Knight's Ransom

Philippe whistled through his teeth. “‘Tis a beauty.” He lifted the sword in both hands, testing its balance before looking up at Gervase. “How come you by such a sword?”

“You mean a tattered knight like me?” Gervase asked stiffly. “I didn’t steal it, if that is your meaning. It’s been in my family for generations, brought back from the Crusades.”

“I wonder you can bear to part with it.”

“I don’t mean to be for long,” Gervase replied. “I want your guarantee I may buy it back with what I win in the tourney.”

“Agreed,” Philippe said at once. “I will summon the clerk to draw up the papers. Lord Ruarke has a fondness for old weapons and would be pleased to add this sword to his collection if your plans don’t succeed. If they do, rest assured you may have it back for the price of the stallion.”

“That seems most fair,” Gervase said grudgingly. So this Philippe was honorable. That didn’t make his master so.

Just then a party of riders cantered across the field, halting a few yards away. Recognizing the woman who rode in their midst, Gervase gritted his teeth.

“What is going on here, Philippe?” Lady Cat demanded.

The knight walked over to where she sat, glaring down from her sleek brown mare. “I’ve nearly concluded selling Thor to—”

“Nay. You cannot sell Thor to him,” she cried.

Philippe frowned. “I already have, milady.”

“Well…well, unsell him.”

“Fortunately you have no say in this,” Gervase taunted.

The fire vanished from her eyes, replaced by a searing cold. “Papa said the man who bought Thor must ride him without a whip.”

“Aye,” Philippe replied, trying to gauge the undercurrents flowing between the proud knight and the volatile Cat. “Explosive as black powder,” Oscar had said of their confrontation the night before. True. But having been with the family since her birth, Philippe knew Cat better than did her bodyguard. Better, mayhap than she did herself. He’d never seen her look at a man thus, head thrown back, nostrils flared like a mare confronted by an unfamiliar stallion. Just so had her mother looked at Ruarke when she’d met and married him…all in the same day. “He controlled Thor as ably as your sire does,” he assured the fuming Cat.

She lifted her chin another notch and glared at Gervase’s worn garments. “I doubt the man has the coin to pay.”

“Better than coin.” Philippe gestured to the sword.

Cat’s eyes widened. “Where did he get it?”

Witch, Gervase thought. Spoiled, arrogant little witch. When he got her to Alleuze he’d see she worked for her food alongside his people. Aye, a fortnight of scrubbing floors should bring her down a peg. “He got it from his father,” Gervase said icily.

“Lord Ruarke would welcome such a fine piece, my lady,” Philippe said in the chilly silence that followed. “As his agent I’ve agreed to exchange Thor for the sword and hold it till after the tourney when Sir Gervase will redeem it with his winnings.”

The color rose in her cheeks and her mobile mouth thinned in frustration, but surprisingly she didn’t rail against the inevitable. “I hope he falls on his ass ere the melee starts,” she snarled. Tugging on the reins of her horse, she spun and galloped away. Her escort scrambled after her.

Despite his pique, Gervase noted they numbered some thirty or so heavily armed men, led by the pair he’d seen with her the night before. Thirty against the twenty men he’d brought with him. Clearly he must find a way to improve the odds, or get her by herself in order for his plans to succeed. And the way things stood between them, he had as much chance of getting her alone as he had of being crowned king of France.

Mayhap ‘twas time to mask his rage and see if he still remembered how to be charming to a woman.

Chapter Three

“He’s still watching you,” Margery whispered.

“Oh?” It took Cat a moment to locate him, lounging against the fireless hearth, one shoulder propped against the marble mantel. He had on the same unadorned black tunic he’d worn the first night. Its simplicity made the brightly garbed nobles look silly and frivolous by comparison. His dark head was bent in conversation with his friend, Perrin, but Gervase’s gaze was full on her. Cat shivered as the impact of those pale, glittering eyes worked its way down her spine and lodged in her belly.

Why him, of all men? she thought angrily. Tossing her head, she turned away and fixed her eyes firmly on the pair of tumblers cavorting in the center of the hall. Part of her was excited by this game of cat and mouse he seemed to be playing with her; part of her was afraid.

Three days had passed since the disputed purchase of Thor. Gervase had spent them on the training field, coming late each night to the castle for the feasting and the entertainment Lord John had arranged. In all that time, he had not spoken to her or tried to approach her. But he’d watched her.

Sweet Mary, how he watched her. Openly, relentlessly. His visual pursuit left him time for little else. He drank sparingly, flirted and danced not at all. Even with Clarice, who had smiled, teased, pouted and finally flounced off after easier game.

Gamel and Garret had been all for waylaying him in the dark and teaching him respect for his betters. Oscar, who had a bit of a romantic streak, had forbidden it. “There’s no harm in a knight being smitten by a lady. Courtly love, the minstrels call it.” Cat scoffed at that. There was nothing courtly in the way Gervase St. Juste’s hot glance followed her about. The only place she was safe was in her chamber, and she refused to hide there like some miscreant. She’d done that for weeks after her father rescued her from Henry. Never again.

“I think he’s trying to impress you,” Margery murmured.

“By making me uncomfortable?”

“Why would Sir Gervase’s regard make you uneasy? Half the men in the hall stare at you.”

“I…I do not know.” Liar. Gervase unnerved her because there was something about him that made her want to stare back.

“Mayhap he is trying to work up the courage to ask if he may wear your favor in the tourney.”

“He has a strange way of doing so.”

“Oh, I do not know. You’ve yet to give a token to any of the many men who have asked.” Margery grinned mischievously. “Mayhap you are waiting for Sir Gervase to approach you.”

“Margery!” Even as she scrambled to deny it, Cat’s eyes strayed where she’d bidden them not to—across the circle of people cheering the entertainers. He was gone.

“Were you looking for me, my lady?” a deep voice asked.

Cat started and turned her head. Her gaze fastened on the mouth that had haunted her dreams, then moved up. The eyes that had made her waking hours as tortured as her nights sparkled with suppressed laughter. ‘Twas the last straw. Her temper—never an easy thing to controlbroke its leash. “I would speak with you in private,” she snapped.

“I am at your disposal, Lady Catherine. May I suggest the garden, in five minutes? Without your two guards.”

“The garden it is,” she hissed back, conscious of the curious stares they were drawing. “But I could not leave without Gamel and Garret, even did I wish to…which I do not.”

Disappointment flared briefly. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

His low voice sent her pulse racing with possibilities. She angled her chin higher to counter them. “I’d not sully my family’s good name by comporting myself in an unseemly manner.”

“Ah, your family. Of course. They must come first.”

“Always,” she replied, not certain what had doused the fire in his eyes and hardened his jaw.

“We will all meet in the garden in five minutes.” Gervase took grim satisfaction from her grudging nod, then worked his way to the side door where Perrin waited for him.

“I have learned your uncle was right. There was a scandal involving Lady Cat and a man named Henry,” his cousin whispered.

“What kind of scandal?” Gervase’s jaw tightened as he watched the lady in question take the arm of a stout man in shocking green velvet with pear appliqués and join the dancing.

“Sim was a little sketchy on details. Either because he didn’t know them or because the ale I’d plied him with had finally dulled his brain,” Perrin added. “Apparently she ran off with a man…Henry Norville, a young groom.”

Gervase stiffened. So she not only played the whore, she was one in fact. “Did she wed him?”

“Nay. Sim says his lordship was too quick on their trail. I gather the family doesn’t speak of it and the man in question is no longer alive to do so.”

Gervase looked away from the dancers. “Ruarke killed him?”

“That is one of the details I didn’t get. Only that Lord Ruarke was mightily upset and hired those two hulking brutes.” He inclined his head toward the twin towers of bone and muscle hovering at the edge of the dancing. “The smaller, scar-faced man we’ve seen her with is Oscar. The others are Gamel and Garret…experts with the dirk and cudgel respectively.”

“Not to mention their fists. They look more like bears than men.” Gervase sighed and closed his eyes briefly, tired of the intrigues of court, sick of worrying about how he’d get Cat Sommerville off by herself and away from here.

“And then there are the forty men,” Perrin said. “The ones who will be guarding the lady during the tourney.”

“Forty,” Gervase said faintly. “Damn. I stayed in hopes we’d be able to steal her away during the excitement and confusion.”

“I’d forget that, if I were you. Nor does the lady seem overly interested in a dalliance with you.”

She was interested. His practiced eye had caught the flare of desire in hers. “I’m not rich enough. She won’t sully her precious family name by associating with the likes of me.”

Perrin grunted. “What will you do, then?”

“I’m not certain. I’ve managed to rouse her ire, at least. I’m to meet her in the gardens in a few moments, along with her guards,” Gervase added. “I wonder if she plans to set them on me?” His gaze narrowed as he picked Catherine out from the swirl of dancers. Her eyes outshone the amethysts shimmering in her elaborate headdress. She was the very image of everything he detested—pampered, polished, spoiled, English. Her gowns and jewels bought with the blood of his conquered countrymen.

Her lips curved provocatively as she laughed into the adoring face of the man who partnered her. Feral heat bloomed in Gervase’s chest. He hated that unknown man for the possessive hold he kept on Catherine’s slender waist. And he hated her, too, for so thoroughly besotting every man who crossed her path. Himself included. No matter who or what she was, if he wasn’t careful he could easily slip under her spell.

“I thank you for learning about that young fool she ran off with,” Gervase said, clasping Perrin on the shoulder. “I may have need of the information to force her into doing what I want.”

Lady Clarice’s lips pursed thoughtfully as she spied Sir Gervase and Sir Perrin with their heads bent together in whispered conversation. Their faces fairly shouted guilty secrets. As she watched, Gervase left his friend and slipped out the door leading to the gardens. Should she pursue him and see if he’d changed his mind about dallying with her?

A scant moment later Catherine Sommerville abruptly left the dancing and quit the hall for the gardens with only her guards for company. Interesting. Especially given the way the two had been eyeing each other. Clarice had undertaken enough clandestine meetings in her time to recognize the signs in others. Seeing an opportunity to cause trouble for the pair who’d slighted her, Clarice excused herself to her next dancing partner on the pretext of visiting the garderobes.

Once out the side door, she hiked up her velvet skirts and made for the back gate into the gardens. Careful to keep clear of the faint circles of torchlight, she scurried along the wall and ducked in behind the trellis. From within the shadowy alcove came the sounds of two voices rasping and gasping in the throes of passion. But when Clarice peered in through the lacy grapevines, she realized this was not the pair she sought and moved on. Nor was the couple trysting in the maze Gervase and Catherine.

Clarice had nearly decided her instincts had failed her when a familiar voice sailed out from the clump of birch at the far end of the garden.

“Why have you been watching me?” Cat Sommerville demanded.

Gervase replied, “You know the answer to that.”

Fascinated, Clarice bent down and crept along the path till she’d reached the hedge of hazelnut. Parting the branches slightly, she saw her quarry facing each other. Cat’s two guards stood a distance away, their backs to the confrontation.

“I have told you I am not interested in any…any alliance with you,” Cat said stiffly.

“So your lips say. But your eyes…they tell a different tale. You’ve been watching me as I do you.”

“Nay.” Catherine’s hand came up to her throat. She backed up a step. “You…you are mistaken.”

He stalked closer, but he didn’t touch her. “I think not. If I were not a penniless French knight, you’d gladly spend time with me. You, Lady Catherine, are a snob.”

“I am not.” She clenched her fists and glowered at him.

“Your protests are as false as your pose of innocence.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I know all about your elopement with Henry Norville.”

“Sweet Mary.” Catherine sagged against the tree behind her, her face ashen in the filtered torchlight.

Shock nearly caused Clarice to fall through the bushes. Oh, this was too good to be true. Imagine…

“You are afraid I will talk of what happened two years ago and ruin your reputation. But that is not my aim. All I want is to be treated as you would a man of wealth and position. A few dances…a few walks in the garden…alone. Mayhap your favor to wear in the jousts.”

“ ’Tis…’tis blackmail,” Catherine replied.

“It seems the only way I can persuade you to spend time in my company,” Gervase replied just as harshly.

“You…you wretch.” She looked toward the solid backs of her guards. “I’ve a mind to call Gamel and Garret and let them pound some manners into you.”

“ ’Tis no more than I’d expected of so shallow and spoiled a lady,” Gervase said scathingly.

“I am not.” Catherine stamped her foot for emphasis, two red splotches coloring her pale cheeks.

“Prove it, then, and give me a chance to prove myself in turn. I vow I have no desire to rum your reputation, only teach you not to look down your nose at a man for lack of wealth.”

“I…I do not know…”

“Think on it. I will seek you out tomorrow for your answer.”

Catherine nodded, turned and fled.

Oh, this was too good to be true, Clarice thought. Imagine, sweet Lady Catherine was really a harlot. As she slunk off into the night, Clarice’s mind seethed with ways in which she might use this new knowledge. One thing was clear, once the information became public, no man would want Cat as a wife, which would leave the field clear for Clarice. What a lovely notion.

Winded and perspiring from the last set of dances, Cat declined an invitation to join another set and wandered toward an open window. Three men trailed after her with offers of food and drink. She agreed in order to get rid of them. ‘Twas hell staying here, keeping up a carefree facade when she longed for privacy to try and sort out her problem. If not for the questions it would have caused, she’d not have returned to the hall after her meeting with Gervase. Blackmail. The nerve of the man.

At least he had not followed her into the hall. Trying to keep up a pretext of gaiety under his intent gaze would have been impossible. What was she going to do? Though he’d not asked for much—only a bit of her time—the notion of bowing to blackmail went against everything she believed in.

Feeling wretched, Cat scanned the room and spied Margery standing off by herself, eyes wide, tears trickling down her full cheeks. Had some man slighted her? Had one of the catty women said something to wound poor, defenseless Margery? Lifting her skirts, Cat stalked off to the rescue.

“Margery.” Cat grasped both Margery’s icy hands in hers and gave them a squeeze. “Only tell me what has happened.”

“Oh, Cat.” Margery cried harder. “‘Tis terrible. I…I cannot think of a way to tell you,” she stammered between sobs.

“Hush, dearling.” Cat wrapped an arm around the girl’s heaving shoulders. “Come, let us find a quiet corner.”

“Margery! Come here this instant.” Lady Ela snapped her fingers imperiously and motioned for her daughter to join her by the hearth where she stood with a group of staring women.

“I…I have to go.” Margery darted away.

Cat started after her, but Oscar blocked her path.

“ ’Tis late and ye should be abed. I like not the mood of the crowd,” he added in a low voice.

Indeed, the dancing had ceased and the nobles hung about in small groups. They chattered like a flock of crows, eyes darting about the hall, faces animated with what looked like malicious glee. Had Gervase told them about Henry? Nay. It profited him not to betray her before he had her answer. Still Cat suddenly felt alone and vulnerable. “See what you can find out.”

“Likely everyone has had too much to drink. Come, milady, we’ll escort you to your room.” With Oscar in front and the brothers following, they swept from the hall and up the stairs to her chamber. Cat was deposited inside and her maid given strict orders to see her mistress stayed within.

“See here. I will not be ordered about.” Cat jerked the door open and ran into the solid wall of Garret’s back.

Nor would he let her leave. “What of Margery and the other ladies? Where will they sleep if you bar the way?”

“I’ve orders to let them pass when they come up,” Garret said. “But Gamel and I are to remain here the night, and you’re not to leave till Oscar or Sir Philippe says ‘tis all right.”

Cat sighed and closed the door.

“Whatever’s going on, milady?” The maid’s narrow face was pinched with concern, her hands knotted in her apron.

“I don’t know, Etta. ‘Tis likely naught, but I’ll find out as soon as Margery and the others retire.” Stiff with dread and frustration, Cat moved through the undressing process by rote, absently lifting her arms as first the sideless velvet surcoat, then the silken undertunic were removed.

“You’ll feel better when this is off.” Etta released Cat’s hair from the braids coiled over her ears.

Cat didn’t feel better. Clad at last in her night shift, she sat on the stool before the fire while Etta tended her hair, but the rhythmic stroking of the ivory comb failed to soothe her frazzled nerves. Nor did any of the ladies appear who shared her room. The watch called midnight, the castle settled down to sleep, except for the occasional muted sounds of a few male voices drifting up from the hall.

Frightened, Cat crept to the door and cracked it open on the darkened corridor. “Garret?” she whispered.

“Aye. We’re here.”

“What news from below?”

A long pause, then, “I dunno. Oscar says he’ll come by and tell ye in the morning,” Gamel replied.

“Then there is something. Does…does it involve me?”

“Oscar didn’t tell us,” Gamel replied. “Only said ye were to stay here till he’d gotten to the bottom of things.”

Things like her sordid past?

That question had Cat tossing and turning all night. She rose early, splashed cool water on her face, hastily braided her hair in a single plait and dressed in a simple woolen gown. Leaving Etta asleep on her pallet by the door, Cat eased the oaken portal open.

Gamel’s face materialized in the still gloomy hallway. “You’re supposed to wait within.”

“I’m starving. What harm can there be in going down to the hall for a bit of food?” And information. “ ’Twill likely be deserted, for the men have all gone to the tiltyard to practice for tomorrow’s tourney,” she added, having heard them clatter out of the courtyard when it was still dark.

“Etta could bring something up,” Gamel said.

Cat shook her head. “I need to stretch my legs. If I have to stay cooped up here another moment, I’ll go mad.”

Gamel and Garret exchanged frowns, then Gamel sighed. “I’ll take ye down to break yer fast whilst Garret gets Oscar.”

Cat jumped at the opportunity, though eating ranked below finding Margery. During the long, sleepless night she’d decided Lady Ela must have become angry because the men pursued Cat and ignored her daughter. Doubtless the lady had told Margery to stay away from Cat so as to not suffer by comparison. ‘Twould be easily set to rights. Cat would promise to dance no more dances, talk to no more men. ‘Twas a small price to pay, for Margery’s friendship was more important than the attentions of any man.

Especially Gervase St. Juste. Cat’s hands clenched into fists and her steps slowed on the narrow stairway. Any man who would stoop to blackmail deserved to be denounced to the world. Sweet Mary, he was worse than Henry Norville, who had at least been honest enough, in the end, to admit ‘twas her father’s money he’d wanted. If she hadn’t feared exposing her sordid past, she would have shouted Gervase’s crime from the rooftops.

Cat paused at the entrance to the hall. Most of the men had indeed left to polish their skills for the morrow, but many women and older nobles sat at the trestle tables partaking of ale, bread and lively conversation. Her mood lightened as she scanned their familiar faces. These were her peers, her friends. With the exception of Clarice and a few of her cronies, these people liked Cat, wished her well. Fatigue and irritation with Gervase must have caused her to imagine the chill in the air last night.

Cat spied Lady Ela seated at the far end of the room, with her usual crowd of older matrons and Margery with them. With Gamel at her heels, she swept into the hall.

The noble diners fell silent suddenly as though they’d all been struck mute at once. Heads swung in Cat’s direction, smiles turned upside down, glances narrowed as they looked down their noses at her. Their contempt stopped Cat in her tracks.

Contempt? What had she done to…?

Nay! It couldn’t be, yet she knew with dread certainty that it was. Gervase had spread the word of her ill-fated liaison with Henry. Shame fired her cheeks and clogged her throat; she prayed for the floor to open and swallow her. When it didn’t, instinct urged her to bolt from the room. Pride kept her rooted to the spot. Damn. Damn. What was she to do?

Hot tears stung the backs of her lids, blurring the sea of disdainful faces. Drowning in misery, Cat sought out the only one whose opinion truly mattered. Margery, how can you think ill of me? she silently asked.

To her credit, Margery stood and started forward, her own eyes brimming with tears. Her lady mother grabbed her arm, jerked her down onto the bench and held her there.

“Come, let us leave.” Gamel plucked at Cat’s sleeve.

Aye. Cat twitched with the urge to flee the hall and keep running till she was back in England, safe in the protective bosom of the loving family who had stuck by her despite her mistake. But her parents had imbued her with their steadfastness. A Sommerville did not run; she stood and faced trouble head-on.

Raising her chin a notch, Cat cast about for an empty table. The only one sat on the dais. Lord John was not here, but by right of her family’s connection with the Angevines, she had often been asked to sup there with His Grace. “I will break my fast before riding out to the tourney field,” Cat said to Gamel. Spine as stiff as her resolve, she marched down the center aisle of the hall, mounted the single step to the raised platform and took the low-backed chair to the left of the duke’s lofty one.

A sullen maid, pressured to serve her by Gamel’s furious glare, set the food down so abruptly ale sloshed over the rim of the cup. Cat watched the liquid pool on the polished oak and felt her throat fill with tears. Though she doubted she could swallow past the fullness, she tore off a bit of bread, popped it into her mouth and chewed. It took two gulps of ale to get the first bit of bread down, but she kept eating.