiment was far too fine for that of a servant.”
Catherine grew cautious. It was unlikely that a man of nobility would approach a young woman of Clotilde’s class, not unless it was for a mere tryst. To be used then tossed away would devastate the guileless Clotilde. Though she wanted to advise Clotilde of such, Catherine didn’t quite know how to go about it. She had to choose her words with care or she could very well hurt the young woman’s feelings. Clotilde was all too aware of her own plainness. Because of it, she might misconstrue her mistress’s words, thinking Catherine referred to her appearance and not her breeding.
Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Catherine felt certain she had come upon a way to circumvent both issues. “I know you were disappointed about last night, Clotilde, but it may be for the best that you didn’t meet this man straight off, as he wanted. From what I know of the male gender, they are most often enchanted by the chase, and not by the actual winning of a maid’s hand. Should you respond to his overtures too easily, he may lose interest all too quickly. My advice is to keep him just at arm’s length. That way he won’t be too far, but he won’t be too close either. ’Tis a game played between the sexes for centuries. What a man thinks he cannot have he’ll desire even more. You have to make him want you beyond anything else.”
“I understand, milady.”
“Good. And, Clotilde, if he is at the bride ale tonight, point him out to me, will you? I’d like to see him firsthand. That way, if you wish my advice, I could better counsel you on what you should do next.”
At a distance, Catherine hoped to measure this man’s character for what it was. Not knowing he was being watched, he was more likely to show his true self. She intended to protect Clotilde, no matter what it took.
“I will, milady,” Clotilde responded. “And I welcome your counsel. But please don’t tell my aunt about any of this. She is too protective of me. Without even knowing him, she may forbid me to see him ever again.”
“’Twill be our secret, Clotilde. I promise,” she said, smiling up at the young woman. “’Tis almost dawn. I don’t wish to be late for my confession, or the chaplain will be greatly annoyed. Please see to my hair, and quickly.”
Clotilde stroked the comb through her mistress’s hair, allowing it to flow free to Catherine’s waist.
“Thank you,” Catherine said, rising from the stool. She looked for Eloise, but didn’t see her. “Tell your aunt I will be in the chapel and that I’ll be back shortly.” With that, she scurried from the chamber.
As Catherine walked toward the chapel, she again prayed the chaplain would be lenient with her, her penance slight. But the nearer she came to her destination, the more anxious she felt. Something within her told her to turn back, but she ignored the warning. She must go to Miles pure of heart. She would offer him no less.
“Have you sought to tempt your betrothed by inviting him to your bed before the nuptials?”
Catherine stared at the priest, whose deep, clear voice resonated through her. Upon her arrival at the chapel a little before dawn, she’d found him instead of the chaplain.
“Your regular confessor has fallen ill,” he’d told her. “Ingested something that didn’t agree with him. He asked that I receive your confession. I hope, my child, that meets with your approval.”
She’d been undeniably relieved by the announcement, for this man’s manner was not as censorious as was the castle chaplain’s. But his interrogation was coming ever closer to the one question she hoped not to answer. Catherine wondered if she would truly be so presumptuous as to lie, should he ask it.
“Should I repeat the question?” he asked.
Catherine scanned his face, its angles and planes drawing together into what could be termed perfection. A fringe of tawny hair brushed his wide forehead as it peeked from beneath the linen coif that hid his tonsure. Instead of the pallid complexion that most men of the cloth bore, his skin was a healthy bronze. His gray eyes, as soft in color as a dove’s breast, gazed at her through lazy, long-lashed lids. He was indeed handsome—too handsome for a priest.
“My child, your concentration is straying. Shall I repeat the question?”
Catherine blinked. “N-no.” What had she been thinking? “I—I’ve never sought to tempt my betrothed.”
“You sound unsure.”
Biting her lip, Catherine could no longer hold his gaze. “I’ve not sought to tempt him,” she repeated.
“Not even in your thoughts?” he asked gently.
Again she stared at him. His eyes were clear, free from condemnation. She didn’t know why, but on impulse she questioned, “Is it really a sin to desire one’s betrothed?”
“Then you desire him?”
How could she lie and seek the Lord’s forgiveness at the same time? “Aye, I do.” Then she blurted, “Please be merciful. I’ll exist on bread and water, for forty days if need be. But do not forbid the consummation of my marriage. I promise to be a good wife, obedient and submissive. I’ll observe the days that we are forbidden to lie together, and when I am with child, I’ll abstain altogether as the Church demands.”
“You know the saints’ teachings well,” he replied.
Cynicism had tinged his voice. As Catherine looked at him questioningly, wondering at his tone, a muffled squeal, coupled by a slight scraping noise, sounded from behind the altar. Her eyes widened, and her heart beat faster.
“Rats,” the priest explained. He caught her arm and urged her from her knees. “Come, my child. Let us leave here before the odious things overrun the place.”
Catherine gladly allowed the priest to guide her from the chapel. She couldn’t imagine what might happen if she actually saw one of the furry beasts. She soon found herself outside in the courtyard. “Why have we come out here?” she asked, shivering.
“By your confession, you must do penance. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“You have requested leniency, and I shall grant you such. By doing penance as I prescribe, you will be allowed to consummate your marriage. Otherwise you will wait ten days. The bishop will be notified of such before you state your vows at the church door.”
Catherine searched his face. “What is it that I’m supposed to do?”
“We shall go to the wood below the castle. There you will kneel and recite your prayers for one hour.”
“One hour?”
“Yes. And you shall be humble, my child.”
Hesitant at first, Catherine felt she had no choice. Goose-flesh rose on her arms beneath the sleeves of her woolen tunic, and she was trembling uncontrollably from the cold. “I shall get my boots and a heavier cloak,” she said, for she wore only her slippers and a lightweight mantle, both meant for indoors.
As she started to turn, he grabbed her arm. The action startled her. Twice he had touched her, the second far more forcefully than the first.
“No, milady.” His grip eased, then his hand fell away from her arm altogether. “As part of your penance, you shall suffer from the elements. ’Tis this or a regular penance.”
“As you wish.”
Catherine followed the priest to the gatehouse. The watchman looked them over when she requested passage out. After listening to her explanation, then her assurance that they would return in about an hour, he ordered the gates opened.
While they traversed the hillside toward the wood, Catherine listened to the sound of the priest’s dalmatic as it slapped sharply against his legs. His lengthy strides carried him onward, and she skipped quickly alongside him. Still, she was hard-pressed to keep up with his swift pace.
Once they’d reached the woods, she again felt his hand on her arm. Together they ducked the bare branches, traveling ever deeper into the forest. A sharp limb snagged her hair, and she cried out at the abrupt sting along her scalp. The priest’s deft fingers hastily untangled her from the branch, and they continued on.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, fearing they might get lost. Were she to be late for her nuptials, Miles would not be at all pleased.
“Nearly,” came his reply.
In less than a minute they were standing in a small glade. “Is this the place?” Catherine asked.
“Aye.”
Expecting instructions from him, she received none. Then she heard the rustle of fallen leaves. Twigs snapped under a heavy foot. Horses, she thought, turning toward the sound.
A man entered the clearing dressed in a hauberk, two destriers trailing after him. Confused, Catherine turned back to her confessor. Her eyes widened as he pulled the linen coif from his head. A wealth of tawny hair tumbled to his shoulders.
“You’re not a priest!” she cried the second she realized he bore no tonsure.
The priest’s vestments were stripped from his body to reveal a knight’s armor; Catherine felt her heart race with trepidation.
“Dear God! What is this all about?”
“You are coming with us, my fair Catherine,” the stranger proclaimed.
“With you? Where?”
He caught her arm. “To England.”
“But why?”
“A matter of politics.”
The look in his eyes told her he was serious. Fear streaked through her body, and she tried to twist from his hold, but his grip tightened.
“Don’t fight me, Catherine. ’Tis futile.”
Futile? Never! she vowed in silence. She’d fight him unto her death, if need be. She’d not leave Miles. This was to be their wedding day.
Catherine’s fear instantly turned to riotous anger. Unable to break her abductor’s hold, she lunged at him, her fingers aimed at his left eye.
Adeptly he lurched back, but before he could catch her hand, her nails raked his cheek. The white streaks, marking their tracks, slowly oozed with blood.
Staring up at him, Catherine knew she’d done the wrong thing. His silver irises turned steely as his eyes narrowed.
“God’s wounds, you are a vicious little thing,” he said through clenched teeth. Catching both her wrists in one hand, he wiped his cheek with the other. He stared at his fingers, and the red film covering them, then looked at her. “If you value your life, wench, you’ll not attempt such a thing again.”
A rustling in the woods caught Catherine’s notice. The noise had also attracted her captor’s attention, for he looked beyond her.
“Milady! Catherine? Where are you?”
Catherine recognized the voice as that of her nurse. “Eloi—”
The rest was a strangled garble as his large hand clamped over her mouth. Struggling against his hold, Catherine edged her mouth open and sank her teeth into his little finger. His breath hissed between his teeth as he yanked his hand away.
Rolfe’s gaze remained fixed on the pair who were silhouetted in the moonlight high above him. “Here. I plan to return on foot.”
“I think you’d draw suspicion—leaving, then returning.”
“Dressed in a priest’s robes, I doubt anyone will question me.”
“A priest’s robes?”
“Aye,” Rolfe said, watching the couple as they embraced. “At dawn I’ll be in the chapel, ready to receive the Lady Catherine’s confession.”
CHAPTER
2
“IT IS LATE, MY SON. IF YOU WISH FOR ME TO HEAR YOUR confession, come again on the morrow. Right now I intend to seek my cot.”
Two fingers of Rolfe’s left hand hooked the ties of the cloth bag that was slung over his shoulder. He remained silent as he continued his trek across the wooden floor toward the apse and the priest. From under the hood of his cloak, which was pulled low across his forehead, he eyed the scrawny man, gauging his height.
On his return from the courtyard, Rolfe had kept watch on the clergymen who were seated near the head table, trying to determine which one was the castle chaplain. True, Clotilde could have easily supplied the answer he sought, but he decided not to approach her, mainly because of her aunt.
Rolfe had no desire to tangle with the plump Eloise. It wasn’t her girth that caused him anxiety but her tongue. Attracting attention to himself was the last thing he wanted. So he’d waited.
Several hours elapsed, the revelers slowly taking themselves to their pallets in the upper chambers. The betrothed couple had retired long before, but not until they’d made their rounds, greeting many of their guests as they went.
On their approach, Rolfe and Garrick had escaped their places. Once the two had journeyed on past their table, the men regained their seats and continued their vigil. But as time crept by, Rolfe grew uneasy.
Then a thought occurred: Instead of returning to the town and its church, which lay only a short distance away, the group may intend to spend the night. Rolfe prayed that it wasn’t so, or his plan would unravel like a tattered piece of cloth.
Finally, and to Rolfe’s relief, the bishop and his clerics departed the hall. It was then that Rolfe received his answer.
Having bade his brethren farewell, the priest withdrew to the chapel, obviously unaware that Rolfe was fast on his heels. Presently Garrick stood just outside, ensuring that the pair were left undisturbed.
“Did you not hear me?” the priest asked.
“Aye. I heard you.” Falling silent, Rolfe bore down on the man whom he’d concluded was only a few inches shorter than himself.
“Take your leave, sir. Return tomorrow and I’ll hear your confession then.”
“Since my conscience is clear, I have no need to confess anything,” Rolfe said as he neared the altar.
“Then why do you invade these premises at such a late hour?”
“I have need of your robes.”
Surprise showed on the man’s face. “My robes?”
Rolfe stopped before him. “Aye. Your robes.”
“Who are you?”
Alarm lit the priest’s eyes. Unexpectedly he caught hold of Rolfe’s hood and pulled it downward, a definite mistake. The man had no time to react, for the speed with which the fist met his jaw was blinding. He crumpled into Rolfe’s arms.
“Sorry, my reverend friend, but I saw no other way,” Rolfe whispered, easing the unconscious man to the floor. Quickly he relieved the priest of his vestments, including the linen coif that covered the man’s tonsure. Then Rolfe went to work.
Devoid of clothing, his hands and feet bound with strips of leather, his mouth gagged and his eyes blindfolded, the chaplain looked like a plucked fowl, trussed and ready for roasting. Rolfe dragged him behind the altar. “Sleep well and long, priest. Be aware, though: Should you awaken too soon, you’ll be sporting another bruise.”
Gathering the cleric’s garments from the floor, Rolfe placed them into the cloth bag, positive they would fit him. Then he made his way from the chapel.
“’Tis done?” Garrick questioned, shoving his shoulder away from the wall.
“Aye.”
“Now what?”
“To the stables,” Rolfe answered as they began wending their way down the stairs.
“Are you certain it is wise to leave the castle? What if the guards refuse to again allow you entry? Worse yet, what if the priest awakens, or is found before you return? ’Twould be like walking into a nest of vipers.”
Rolfe looked at Garrick as they stepped from the tower into the crisp, cold air. “Aye,” he responded. A quick death would be merciful, but Rolfe knew there was always the threat of torture. “I appreciate your concern, my friend. But such are the chances I must take. Come. Let’s make haste. Dawn is not that far off.”
“Clotilde! Take your head from the clouds and pay attention,” Eloise admonished. “Now fetch milady’s comb.”
Catherine poked her head through the top of the deep crimson bliaud. Made of soft wool, the overtunic was bordered in gold embroidery at hem and sleeves. Beneath the bliaud she wore a white linen ground-length chainse, which covered a chemise of fine samite, a gift from Miles. As Eloise draped a blue woolen mantle over her mistress’s shoulders, fastening it at the neck with a jeweled brooch, Catherine kept her eyes on Clotilde.
The young woman, who was nearly Catherine’s age, acted wistful. Catherine had never seen her behave thus. Though unsure of herself, Clotilde was always attentive, doing what she was told the instant the command was issued. However this morning was different, and Catherine wondered what had overcome Eloise’s niece.
“Tend to the Lady Catherine’s hair,” Eloise stated on Clotilde’s return, “while I see to emptying her bath.”
Seated on a stool, Catherine waited to feel the pull of the comb through her waist-length hair. The stroke never came.
Turning around, she noted that Clotilde was staring into space, a dreamy look on her face. “You’re lost in your thoughts today, Clotilde. What is it that has made your mind wander so?”
Before Catherine’s eyes, Clotilde’s cheeks flushed with color. The girl quickly looked away.
“’Tis a man, I’ll wager!” Catherine exclaimed softly. Clotilde’s blush deepened, and Catherine knew she’d hit upon the truth. “Tell me: Who is he?” she asked, her excitement for Clotilde growing.
“I don’t know his name, but he is truly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”
On hearing the reverence in Clotilde’s voice, Catherine smiled. “When—how did you meet him?” she asked, genuinely happy for her maid.
“Last night, while I was serving, he approached me and asked that I meet him later on. He said he was intrigued by my gentleness. Most women are too bold. Oh, milady, can you believe it was my shyness that fascinated him so?”
“Yes, I can believe it. There is a sweetness about you, Clotilde, that is appealing to all who know you. Tell me: Later, did you meet him?”
“No. I had to be up early to help milady dress.”
Catherine marked the disappointment in Clotilde’s voice. “I’m truly sorry you couldn’t meet with him as you’d wanted, all because of me. Does he live here in the castle?”
“Since he said he’d be here only a short while, I believe he is one of the guests.”
“You mean a servant of one of the guests, don’t you?”
“No, milady. His raiment was far too fine for that of a servant.”
Catherine grew cautious. It was unlikely that a man of nobility would approach a young woman of Clotilde’s class, not unless it was for a mere tryst. To be used then tossed away would devastate the guileless Clotilde. Though she wanted to advise Clotilde of such, Catherine didn’t quite know how to go about it. She had to choose her words with care or she could very well hurt the young woman’s feelings. Clotilde was all too aware of her own plainness. Because of it, she might misconstrue her mistress’s words, thinking Catherine referred to her appearance and not her breeding.
Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Catherine felt certain she had come upon a way to circumvent both issues. “I know you were disappointed about last night, Clotilde, but it may be for the best that you didn’t meet this man straight off, as he wanted. From what I know of the male gender, they are most often enchanted by the chase, and not by the actual winning of a maid’s hand. Should you respond to his overtures too easily, he may lose interest all too quickly. My advice is to keep him just at arm’s length. That way he won’t be too far, but he won’t be too close either. ’Tis a game played between the sexes for centuries. What a man thinks he cannot have he’ll desire even more. You have to make him want you beyond anything else.”
“I understand, milady.”
“Good. And, Clotilde, if he is at the bride ale tonight, point him out to me, will you? I’d like to see him firsthand. That way, if you wish my advice, I could better counsel you on what you should do next.”
At a distance, Catherine hoped to measure this man’s character for what it was. Not knowing he was being watched, he was more likely to show his true self. She intended to protect Clotilde, no matter what it took.
“I will, milady,” Clotilde responded. “And I welcome your counsel. But please don’t tell my aunt about any of this. She is too protective of me. Without even knowing him, she may forbid me to see him ever again.”
“’Twill be our secret, Clotilde. I promise,” she said, smiling up at the young woman. “’Tis almost dawn. I don’t wish to be late for my confession, or the chaplain will be greatly annoyed. Please see to my hair, and quickly.”
Clotilde stroked the comb through her mistress’s hair, allowing it to flow free to Catherine’s waist.
“Thank you,” Catherine said, rising from the stool. She looked for Eloise, but didn’t see her. “Tell your aunt I will be in the chapel and that I’ll be back shortly.” With that, she scurried from the chamber.
As Catherine walked toward the chapel, she again prayed the chaplain would be lenient with her, her penance slight. But the nearer she came to her destination, the more anxious she felt. Something within her told her to turn back, but she ignored the warning. She must go to Miles pure of heart. She would offer him no less.
“Have you sought to tempt your betrothed by inviting him to your bed before the nuptials?”
Catherine stared at the priest, whose deep, clear voice resonated through her. Upon her arrival at the chapel a little before dawn, she’d found him instead of the chaplain.
“Your regular confessor has fallen ill,” he’d told her. “Ingested something that didn’t agree with him. He asked that I receive your confession. I hope, my child, that meets with your approval.”
She’d been undeniably relieved by the announcement, for this man’s manner was not as censorious as was the castle chaplain’s. But his interrogation was coming ever closer to the one question she hoped not to answer. Catherine wondered if she would truly be so presumptuous as to lie, should he ask it.
“Should I repeat the question?” he asked.
Catherine scanned his face, its angles and planes drawing together into what could be termed perfection. A fringe of tawny hair brushed his wide forehead as it peeked from beneath the linen coif that hid his tonsure. Instead of the pallid complexion that most men of the cloth bore, his skin was a healthy bronze. His gray eyes, as soft in color as a dove’s breast, gazed at her through lazy, long-lashed lids. He was indeed handsome—too handsome for a priest.
“My child, your concentration is straying. Shall I repeat the question?”
Catherine blinked. “N-no.” What had she been thinking? “I—I’ve never sought to tempt my betrothed.”
“You sound unsure.”
Biting her lip, Catherine could no longer hold his gaze. “I’ve not sought to tempt him,” she repeated.
“Not even in your thoughts?” he asked gently.
Again she stared at him. His eyes were clear, free from condemnation. She didn’t know why, but on impulse she questioned, “Is it really a sin to desire one’s betrothed?”
“Then you desire him?”
How could she lie and seek the Lord’s forgiveness at the same time? “Aye, I do.” Then she blurted, “Please be merciful. I’ll exist on bread and water, for forty days if need be. But do not forbid the consummation of my marriage. I promise to be a good wife, obedient and submissive. I’ll observe the days that we are forbidden to lie together, and when I am with child, I’ll abstain altogether as the Church demands.”
“You know the saints’ teachings well,” he replied.
Cynicism had tinged his voice. As Catherine looked at him questioningly, wondering at his tone, a muffled squeal, coupled by a slight scraping noise, sounded from behind the altar. Her eyes widened, and her heart beat faster.
“Rats,” the priest explained. He caught her arm and urged her from her knees. “Come, my child. Let us leave here before the odious things overrun the place.”
Catherine gladly allowed the priest to guide her from the chapel. She couldn’t imagine what might happen if she actually saw one of the furry beasts. She soon found herself outside in the courtyard. “Why have we come out here?” she asked, shivering.
“By your confession, you must do penance. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“You have requested leniency, and I shall grant you such. By doing penance as I prescribe, you will be allowed to consummate your marriage. Otherwise you will wait ten days. The bishop will be notified of such before you state your vows at the church door.”
Catherine searched his face. “What is it that I’m supposed to do?”
“We shall go to the wood below the castle. There you will kneel and recite your prayers for one hour.”
“One hour?”
“Yes. And you shall be humble, my child.”
Hesitant at first, Catherine felt she had no choice. Goose-flesh rose on her arms beneath the sleeves of her woolen tunic, and she was trembling uncontrollably from the cold. “I shall get my boots and a heavier cloak,” she said, for she wore only her slippers and a lightweight mantle, both meant for indoors.
As she started to turn, he grabbed her arm. The action startled her. Twice he had touched her, the second far more forcefully than the first.
“No, milady.” His grip eased, then his hand fell away from her arm altogether. “As part of your penance, you shall suffer from the elements. ’Tis this or a regular penance.”
“As you wish.”
Catherine followed the priest to the gatehouse. The watchman looked them over when she requested passage out. After listening to her explanation, then her assurance that they would return in about an hour, he ordered the gates opened.
While they traversed the hillside toward the wood, Catherine listened to the sound of the priest’s dalmatic as it slapped sharply against his legs. His lengthy strides carried him onward, and she skipped quickly alongside him. Still, she was hard-pressed to keep up with his swift pace.
Once they’d reached the woods, she again felt his hand on her arm. Together they ducked the bare branches, traveling ever deeper into the forest. A sharp limb snagged her hair, and she cried out at the abrupt sting along her scalp. The priest’s deft fingers hastily untangled her from the branch, and they continued on.
“Are we almost there?” she asked, fearing they might get lost. Were she to be late for her nuptials, Miles would not be at all pleased.
“Nearly,” came his reply.
In less than a minute they were standing in a small glade. “Is this the place?” Catherine asked.
“Aye.”
Expecting instructions from him, she received none. Then she heard the rustle of fallen leaves. Twigs snapped under a heavy foot. Horses, she thought, turning toward the sound.
A man entered the clearing dressed in a hauberk, two destriers trailing after him. Confused, Catherine turned back to her confessor. Her eyes widened as he pulled the linen coif from his head. A wealth of tawny hair tumbled to his shoulders.
“You’re not a priest!” she cried the second she realized he bore no tonsure.
The priest’s vestments were stripped from his body to reveal a knight’s armor; Catherine felt her heart race with trepidation.
“Dear God! What is this all about?”
“You are coming with us, my fair Catherine,” the stranger proclaimed.
“With you? Where?”
He caught her arm. “To England.”
“But why?”
“A matter of politics.”
The look in his eyes told her he was serious. Fear streaked through her body, and she tried to twist from his hold, but his grip tightened.
“Don’t fight me, Catherine. ’Tis futile.”
Futile? Never! she vowed in silence. She’d fight him unto her death, if need be. She’d not leave Miles. This was to be their wedding day.
Catherine’s fear instantly turned to riotous anger. Unable to break her abductor’s hold, she lunged at him, her fingers aimed at his left eye.
Adeptly he lurched back, but before he could catch her hand, her nails raked his cheek. The white streaks, marking their tracks, slowly oozed with blood.
Staring up at him, Catherine knew she’d done the wrong thing. His silver irises turned steely as his eyes narrowed.
“God’s wounds, you are a vicious little thing,” he said through clenched teeth. Catching both her wrists in one hand, he wiped his cheek with the other. He stared at his fingers, and the red film covering them, then looked at her. “If you value your life, wench, you’ll not attempt such a thing again.”
A rustling in the woods caught Catherine’s notice. The noise had also attracted her captor’s attention, for he looked beyond her.
“Milady! Catherine? Where are you?”
Catherine recognized the voice as that of her nurse. “Eloi—”
The rest was a strangled garble as his large hand clamped over her mouth. Struggling against his hold, Catherine edged her mouth open and sank her teeth into his little finger. His breath hissed between his teeth as he yanked his hand away.
