Chapter Four
Yule 1129—Castle Walney
The love of power made men foolish and women prisoners.
Cate shielded her eyes against the thought and the sand tossed about by the raging storm. Rain and water battered the dunes and the cold pierced her wool cloak as if she wore nothing but her skin. Yet this storm was preferable to the tense Yule feast inside the small tower that was her home.
Or her gaol.
Uncle Robert’s need to manipulate the power that would come to a royal bastard was the sole reason she was trapped on this windy, low-lying island in a lonely marriage to a man who’d left for France almost a year ago. Wal defended her lands against Louis the Fat. The occasional messenger said the fighting was fierce, but her husband was well. Not that she cared. Nothing Wal said, or could ever say, would change the fact he betrayed his word and wed her because Uncle Robert declared her his heir.
She glanced back at the tower. Spending her uncle’s coin as vengeance, she’d expanded the great hall, added furnishings built of wood that withstood the ever-present damp and sea air, and brought in a mason to construct a stable and a longer pier for the ferry. She’d also built a guardhouse for the few men Wal had left to protect the island. Personally, she thought the nearby island of Piel would be a better site for a castle, but if she had to be here, she would not be vulnerable or physically uncomfortable.
“Cate, come back inside now.” Uncle Robert’s large stride tore up the distance between them. “’Tis cold and windy and you have only recently risen from childbed.”
“The wind is constant here,” she said. “And England has chilled me to the bone since I stepped off the ship in Dover. As for my bed…” She exhaled as a mix of love, frustration, and longing rose through her. “Women have babies every day. I will not be coddled. Now go back inside and enjoy the feast.”
He rubbed his face and scowled at the sea. “You cannot remain angry forever, Cate.”
“You betrayed my father.” She stared at the angry water that stretched far beyond her sight. If only her protests carried such strength. “You married me for greed and power. My father sought love for me.”
“Sweet child, your security was…is the primary goal.”
“I am not your sweet child.”
“I have declared you as such, so you are.”
Words failed her.
“You are no longer solely reliant upon me for your safety.”
She finally turned and glared at him. “My husband is in France. How does that protect me?”
“Your lands are safe.”
“I care not about my lands.”
“That is because you have never been without them or the income they generate.”
He was right, but that changed nothing about her life or impotency. If Wal died in defense of her lands, her uncle would simply give her to another man like a child would share a bauble found on the beach. Worse, her child would stay here or go to the king, his father being considered the more important parent. Heaviness filled her breasts and she crossed her arms beneath them to ease the ache. Joscelin would be crying for his own supper soon. She trudged past her uncle toward the tower.
“I must return.”
“That is what I have been shouting for a half hour.” The wind gusted wildly, blowing his mantle behind him and splattering sand across his tunic. Uncle Robert’s scowl at the world encompassed her. “All I have done is for your benefit, and now, your son’s welfare.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I did not want the king’s attention? That I do not want a strongman for a husband? That I do not want my children anywhere near the throne?”
“You do not understand.”
“Oh, aye, I do.” She stopped at the bottom of the exterior steps that led to the first floor and the hall where dozens had gathered to celebrate the Yule. “The king’s grandson sleeps here. That puts me dangerously close to a throne without a legitimate heir. I doubt if you or Wal or anyone can protect me from the war that will erupt over the crown when King Henry dies.”
“There will not be war,” Uncle Robert said. “The barons have sworn fealty to his daughter, Matilda.”
“Neither you nor Wal listen to me. Why would men like you listen to her? There will be war.”
“She is right.”
Cate jerked at the new voice. Wal stepped from the shadow of the tower. He’d left for France shortly after St. Paul’s Day. From the weariness on his face, his year had been as rough as hers.
“Even if the barons in England and Normandy support Matilda, the ones who owe allegiance elsewhere will not. Either way, we will fight.” He smiled, the grin as she remembered except it no longer reached his eyes. “No greeting for me, wife?”
She started up the steps. “When did you return?”
“While you were on the far side of the island. My seneschal said you walk there daily?”
“Aye. Come inside. A storm is rising.”
• ♥ •
Prophetic words, Wal thought and took his wife’s arm. “A storm is already here. My father is inside. He wants to meet my son.”
Panic pulled her smile even tauter. “You brought him here?”
“I met him on the road.” He paused at the door. “I am sorry, Cate. I would have given you warning if I had known.”
Her expression didn’t soften. “I do not want him here.”
“No one tells the king no. He wants to see my son.”
My son. The idea was as unfathomable as the night sky yet brought an aching need to change the world, to make it warm and round and free of all sharp corners. He suddenly wanted to blunt swords, break spears, and muzzle war dogs.
He swayed, rocking back on his heels, then leaned forward to press his cheek against hers. “You look well, my wife.”
“You look like day forty of a knight’s service.”
He laughed. “Forty times forty, and I feel every day of it.” He dug into the scrip at his belt and pulled out a reliquary cross he’d found on a knight he’d taken hostage earlier in the summer. “A Yule gift.”
Cate hesitated until he thought she would refuse the gift. Her uncle finally reached the top of the stairs, his breathing heavy. “Conduct your reunion inside.” He brushed past them and opened the door. Warmth and the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted between them.
“Come inside,” she said. “If naught else, you should meet Joscelin before your father does.”
He slid his hand down her arm, linking his fingers through hers. She pulled free.
“I may be your wife,” she said. “But I am not your leman.”
Wal ignored the sting of her words. Her feelings didn’t matter, not in this. She was his; her body, her children, her lands were his. He rubbed his chest as he stepped into the mirth and merriment of the hall, her rejection filling his ears and silencing the shouted greetings that met him. All of her may be his, but taking something was never as sweet as being given it.