Chapter One
Yule 1127—Castle Favieres
“I do not want to go.”
“Your wants do not matter, girl. Now hush.”
Cateline glared at the stranger who told her to be quiet even though he had no right to order her about. He sounded like Papa, and wore her father’s face. Even more unsettling, he walked about the room as if he were late for an audience with the bishop, just like Papa did. Or used to do. Papa rarely left his chair now, and when he walked, he shuffled his feet and leaned on a servant so he wouldn’t fall.
The steward said Papa and the stranger were twins, sharing the same womb and one soul. Cook called them abominations. She had no idea what the men meant, but she’d been hiding in the pantry, eavesdropping, and didn’t dare ask.
The stranger walked a circle around her, inspecting her as he would a horse he was about to breed. He looked like Papa should. Tall. Bold. Strong. His skin was slightly browned by the sun, but free of boils or rashes, and his eyes were as blue as her father’s but bright and clear. His dark hair needed a trim. Her father would never let it reach his nape.
The stranger sighed. “Her eye color is odd, as you said.”
“Tell him the purple is a sign of royal blood. Roman Caesars wore the purple.”
The man who looked like Papa threw back his head and laughed. The sound was so like her own father’s that Cate shivered. Now she knew what Cook meant. Sharing someone’s soul was wrong. The last of the Yule log crackled in the fire. At the sound, the stranger returned his attention to her. Cupping her chin, he tilted her face upward and studied her features. “Her hair is darker than yours.”
“Her mother’s was so dark, light would get lost it in.” Papa wiped the rag over his mouth. A tiny bit of blood smeared across his lower lip. “Surely, her bloodlines and ties to me will be more important than the fact that her eyes are not green or blue?”
A rolling cough filled the room as Papa hacked and choked against a rag in his hand.
“Papa?”
He waved her away, but the stranger stopped his relentless pacing through the chamber. His gaze went from her to her father as the deep, wet-sounding coughs echoed through the room. Sweat broke along Papa’s forehead. Fear gathered in her gut. The cough was growing worse and lasting longer each time. When it finally stopped, Papa leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. Blood slicked the rag he’d coughed into. “Will Brinklow agree?” His voice was weak.
“Jamie, I—”
“Robbie, please. I need to have this done.”
Her uncle shook his head. “She has a comely face and her skin is clear. She will do.”
“Do for what?” Cate demanded, but suspected what her father and uncle discussed. ”I will not go to this Brinklow.”
The stranger smiled. “She has spirit. She is not sick?”
“I do not let her near me.” Papa coughed again. “We are agreed? She will marry Richard and return to England with you?”
“No!” Cate protested, but both men ignored her.
“Yes,” the man said.
“Is Richard with you?” Papa asked. “Bring him to me. I have not seen him since he was a child and would talk with him.”
“He is with the Cardinal. He will meet us at the ship.” The stranger’s gaze flicked to her, and Cate saw the secret within them.
“He lies, Papa,” she cried. “He will not marry me to this Richard!”
“Do not call your uncle a liar.”
“But he does not tell you the truth,” she said. “I know it.”
Papa sagged into the chair. The servants now lined it with thick cushions that seemed to swallow him.
“Papa, listen to me. Please.”
“I will teach her caution, Jamie, and protect her with my life. And when a daughter of mine is old enough, I will send her to you.”
“No more pretense. I will not be here when any child you might have is old enough.”
The room sloped sideways. Cate’s breath scattered, and she couldn’t find balance in the sudden shift. Her uncle stood, every inch of him tense with the kind of frustration that made the steward hit the stable boys.
“You are certain?” he asked.
Papa nodded. “The wise woman said it, even the physician admitted I needed to make peace with God.” He coughed again. “Philip of France arrays his vassals along my border. He waits only for the Yule to end or his father to bring him to heel.”
“Henry will not like it.”
“The king is in England and will not bother with one inland castle. If Prince Philip moves onto Rouen…” He let the thought falter. “She is the prize. Protect her.”
Cate shook her head, words dammed in her throat. She didn’t want to be anyone’s prize any more than she wanted “to do” for this Brinklow. “I am safe here, Papa.”
Both men finally looked at her. Papa smiled, but the stranger snorted. “You should have educated her better,” he said.
“I should have done many things that I did not. Cate, your Uncle Robert is a good man, despite what Cook says.”
“He does not tell you all he knows.”
“Only a fool tells all he knows.” Papa smiled at her, then at his brother. “Robbie?”
The man who was going to destroy her life sighed. He walked across the room and crouched by the chair. He placed his hands over Papa’s. “I will protect her and marry her as I would my own daughter.” His eyes flickered to her again, and fear raced through Cate. Whatever her uncle hid, it was dark. How did Papa not see it?
“Go now. I will speak with her.” Papa shifted, uncomfortable as always in the chair.
Cate stepped as close as she was allowed. “Let me call for—”
“Hush, duckling. We must talk.”
The fear inside her turned cold, hollowing out her heart. She shook her head. If he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t happen. “I do not want to leave you.”
“I remember the day the king separated me from my brother, your uncle.” His gaze shifted to the door. “We were born together, reared together, fostered together, never a night apart until we were nearly grown. But the lands I inherited were here. Robbie’s were in England.” He finally looked at her. “I was your age, fourteen, when I was sent here to take responsibility for my inheritance.”
He thrust out his hand when she moved closer.
“Stay away. You know this sickness can spread.”
“Please, Papa.”
“Cate, ’tis time you wed and begin your own household.”
“You cannot send me away; I run this household. I give orders to the Steward and Cook and the guards. I have traded seed with the neighbors and ordered wine and beer from merchants. I even arranged for the smithy to replace the hinges on the postern door.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Did you think no one would inform me of your actions?”
Quiet filled the room.
“That you run Favieres tells me you are ready to go. And go you must.”
“He will not wed me to this Richard.”
“You have good instincts when it comes to people, duckling, but you are not always right. And even if he does not marry you to Brinklow, I will still trust my brother with your life and happiness.” He sighed again and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I do not want to go.”
“But you will.”
“No.”
“You would go to a convent instead? That is your other option, and I doubt if the prince would leave you there. He is the type of man to drag you from the cloister.”
Cate fisted her hands to keep the cold fear whipping through her from working its way out. If she said yes, on the morrow she would be enmeshed in a life of prayer, which might even be worse than a life with this Brinklow. As a wife, she could at least go outside the walls surrounding whatever castle or tower she inhabited.
“When I die—”
“No!” She ran to his side despite his orders to always keep a man’s height between them. “I will not let you die.”
“That is God’s decision, not yours. Now, we are agreed. You will leave with my brother on the morrow disguised as a serving girl. No one must know you are gone.”
“We are not agreed.”
Breaking his own rule, he pulled her into a hug, tucking her against his chest as he had when she was very small. “The King of France would use you to take my lands. He would use you to further an alliance with Blois. I do not know what Blois plans, but I fear it will lead to war and death for all. Be brave, Cateline. This is for the best.”
“But he lies, Papa. He lies.”
“I trust Robert with my most precious possession, Cate. You.” Papa shifted her and met her gaze. “If he lies, ’tis for a reason. Courage, duckling. You will know love. I vow it.”
• ♥ •
The next morning, Cate climbed into a small cart with the other women traveling with Uncle Robert. The sun barely broke through the clouds. The cloak she wore was thinner than her regular one, and frayed from hard use. The winter wind arrowed through it to the rough dress she wore. The wool irritated her skin, but Cate refused to scratch in public like some serf. The clothes had belonged to the cook’s daughter, who now stood by Papa, wearing Cate’s best blue mantle and ribbon in her hair.
Papa didn’t stop the cart as it jostled past him, but he met her gaze. Tears glinted in his eyes, but his mouth was firm and his expression resolute. His gaze shifted and he looked over her head, as if she were unimportant. Her heart crumpled. All the words she needed to say again jammed her throat until she felt as if she would choke on them.
Be brave, Papa had said last night, but she wasn’t brave and she didn’t want to be. Cook had called her reckless once, but that wasn’t the same as brave. She craned her neck to look back.
“Head down!” one of the guards snapped as he rode up to the cart. His accent was English and his helm showed just enough of his face that she could see his blue-eyed glower behind the steel. “Courage,” he said in a kinder voice.
Cate hugged herself and hunched over her knees, trying to get warm. Tears burned her eyes. Her father was risking everything by sending her away against the young king’s wishes. She would do what she could to make the deception work.
The day was barely spent when her uncle’s train reached the harbor at Le Crotoy, where a ship waited. No one came to help her down from the cart, so after a moment, Cate jumped from the cart like the other women did. The cold was different here. The air was damp and smelled of fish. Rough curses and shouts filled the air.
She paced to the edge of the harbor as her uncle’s servants leapt to work. The road was a slick mix of mud and ice. Her sturdy shoes both sank and slid across the ground. She glanced around, hoping no one noticed her awkwardness.
No one did.
Instead, almost everyone rushed to accomplish some task. Her uncle talked with the ship’s captain. Most of the servants began pulling various trunks and sacks from the luggage carts and carrying them onto the ship. A couple of soldiers began unharnessing the horses, and the young guard who’d snapped at her led his horse onto the ship.
He’d removed his helm. His hair was as brown as his sun-darkened skin, but with reddish highlights that should have made him look boyish. Instead, it lent an air of fierceness that made him look harsh and bitter. He’d thrown back his mantle as if the day was warm, revealing a tall, lean frame that looked solid enough to take a hit from a charging warhorse.
Unlike how he’d spoken to her, he murmured softly to the skittish gelding, rubbing its nose and promising carrots as he guided it up the wooden ramp and onto the deck.
“Here!” A woman from the cart shoved a sack into her hands. “You’re a servant now. Act like it.”
A servant in name only, Cate wanted to snap, but she didn’t. If she gave herself away, Papa’s efforts would be in vain. Only, she had no idea how servants were supposed to act. Servants were Cook or Steward John or the men and women who worked the fields. They knew what they were supposed to do and when to do it. She looked around again.
She had no idea what she should do.
Board the ship, she decided.
Clutching the bundle close, Cate walked toward the ramp. Her heart felt as if it dragged a plow. She didn’t want to go. Couldn’t go. Once she stepped onto that ship, she would be gone. Lost forever. Papa was dying, and he’d die alone if she left.
She stopped, swallowed a sob, turned back. The soldier stood in her way.
“Keep going.” His eyes were an unnaturally clear, bright blue that reminded her of a summer sky when it peaks between clouds at dusk.
“I cannot.” She looked down the road. At the end of it was her father’s donjon. There would be a warm fire in the hearth, music, and stew made from last night’s roast beef. “My father—”
“Did this for you.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around. “Go.”
At first, shock stilled her tongue. He’d touched her. He had no right to lay hands on her! “Lâche-moi!”
“I will unhand you when you go.”
“I order—”
“Servants do not order me,” he said as he marched her up the ramp. “I order them. Now, move.”
She whirled to glare at him. “I am the daughter of James de Armiens, the niece of Robert of Beaumont and betrothed to Richard of Brinklow. I may be masquerading as a servant, but I am not one. Who are you to speak to me thus?”
“Move on, Wal!” someone shouted behind them. “We have horses to load.”
Wall was a good name for the man who blocked her path. He was as obtuse as he was large.
“You may be daughter and niece, as you claim, but Brinklow died last summer, so you are no one’s betrothed. Now move. You have work to do.”