Knight's Ransom

Gradually the others went back to their own food, and the hum of voices rose to replace the awkward silence.

That they discussed her was a certainty. Unable to meet their eyes, Cat stared at the crossed axes decorating the far wall and contemplated burying one in Gervase’s treacherous skull. Thank God, her parents weren’t here to relive the horror of two years ago, the veiled slurs on her honor and on theirs.

Somehow she got through the meal, though the bread sat in a lump in her belly and her throat was tight with unshed tears. As she stood, an expectant hush once again fell over the assembly. This time she forced herself to look around at those she’d thought were her friends. The women regarded her with disdain. The men, even the old ones, were openly speculative, wondering no doubt if she’d be amenable to a tumble. Only Margery looked back with any measure of empathy and fondness.

What shallow, petty fools, Cat thought, so quickly swayed by a vicious rumor. Though she longed to crawl away and lick her wounds, she’d come to Bordeaux to cheer the Sommerville forces to victory in the tourney, and she’d not be driven away by such as these. “Come, my friend.” She looked to the hovering Gamel. “I’d take a turn in the garden to clear my nostrils of this place.”

Her comment made several of the ladies gasp in outrage, but Cat was beyond caring. Her misery had given way to rage. She was staying for the tourney and attending every function. And she’d find a way to repay Gervase for dragging her name through the mud.

Chapter Four

“She’s here,” Perrin muttered. He didn’t need to explain further, for Lady Catherine Sommerville’s name rushed through the crowded hall like an ill wind.

Gervase stiffened, but he didn’t turn to watch her progress through the throng of knights, nobles and ladies assembled for the tourney banquet. “I’m surprised she dared show her face.”

“They are snubbing her…just as we’d heard they did this morn,” Perrin added unhappily. “She is ignoring them all. Damn, but she’s a brave one, her head high, her eyes fierce.”

“Do you think I wanted this?” He’d hoped to blackmail her into keeping company with him, the better to steal her away. Now she’d think he had spread the rumor and would shun him totally.

“I suppose not, still I don’t like hurting an innocent.”

“Innocent?” Gervase snorted. “We know she is not that. And I swear she won’t be harmed, only held till her sire renders up—”

“She’s already been harmed,” Perrin muttered. “Thanks to us, her reputation here is ruined. The only men who’ll be pursuing her now are those looking for an easy tumble.”

“I did not spread that rumor.” A quick investigation pointed to Lady Clarice as the source. Still Gervase’s hand tightened on his cup, the crest of the English kings biting into his flesh. A reminder of why he was here. Catherine Sommerville was a means to that end. He couldn’t afford to feel anything toward her, not pity and certainly not this inconvenient desire. “Who’s to say she was not bedding them all on the sly,” he growled.

Jealous, my friend? Perrin wondered. Though Gervase was adept at hiding his feelings, Perrin had not missed the flash of hunger in his lord’s eyes when he looked at the lady. Poor Marie had never kindled that kind of fire in her husband. Nor had any other woman, come to think of it. Pity Lady Cat was not only English but the daughter of one Gervase hated above all others.

“Thor shows great promise,” Gervase said suddenly.

Perrin sighed and accepted the change of subject. “He’s magnificent, but I wish you had longer to work with him ere the tourney. He’s strong willed and not yet used to your ways. Which could be a liability, especially in the melee.”

“With another horse, that might be true. But Thor is disciplined and responsive to my commands.”

“Aye, and the other Sommerville horses we observed on the tiltyard were likewise fine specimens. ‘Tis a puzzle, is it not, that a man as vicious in war as Lord Ruarke would have the patience and sensitivity to raise such fine beasts?”

Gervase’s smile fled. “I doubt he had a hand in it, but even so I am trying to forget I bought Thor from that bastard.”

“Speaking of bastards, Sir Malkin approaches Lady Cat.”

Gervase whirled, his hand reaching reflexively for his sword and coming up empty. By order of the duke, all weapons were forbidden at the banquet, lest an excess of drink and strong emotions lead to trouble. Sure enough, the worst lecher in all Bordeaux, the man whose tastes were so depraved ‘twas said the whores charged him twice the going rate, was bowing over Cat’s hand. The din in the hall covered Malkin of York’s words, but they leached the color from her face.

“Bloody hell,” Gervase muttered, teeth clenched as tight as his gut. He shouldn’t care, didn’t want to, but the instinctive urge to protect prodded him forward. He’d only gone a step when her two bodyguards moved in front of her and chased Malkin off.

Embarrassed by his reaction, Gervase changed direction and headed for one of the long trestle tables where the servants were just setting out the meal. Swinging a leg over the bench, he sat and reached for the wine pitcher. Though ‘twould take more wine than there was in Bordeaux to wash the guilt from his mouth.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Perrin said, sitting beside him.

“Agreed.” Gervase drained his cup and set it down with enough force to jar the nearby platter of roasted hare. “Why did she come? Surely she must have realized what ‘twould be like.”

“Pride.” Perrin grabbed a joint of meat and set it on his manchet bread trencher. “Fragile as she looks, the lady has courage and pride in abundance.”

“Gall, more like. She doubtless enjoys being the center of attention, even if ‘tis the attention of one such as Malkin.”

“She didn’t appear to welcome his advances, and she doesn’t look one bit happy now.”

Against his will, Gervase followed Perrin’s gaze to the dais where Lady Catherine occupied the end seat. Beautiful, he thought, her crimson surcoat the perfect foil for skin pale as the pearls banding the neck. Unnaturally pale. And were those shadows beneath her eyes a trick of the light or lack of sleep? He forced the notion away and remembered instead the destruction that had greeted him when he’d returned to Alleuze, the charred walls, the pitiful graves of his wife and daughter. The mementos left behind to mark Lord Ruarke’s passing through the valley. Lady Catherine’s discomfort was naught to what his people had suffered at her father’s hands.

“If she doesn’t like it, she can leave,” Gervase said gruffly, and turned his attention to the food. It tasted like ashes, but he forced himself to eat, knowing he needed to build up his strength for the tourney events.

“The cook has outdone himself,” Perrin said. “I swear we’ve put on a stone since coming here. Weight we both needed.”

“A year of eating only what little our ravaged land would yield made us skinny,” Gervase replied bitterly. “Would that we could take some of this bounty back to our people when we leave.”

“We’ll soon be able to buy whatever we need…seed to plant, meat, flour, beans and such to tide us over till the crops are ready to harvest. And stone to rebuild.” Perrin grinned. “Aye, we’ll be warm, dry and well fed this winter.”

“Hush,” Gervase warned as three people took their places on the other side of the table. An older knight, his lady wife and their daughter, a plump young woman he recalled seeing much in Catherine Sommerville’s company.

“May I at least speak with her?” the girl asked.

“Nay, Margery,” her mother snapped. “You’ll stand no chance of attracting a husband if you’re seen in such loose company.”

“Cat’s not like that, Mama. She isn’t. I…I know it’s a terrible mistake. If only you’d talk with her—”

“Me?” The woman’s jowls trembled with agitation. “And have these good people think I condone such behavior?”

“Good people.” Margery’s eyes narrowed. “I think they are terrible to treat her so for an unfounded rumor.”

“‘Tis not unfounded,” the mother replied. “I had it from a woman whose maid knows the duke’s squire that Lady Catherine did indeed run off with a man…a horse trainer,” she added in a horrified whisper. “Some nobody named Henry Norville. Her parents hushed up the disgraceful business as best they could. The duke knew of it, apparently, and swore his people to secrecy, but since all was revealed last night…”

“I still think ‘tis mean to condemn her for one mistake.”

“A costly error, that,” her father interjected. “With her bloodlines and dowry, Lord Ruarke could have made an excellent match for her. But now…no honorable man will want her.” He cleared his throat and scowled. “Wed a woman who’ll spread her thighs for anyone and no telling who’ll sire your children.”

“Too true,” his wife said.

Gervase slammed down his cup and quit the table before he did something stupid, like defend a woman he didn’t even like. ‘Twas the principle of the thing, he told himself as he threaded his way through the tables. But then the English were known to be petty and narrow-minded. Sickened by the stench of so many English bodies, offended by the way their tongues twisted the Norman French, he made for the garden.

“Well, you wanted her isolated,” Perrin said, the moment they stepped outside. “Now she’s even deprived of Margery’s comfort.”

“Don’t you have anything to do besides hound me?”

“Not at present.”

“Then ride out to camp and check on Thor,” Gervase growled. “So handsome a piece of horseflesh may attract thieves. And take with you some meat and wine for Vallis and the others. They are as needful of a good meal as we.”

“Why not come with me?”

Gervase shook his head. “I have promised to speak with Lord Etienne de Vigne after supper, and then I must decide which of the French parties we will align ourselves with for the melee.”

“I thought you had settled on Henri Gaston. He’s the strongest and, if we fight in his group, we will be able to concentrate on capturing the richest prizes.”

“True.” Gervase glanced about. Dark had fallen and the torches cast golden circles over the beds of flowers, but beyond their reach the shadows were thick, concealing. He lowered his voice. “Lord Henri’s methods are not to my liking. Any man who orders his troops to hamstring fallen knights to prevent their escape or cut the horses from beneath them…”

“English knights and English mounts,” Perrin said.

“If we were speaking of war, such deplorable actions might be necessary, but this is a game, a means to fortune and glory, not a matter of life and death. Lord Etienne’s forces may be smaller, but he is a man of honor.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, weary of plotting and calculating. “Go and make certain all is well at camp. I’ve heard tell there are those about who would like to improve their own chances in the tourney by disabling their opponents’ mounts and men beforehand.”

“All the more reason not to have you riding back to camp late at night and alone.”

“Since the feasting is like to stretch far into the night, and I don’t know when I will be able to speak with Etienne, I will remain here tonight. Expect me early on the morrow.” There would be last-minute preparations for the tourney to oversee.

“Where will you sleep?”

“In the stables if there is room. If not, under some convenient bush as we did when we were campaigning.”

Perrin grinned. “Lady Clarice would doubtless be happy to help you find…accommodations.”

“I’d have to be blind drunk to bed an Englishwoman,” ” Gervase snarled. “Think of all the English have cost me.”

“I know, I know.” Perrin clasped Gervase’s shoulder and squeezed. “But you have endured and will yet triumph. Shall I leave Armand with you?”

“Nay, take him.” The castle was no place for his young, impressionable squire. “That way I’ll have only myself to see to.” For a time after Perrin left him, Gervase wandered aimlessly in the garden. The sweet scent of rosemary took him back to his mother’s garden and home. Set high on the side of a lush valley, Alleuze had not the grandeur of larger keeps, but its sun-washed rooms had been filled with love and laughter. Now it was a hollow shell, a place of blackened walls and shattered dreams. With his family dead, had he the will to restore it? And for whom?

The crunch of footfalls and the murmur of voices warned his privacy was about to be breached. Having no wish for company, he ducked behind a towering yew and watched to see who came.

“We think you should return home,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “Come morn, I’ll assemble thirty men and escort—”

“Nay, I’d not cheat them of their chance to ride in a tourney they’ve been preparing for these two months,” replied one he had no trouble recognizing. Lady Catherine Sommerville.

Gervase withdrew farther into the shadows as they came abreast of him and stopped.

“But…but this is intolerable.” The speaker was Oscar. Behind him, their broad faces echoing the smaller man’s concern, hovered Gamel and Garret. “At least let me send for milord.”

Catherine’s back was to Gervase, but he saw her shoulders move, heard her sigh. “Nay. What could Papa do save fret? And he has enough on his mind with the prince so gravely ill.”

“He could run the lot of them through,” Gamel growled.

Her laugh was low, tinged with sadness. “No doubt he’d want to…Papa has ever tried to vanquish whatever foes beset me, but I fear his sword would not restore my tarnished honor.”

“Do not speak so,” Garret cried. “Ye are the most virtuous of ladies. ‘Tis these…these bastards who have no honor. To shun ye and besmirch yer name so with their whispers and lies.”

“But we know they are not lies.” Her voice was so soft Gervase barely heard the words over the rustle of wind through the trees, yet he felt her pain.

“‘Tis not right ye should still continue to suffer for a single mistake in judgment,” Oscar said gruffly.

“Aye, Henry was surely that, but I fear my error will haunt me all my life.” She turned and lifted her face to the breeze, exposing the pure lines of her profile to the torchlight, high cheekbones, straight nose and a pointed chin that wobbled a bit before she firmed it. “The air smells good after the stuffiness of the hall. What I wouldn’t give for a good gallop.”

“Don’t even suggest it,” Oscar muttered. “I’d give ye anything else ye ask for, milady, but Lord Ruarke was most specific about not allowing ye to tear around the countryside.”

“Even with an escort.” She smiled sadly. “I know. And he is right, the woods are full of brigands, still…”

Gervase felt her sigh all the way to his soul, and damned himself for it. Why her? Of all the women he’d met—including his poor dead wife—why did this one woman stir him so?

“Ah, there you are, Lady Catherine. I saw you leave the hall and thought you might like some company,” Sir Archie drawled as he slid into the light. Like the snake he was, Gervase thought, his hackles rising as the man kissed Catherine’s hand.

“Sir Archie,” Catherine said coolly.

The knight smiled, then flicked a dismissive glance at her escort. “Kindly remain here. I’d walk a pace with your mistress.”

Oscar bristled. “She goes nowhere without us.”

“A wise precaution, but I mean her no harm. I but thought she might like to sit a few moments on yon bench, away from the prying eyes of friends and foes alike.”

A kindly offer, given all Catherine had been through these past two days, yet it struck Gervase wrong. So while her three guards remained on the path, he crept through the brush and came around behind the trellis shielding the bench from view. A strong sense of déjà vu struck him as he knelt in the grass. ‘Twas here he’d listened while Archie had proposed and was rejected.

“I am sorry to see you so vilely treated,” Archie began as soon as they were seated.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “But if you are truly my friend, you’ll understand why I’d rather speak of other things.”

“Of course I’m your friend.” His voice dropped to a purr. “But I’d like to be more.”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Archie, but I meant what I said a few days ago. I cannot wed with you.”

“Wed?” Archie’s laugh was harsh, grating. “Nay, I had a more satisfying but less permanent arrangement in mind.”

Through the trellis, Gervase saw her head jerk around in surprise. “What…what do you mean?”

“Why, to make you my mistress, of course.”

Shock held Cat immobile while Archie filled in the lurid details of the relationship he had in mind. How could I have considered kissing that mouth? she wondered as the filth spewed forth. How could I have thought him gentle and kind? she added as he trampled her character and honor into the mud with his assumptions and insinuations.

She wanted to scream for Oscar, but feared she’d be sick if she opened her mouth. She wanted to run, but her body was weighted down by the crushing burden of all she’d endured these past few days, the humiliation, the rejection, the…

“Well, what say you?” Archie demanded.

“Nay,” Cat whispered. “Nay, I…” She swayed, dizzy and very much afraid she’d either faint or vomit.

“How dare you malign the lady with your filth?” growled a deep, horribly familiar voice. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows to the right of the trellis and walked into the light cast by a nearby torch.

“St. Juste!” Archie leapt up. “This is a private conversation. I must ask you to leave.”

“Begone before I run you through.” Gervase took her hand, drew her to her feet and tucked her arm through his with a proprietary gesture. “It grows late, Lady Catherine, and we have yet to discuss what colors we will wear for the processional.”

“Colors? Processional?” Cat said weakly. The only thing keeping her upright was his hold on her arm.

An indulgent smile lifted the corners of his mouth; his eyes fastened on hers, hooded, intimate. “ ’Tis customary for a knight and his fair lady to be garbed in matching colors when she leads him into the tourney ring.”

“His lady!” Archie roared. “Never say you’ve allied yourself with this…this French nobody,” he shrieked.

Of course she hadn’t. But at the moment she’d have thrown in with the devil to put Archie in his place. Raising one brow in fair imitation of the queen at her scathing best, she said, “To me, he is not a nobody.” To Gervase she gave her most dazzling smile. “I’d say black would best suit your coloring and my reputation, sir knight.”

“Harlot!” Archie swore, and strode off into the night.

The moment he was gone, Cat tugged her hand from Gervase’s arm. “Now leave me alone.”

“What, no thanks for getting rid of him?”

“You made him think I am your mistress.”

“I am sorry for that, but at least it will put a stop to the pursuit by wretches like him and Malkin.”

Cat’s fingers curved into claws she longed to sink into his handsome face. “You have made good your threat to ruin me.”

“Nay, I did not tell anyone.” Torchlight flickered over his features, stripping them bare of pretext. “I traced the origin of the rumor to Clarice. She must have followed us last night and overheard my remarks. I…” His eyes were dulled by the first hint of uncertainty she’d seen in him. “I did not tell a soul about your Henry. I learned of him quite by accident. ‘Twas desperation and wounded pride that made me use the information to force you to me.” He sighed heavily. “My only excuse is that I was furious you returned my…my interest, yet would not spend time with me because I am no wealthy Englishman.”

“ ’Twas not that at all.” Cat reflexively laid a hand on his arm. The tremor that shook him shuddered into her own body. The shiver of mingled delight and dread set her pulse racing with possibilities. “Knowing what you do of my…my background, you must see why I am cautious of men. Once before I allowed my heart to fool my brain into thinking a man could love me for myself, not my father’s wealth.”

“I assure you, I am interested in you despite your father,” Gervase said cryptically. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he flexed his jaw, and the predatory light was back in his eyes, making them glow like banked embers.

Cat’s breath caught as an answering flame kindled inside her, making the blood leap in her veins. “Very well. I will appear with you at the tourney processional, then we will see.”

“Aye, then we will see.” He stared deep into her eyes, luminous gray burning into wary purple. The rustle of the wind through the trees, the murmur of other lovers walking in the gardens faded. There was only the stirring presence of this tall, lean man whom she wanted beyond anything she’d known before.

Pray heaven she was not leaping from the pot into the fire.

The day of the tourney dawned gray and cool, but Cat didn’t let that dampen her enthusiasm as she prodded a sleepy Etta from her pallet and sent Gamel to ready the horses. The castle was barely astir when she harried her escort over the drawbridge and on toward the field that would soon host the pageant.

Sir Philippe didn’t share her excitement. “Only think what your mother will say when she hears of this,” he wailed, pacing before one of the silken tents flying the Sommerville colors.

Cat rolled her eyes and struggled for calm. “I thought we had settled this last eve. Mama would have approved of my putting Sir Archie in his place. Do stop wringing your hands. You’re getting your gauntlets in a snarl.”

The knight’s hands dropped to his sides. His eyes closed briefly in his own bid for patience. “But to ally yourself with a knight who is a stranger to us…”

“You trusted him enough to sell him Thor.”

“Thor is a horse. You are milord’s firstborn. His beloved daughter. His—”

“His greatest trial.” Cat grinned. “Come, what harm can there possibly be in accompanying Sir Gervase as he and the other combatants enter the lists? He’s hardly likely to try and ravish me before the hundreds of spectators.”

Philippe gasped. “Has he tried to…to seduce you? Is that the reason he came to your defense? Because he thought…?”

“Thought I’d be an easy mark?” Cat finished for him. “Nay. I admit I, too, feared that at first, and kept Gamel or Garret near whilst he and I made plans for the processional. But Sir Gervase has not done or said anything improper.” Indeed, he had made no improper suggestions. His gaze did not stray down her body as most men’s did, never lingered overlong on her breasts or sought to divest her of her clothes.

Perversely, she found his restraint unflattering and annoying. She knew he still desired her, for hunger burned in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. Something held him back. Guilt for having accidentally ruined her reputation? Regret for the differences in their stations? Mayhap he sought to go slowly, to assure her of his respect before wooing her. Or win a fortune in tourney prizes, then court her more openly, more as an equal. ‘Twas an oddly pleasing notion.

Philippe grunted. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. He could hardly carry you off before a throng of spectators. But…” His frown returned as he eyed her gown. “I doubt Lady Gaby would think your garb appropriate.”

“‘Tis one of Mama’s actually, left behind when she departed in such haste. I thought the cut most modest.” Cat touched the high neck and turned in a slow circle, watching the velvet ripple around her feet. Adorned only by a wide gold girdle at her hips, the gown barely hinted at the shape beneath.

“But ‘tis black. A most unsuitable color.”

Actually, it suited her rebellious mood exactly, but she doubted Philippe would appreciate the sentiment. “Sir Gervase’s surcoat is black and there wasn’t time to make him a new coat.”

“We might have something we could loan—”

A blast of trumpets cut across Philippe’s objections, followed immediately by the arrival of Gervase and his men.