Splendor, page 9
“You promised to tell me what this is all about once we reached England,” she said, looking up at him. “I now hold you to that vow. In whose politics am I embroiled and why have I been brought here?”
“You’ll have your answers as soon as we are on our way.”
Taking Catherine’s arm, he said farewell to the hut’s owner, then, ducking under the door frame, guided his captive outside. Everyone was astride their horses. As he drew close to his own mount, Rolfe felt a tug against his hand. He looked down at Catherine.
“Is there no horse for me?” she asked.
“No. As it is, we were fortunate to get these.”
Her expression said she was opposed to riding with him, but she offered no resistance when he lifted her onto the saddle. When her weight settled, the stallion snorted and bobbed his head. Rolfe yanked on the reins, whereupon the beast quieted. With ease, he hoisted himself onto the animal’s back and settled behind Catherine.
The journey ahead promised to be a miserable one. At least Rolfe thought so. Besides the unknown dangers that awaited them on their travels north—something he’d discussed with Garrick, Aubrey, and the monk before making his way to the castle to procure the horses—there was his captive. How could he possibly keep alert with her cradled so close in his arms?
God’s wounds!
The words exploded inside his head just as Catherine shifted in the saddle. She nestled closer to him, undoubtedly seeking protection from the frigid wind.
Gritting his teeth, Rolfe steadied himself, then turned his attention to Garrick and the others. “Remain watchful,” he ordered. Then setting the stallion into a canter, he led the group up the path, past the castle and away from the village at Wareham.
With his captive huddled against him, they traveled in silence for miles on end. Soon they came to a great wood, which by right belonged to Stephen. Though the trees were barren, the forest offered some protection. However, Rolfe knew their pace would be slowed.
On entering the wood, he eased his stallion from its canter into a walk. The others followed suit. After a bit, Rolfe began to relax, but just when he thought he’d mastered the turmoil roiling deep within his gut, Catherine again moved. His loins quickened.
“’Tis time you fulfilled your promise,” she said, having turned to look at him. “I want to know who is behind this so that I may thank him for my current misery.”
Her wide hazel eyes were locked with his, and Rolfe felt as though he were sinking into their alluring depths. Misery? he questioned in silence, positive she didn’t know the word’s meaning. For certain, she suffered no more than he.
“Well?” she prompted.
With her query, she squirmed against him, obviously impatient for an answer. Rolfe swallowed hard, then grated, “For our mutual agony, Catherine, we can thank Geoffrey d’Avranches.”
CHAPTER
6
CATHERINE STARED UP AT ROLFE IN DISBELIEF. SURELY SHE’D heard wrong. It was inconceivable that Geoffrey d’Avranches could be the cause of her woes. And what did he mean by “our mutual agony”? If anyone was being made to suffer it was she, not he.
“You lie,” she asserted, forgetting her resolution to remain agreeable. She noted how for a moment his eyes turned steely. Apparently he was offended by the accusation, yet she pressed on. “Geoffrey is not behind this. Now tell me who ordered my abduction.”
“I do not lie, Catherine,” he said firmly. “Were it not for your future father-in-law and his political ploys, you’d not be in England. Instead you’d be enjoying the so-called joys of wedded bliss—though I doubt such a thing is possible, considering the gutless weakling you’ve chosen to be your husband.”
She was instantly incensed. “Miles is not a weakling,” she protested. “You are the one who is gutless. Stealing me away while in the guise of a priest—if you were truly a valiant knight, you would have made known your convictions, then have stood and fought. As it is, you showed no honor to whomever it is you give your allegiance.”
His lips curled into a lopsided smile. “At the time, the odds were against me,” he replied. “In view of such, I doubt Henry will fault me for not announcing my intent. But have no fear, milady. The time comes when I shall have to stand and fight. The occurrence, I imagine, won’t be all that far off.”
Catherine’s heart faltered when she heard the name. “H-Henry? Are you referring to the duke?”
“Aye. He’s the one to whom I owe my allegiance. In fact, ’tis by his command that you are here now.”
Unable to fully fathom his words, Catherine gaped at Rolfe. The duke of Normandy had ordered her abduction? What sort of madness was this? She didn’t even know the man, just of him. “From what you say, Henry is the cause of my misery, not Geoffrey.” The idea made her bristle. “I demand that you return me to Normandy so that I may thank him personally.”
“Henry is not in Normandy. He is here in England, on his way to Devizes. We missed seeing him by a day. As for your misery, you can lay the blame on Geoffrey. As I said, if it were not for his political ploys, you’d not be here huddled in my arms.”
With those words, Catherine wanted to bolt from the saddle. Using his body as a shield against the frigid air while simultaneously drawing from his warmth, she hadn’t realized just how closely she’d pressed herself to him. He was her nemesis, her enemy. That she found comfort in his arms truly horrified her.
Nibbling at her lip, she wondered at Miles’s reaction if he were to learn how she’d been so accepting of her abductor’s nearness or that she’d been content nestled against him as she was.
Believing her betrothed wouldn’t find favor with the knowledge, Catherine slowly pushed herself away from Rolfe.
Almost immediately gooseflesh rose along her arms, and she started to shiver. Apparently her captor noticed the slight tremors, for he tried to ease her against him, but she resisted.
“Is your betrothed the sort who would prefer that you took a chill and died rather than have you held in another man’s arms, where it is safe and warm?” he asked.
On the query, his breath fanned across her head. But by the time it touched her face, it had lost its inviting heat. The plume of frost struck her cheek; Catherine shivered again.
“If he is,” Rolfe continued, “he has little consideration for you. ’Tis shameful his pride means more to him than the woman he plans to marry.”
“Miles is always considerate of me,” she stated.
Even so, she couldn’t help question which of the two—her death or her safety—Miles would choose if he were given the option.
“You know not what you say,” she finished, then frowned as she puzzled over whether the words were meant to convince him or herself.
“Then it must be your own pride that causes you to pull away from me. You’re being foolish, Catherine. You grow cold for no other reason than to soothe your own vanity. A pity, but it could mean your death.”
In a situation such as this, Catherine understood that the honorable thing for a woman to do was to take her own life, especially if she were ravished. She hadn’t been defiled—yet.
Even if that were to happen—and she prayed it didn’t—she wasn’t absolutely sure she could follow through. Her will to live outweighed any fanciful need to preserve her honor. But then she’d not experienced the horrors of being violated.
If that time ever came, she might change her mind. But until it did, she would accept anything handed to her, as long as it promised to keep her alive.
Slowly she leaned back against his chest, only to hear him chuckle. Enjoy your mirth now, for in the end, I will be the one who is laughing. Although Catherine wanted to shout those words aloud, she kept them from her tongue. Instead she asked, “Does something amuse you?”
“For a while, I was worried you had somehow lost your desire to live. I am relieved to see the flame has been rekindled.”
“What flame?”
“The flame that gives expression to your temperament, to the woman you really are. ’Tis what sets you apart from all other women. ’Tis also the part of you that intrigues a man most.
“The fire within, Catherine, is what a man seeks. Without it, there can be no passion. And without passion, there can be no joy. If there is no joy, life is naught but an endless road of sorrow. Take care that you don’t find yourself following that path. ’Twould be a pity, to say the least.”
At first his words, along with the soft tone in which they were spoken, sparked an odd sort of warmth in the pit of Catherine’s stomach, which she couldn’t explain. But with the last of his statement, the tiny ember had cooled, for she understood all too well that he referred to Miles and the life he thought awaited her should she marry her betrothed.
“The only path that concerns me is the one we are presently on,” she said. “Tell me exactly what occurred to set Henry against Geoffrey. What are these political ploys you spoke of? Why did the duke order me abducted? And why is he in England?”
“He is in England because he intends to claim what is rightfully his.”
Catherine’s eyes widened. “You mean he—”
“Aye. He plans to oust Stephen and take his legitimate place on the throne.” He fell silent. “You act surprised,” he said after studying her.
“Since his mother managed to insult all of England when she finally had the throne in her grasp, I’d think that Henry wouldn’t make such an attempt on his own.”
“You hold little esteem for the empress,” he commented, his gaze now steady on the track ahead. “Do you know her, by chance?”
“No. ’Tis no secret, though, that her arrogance is what caused her downfall. She fought well, had captured Stephen, and had the opportunity to become queen—”
“A position her father had already settled on her by naming her his heir,” Rolfe interjected, “except her cousin Stephen got to England before she did, whereupon he usurped the crown.”
“Obviously, Beauclerc’s decision to name Matilda as his successor was the wrong one. As I said, when she did have the crown in her grasp, she chose instead to alienate her barons, to spurn the peace terms, and to offend the Londoners with her tactless behavior. That she was chased from England shouldn’t surprise anyone. As for Henry, when he was here four years past, he had little success. Why should he hope things will be any different now?”
Rolfe looked down at her. “Determination is the key to his success. Besides, Henry is no longer a boy of sixteen. He has become a man, one who is to be reckoned with. Mark my words: This time he’ll succeed.”
Catherine cared little about politics. Who ruled England mattered not at all to her. What did matter was that she’d been forced into this situation. And she had the duke of Normandy to thank for it.
“If he has become such a man, why didn’t he show his determination sooner? Why not some eight months ago, just after he first married?” she asked peevishly. “Or is Eleanor of Aquitaine the reason for his quest? I’m sure being married to a duke is quite a descent in status for her, especially when her first husband was king of France. I’ve heard she is excessively ambitious. Tell me: Is she the reason I missed my own wedding?”
“I know not what is in Eleanor’s mind. I do know, over these past eight months, Henry has been kept exceptionally busy.”
Catherine laughed sharply. “I imagine so. If Henry hadn’t the gall to marry Eleanor, thereby enraging Louis, the king wouldn’t have laid siege to Anjou and Aquitaine.”
“Louis had no cause to be enraged. After fifteen years of marriage, he chose to set Eleanor aside because the two had suddenly discovered they were too closely related. The real reason he requested the dissolution was that she hadn’t given him a son. Yet the Church, ever mindful of the laws of consanguinity, had no choice but to issue a divorce.”
Catherine noted the tinge of sarcasm in his voice when he’d mentioned the Church. She wondered briefly if he lacked faith. Or did he abhor religion altogether?
She thought of the chapel at Avranches. “Rats,” he’d proclaimed when a noise erupted from behind the altar.
At the mere mention of the horrid creatures, she’d eagerly rushed from the chapel, straight into the trap that Rolfe de Mont St. Michel had set for her. Had he known about her fears? Purposely used them to entice her from the castle at Avranches? For a moment the questions plagued her. She quickly negated the possibility of his possessing such knowledge. Very few did. A coincidence, she decided.
As she looked back on the episode, she was now certain the sounds had come from the chaplain. Bound, gagged, and undoubtedly lying naked, he’d probably thrashed about, trying to warn her of her peril. If she’d only known that at the time, she’d not be here now. Oh, why was this happening to her?
“What?” Rolfe said after her prolonged silence. “Have you no retort? A pity, for our discussion promised to become quite lively. Or have you fallen asleep on me?”
Catherine snapped to as he leaned around to look at her. “I was thinking. As for what you said, Louis was not totally at fault. I had heard Eleanor was as eager as he to be on her way, for she’d grown tired of him.”
“Gossip manages to travel far and wide, doesn’t it? At least in this case. Nevertheless, whether it was by Louis’s doing or by both of theirs together, Eleanor was free to marry whomever she pleased, which happened to be Henry.”
“I hear tell she is eleven years his senior. Considering such, the marriage is not likely one of love but of convenience. After all, Henry stood to gain Aquitaine, didn’t he?”
“Aye. The province is his by right of marriage. However, Eleanor shouldn’t be cast off by you or anyone else simply because she is now over thirty. She is quite lively and a very attractive woman, Catherine. And once more, she can still bear children.”
“You know her?” she asked.
“I’ve met her, but that was long ago.”
A distinct melancholy sounded in his voice, and Catherine gazed up at him. His eyes held a faraway look, as if he’d slipped into a time gone past. The memories, she decided, were not pleasant. Shortly he blinked, and it was as if a door had slammed shut, barring all those unhappy thoughts.
Catherine contemplated what might have caused him such torment. Had it to do with Eleanor of Aquitaine? Or had the reminiscence of meeting her triggered another memory, one that he’d sooner forget?
Although he was her enemy, Catherine held empathy for him. No human should be made to suffer such heavy-heartedness, not even Rolfe de Mont St. Michel.
Catherine quashed the thought. Why should she feel pity for him, when he held none for her? Whatever misery he endured was his alone to bear.
And it would be the same with her, for in this vast land there was nary a soul to help her. Except her nurse. But Catherine wasn’t fully certain she could count on Eloise.
The woman was fiercely opposed to Catherine’s plan of escape. Catherine would normally regard Eloise’s refusal as being something indicative of her character. She worried constantly, usually for no reason. But this was different. She’d advised Catherine not to go forth with what she deemed foolish, had even promised to abandon her if Catherine dared to disobey her warning.
Play with fire, and you’re bound to get burned.
But what choice did she have? Besides, how could being agreeable to the man cause her any harm?
Sighing, Catherine knew she’d do anything to be free of Rolfe de Mont St. Michel. She’d become his laundress, his cook, his squire, if need be. She’d become anything he wanted, except his whore. With or without Eloise, somehow, someway, she’d again return to Normandy, and all this would be behind her.
The stallion’s cadence changed, and Catherine felt Rolfe’s arm tighten around her waist. He pulled her snugly against him. Ready to give protest, she realized he’d set the horse into a canter in order to gain speed so they could mount the steep incline ahead. Once they topped the hill, he eased his hold; Catherine breathed a bit easier. Again the stallion was slowed to a walk.
“You never told me how I fit into Henry’s plan. Or why you blame Geoffrey for my abduction and not your duke,” she said after a bit.
“He is your duke also, Catherine.”
“Not after this,” she said, only to draw another chuckle.
“Maybe you won’t be so harsh with the man once you understand his reasoning.”
“I doubt it. But in all fairness, I’ll reserve judgment until you’ve explained exactly what his reasoning is.”
“’Tis most kind of you, milady. I’m certain Henry will be pleased to hear of your impartial attitude when I see him next.”
He mocked her, she knew. “And I suppose, once you’ve disclosed his reasoning to me, you will also tell him what my final word was?”
“That, I believe, he already knows.”
They had come upon some heavy growth, and Catherine waited patiently until her captor had maneuvered them through the thicket. Twice the stallion attempted to stray from the narrow path; under his expert hand, Rolfe set him back on the trail.
The beast, Catherine noted, was skittish, untrustworthy, a far cry from the trained destrier that had carried them to Mont St. Michel. She decided not to make any sudden moves or else she might find herself lying on the ground, an arm or a leg twisted and broken. Possibly even her neck.
When they were free of the dense wood, she heard Rolfe breathe deeply. Then he said, “Before I begin disclosing Henry’s reasoning, I want your promise that you’ll sit quietly and listen to all I have to say before you speak. Once I’ve finished, you may question me on whatever it is you feel you need to know. Also I want you to understand the seriousness of the situation, for what I tell you is not to be taken lightly. This is not some simple little intrigue, such as who is sleeping with whom at court. In no way can it be laughed off. What is transpiring involves the control of a nation. Understand that men and women have died for much less. Now, do I have your promise that you’ll keep silent?”
