My Lady Imposter Read online

  They reached the landing. She realized then that this was one of the corner towers. There were a number of landings, with heavy doors, but always more steps to climb, and always they must climb them. Slits at various intervals let in a little light, but the place smelt damp and unused, and the steps were uneven and made her legs ache. She leaned against the cold wall once, trying to catch breath, but he did not seem to need to rest and she must run to catch him up.

  They reached the final landing at last. She closed her eyes, gasping, while he produced some keys and opened the door. It swung back, silent. Inside, light filtered through more slits, illuminating a round, rather bare room. She stared at it in horror before lifting her eyes to his face.

  “But this is a prison,” she said, hardly more than a whisper. “You said I had done nothing wrong!”

  “It is a chamber, not a prison,” he said, his voice impatient. “Come, go inside.” And then, with a mocking smile, “Are you afraid?”

  She stepped forward at the dare, but did not go in. He caught her arm and swung her into the room. As she stumbled forward she heard the door close and lock. She tried to turn, but her feet caught in her hem, and she fell back onto the hard stone floor. Her voice came out as a sudden, high, squeak. “Richard!”

  There was a pause, as though he hesitated at the door, and then his voice, muted: “I will go to your sister now. Never fear, she shall have a fair price for you. And perhaps, if you are good, you may visit her.” Tears sprang up and overflowed. “Richard!” But his footsteps were retreating, round and round, down and down. She stared about her, dark eyes enormous and glittering with tears. She was locked in, a prisoner. And her sister was to be paid for her purchase!

  Chapter Three

  For some moments she knew not what to do, and sat staring at the forbidding door as though it might speak back to her. And then came anger, rising with the blood under the grime on her face, and she went to the door and pounded upon it until her fists were bruised and aching. But no one came, nor even stirred, and at last she ran back towards the slitted window, trying to peer out.

  Far away lay the woods, where she had hidden and run, where she had picked and eaten her blackberries. Tears stung her eyes now at the thought of them and all the trouble they had caused. She was at the top of a tower which rose straight from the inside walls of Pristine, and was on the far side, away from the village and the fields. No sign of life interfered with her view, nothing moved along the winding road through the trees.

  Her breath spilled out between her lips, and she closed her eyes tightly on the tears. There was a stone ledge by the window, and she subsided weakly upon it, wincing from the bruises of her previous encounter with stone. She was, indeed, a prisoner. What would Grisel say? Would she rant and rave and demand her sister back? Would she scream and fetch Snuff back from the fields, and both of them come running to save her? She sighed and knew it would never be so. Even if they wished to save her, how could they? They were the property of Lord Ralf, just as she was.

  A sound disturbed her melancholy thoughts. An army of footsteps this time, accompanied by the swishing of skirts and the clanking of some monstrous weapon striking the walls of the narrow stairwell. She rose to her feet as the key turned, her eyes growing rounder as the door swung open. A gaggle of serving women poured in, and they carried between them a great metal instrument of torture. A great oval shaped thing, hollowed out, and with protruberances to stand upon.

  She watched in speechless horror as it was set down upon the stone floor, and the women, with jugs and pails of steaming hot water, began to fill its hollowed insides. They filled it, until the gurgling water slapped at the edge of the thing, and then one of them, ignoring the whispering curiosity of her companions, took up a tall opaque jar and poured in an oily substance, filling the room with the scent of roses.

  Kathryn’s eyes bulged as a white cloth was laid out, and upon it blocks of scented tallow and a bundle of richly-colored cloth, with shoes. And then the stoutest, ugliest serving woman rolled up her sleeves above her elbows, and started towards her. She backed away, even knowing she had nowhere to go, trying to shield herself with her arms.

  The torture was indeed terrifying. She was, firstly, stripped—her dress tossed like rags into a corner—and with much screeching and wailing, the women forced her flailing limbs into the steaming tub. The water closed over her. She tried to rise up, splashing wildly, but they held her in and set to work with the soap, covering her entirely. There was a brush, hard and painful on her skin, which they used to scrub her. Not even her head was safe, and they pushed it under and soaped her hair and face without heed for stinging eyes and spluttering mouth. In the end, strength gave out, and she lay limply, sobbing as they worked.

  It was over at last. She lay there, too weak to rise. They hauled her from the water, dripping, her body pale and clean as a newborn babe. Her limbs trembled as she tried to cover herself, but they brushed her hands aside and began to dry her with the cloth until she glowed.

  The stout woman clicked her tongue, muttering all the while, but Kathryn was too weary to take notice of her disapproval. She allowed herself to be bundled into a white chemise and a blue gown, of heavy soft cloth. It was fitted snugly to her body from neck to waist, and flared out over her hips. The sleeves were fitted to the elbows, and then they too flared. She wore thick stockings, and upon her feet flat, pointed shoes. Her hair was brushed, hard and painfully, and then pulled into two long braids. Finally, they had placed a veil upon her head, transparent and light as breath, and fastened it there with a headband of black and white embroidered colors.

  When at last they had done, she sat clean and exhausted upon the window ledge, tears streaking her pale face, flushed at the cheeks, her sooty lashes clubbed together about her great dark eyes. The women, as exhausted as she, stood back and viewed her with curious and approving eyes. They noted how long and thick was the dark hair, how it caught the blue lights from her gown. They admired her oval face, framed by the veil, and the fine arrogance of her chin and nose. They admired her long fingers, tightly clasped, and her slim body and firm bosom. They were pleased with their exertions.

  The stout woman mopped her pink brow. “Aye, well, at least she’s clean.” And then, with a shrug, “For the moment.”

  The instrument of torture was emptied with those same jugs and pails. The bath itself was removed, with the other trappings of torture. The stairs echoed to the sound of the women’s complaints, and the exhortions of the stout woman to punish them if they should gossip.

  A page came hurrying, carrying a tray upon which was her supper. A platter with bread and cheese, with a tankard of warm ale. His brown eyes slid over her, widening. “My lord says he’ll come to ye directly,” he said at last, setting the tray down. The girl was comely. Where had she come from? Why had he not seen her arrive? And why sworn to such secrecy? She stared back at him so blankly, he wondered if she were wanting in her wits. Still, she was comely... He winked.

  Some of Kathryn’s spirit revived at that. She started up with pink cheeks and clenched fists. “Get ye gone, oaf!” The door slammed hastily. She sighed, her anger going with her breath, and shivered. The light was fading and muting. It was growing cold and without her dirt she was likely to die. She shivered again. The gown was clean too, and smelt odd. Like roses. She smelt of roses too, even her hair.

  She flushed at the memory of being dunked naked into that tub, with all those eyes looking on. And why? Why was it happening to her? She scratched her head thoughtfully through the veil and wondered if the lice were gone too. Well, that was not so bad a thing. But still, the bad must outweigh what good there was. Of what use was being rid of the pests, if she died?

  She picked at the food half-heartedly at first, but it was good. White bread, so fine and soft. She felt it in wonder, and tasted it reverently. Grisel’s bread was black and tough as pig skin, with hard bits to hurt tender gums. The ale was sweet, and the cheese tasty, without mould. Afterwar
ds, she felt replete, and less downhearted. Perhaps after all it was not so bad, to be a prisoner at Pristine.

  The twilight had turned the woods to fire, when at last she heard boots on the stairs, and the jingle of spurs. Light was retreating across the circular room, and instead of being grey it was now orange. The shadows were drawing in towards the window, where she sat. Waiting.

  The key clanged in the door. The cheeky page stepped aside as she opened her mouth to rail at him again. Behind him stood Lord Ralf, and Richard.

  Lord Ralf stooped beneath the lintel, his hair catching the last rays of the sun, his jeweled tunic flashing red and silver. Richard seemed a shadow behind him, dressed in somber clothes, his expression solemn and closed. He shut the door, and stood before it with crossed arms. He looked at Lord Ralf, and not at Kathryn.

  She stood up, her dress sweeping the floor, her veil drifting about her as she moved. “Why am I locked up here?” she cried, her voice shaking between fear and anger.

  But Lord Ralf didn’t seem to hear her. He was staring at her, his face pale with shock. And something more, something that made his mouth curl, and his eyes gleam. Could it be satisfaction? He stepped forward softly, forcing her to retreat back, her eyes narrowing.

  “You have all the haughtiness of a lady, at least,” he said, and curled his thin lips as he skimmed his eyes down her length and back again. “But when you speak, you give away your true origins.”

  Her eyes narrowed to mere slits, and flickered to Richard. He was watching her now, but cold and still as a statue.

  “I have work for you, girl,” Lord Ralf said impatiently. The golden eyes shone briefly, as though something had amused him. “In the autumn, I am to travel west, to visit the home of Sir Piers de Brusac. You will come with me. Before we leave, you will learn to pretend to be a woman of breeding.” He glanced at Richard, and laughed. “Can it be done, my friend? To turn her into a lady inwardly as well as outwardly? We have only five weeks...”

  Richard came forward now, spurs jingling, and viewed her with cold blue eyes. “She is clever enough for it. I think she could be a mimic, my lord—a little parrot.”

  Lord Ralf snorted, and turned back to Kathryn with some distaste. “If you fail to learn, girl, you will be punished.”

  Kathryn stared at him as if she had swallowed her tongue.

  “Do you understand me?” He turned again to Richard, “She’s not wanting in her wits, is she?”

  “I understand, my lord,” she whispered, throat aching.

  The golden eyes grew hard. “Lady Wenna will teach you all she can. You will obey her in all things, as you would me. If you disobey her, or me, or Richard, if you are wicked, girl, you will be whipped. Do you understand that?”

  Her eyes dipped to hide a furious gleam of anger. “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow morning, you will begin.”

  He turned away, as if eager to be gone from an unpleasant duty, but paused with his hand on the door. “Richard, I leave this to you. Don’t fail me.” There was a command in the words, and perhaps the hint of a threat.

  Richard bowed his head. The door closed. Kathryn turned to look at him, her eyes reflecting the last light from the window. “I don’t understand it.”

  “Think of it as a game,” he said, in a clipped, cold voice. “A game to show us how clever you are.”

  “But it makes no sense!”

  “Kathryn, do as you are bid.” He reached out and gripped her shoulders, giving her a little shake. “And don’t annoy Wenna. Practice being humble, even if you’re not.”

  “Richard!” Lord Ralf”s voice, impatient to be gone.

  A flicker of something, perhaps irritation, passed over his handsome features. He released her, sketched a bow, and was gone. She sat down suddenly, staring at the closed door, the last of the sunshine warming her neck. What did it mean? Kathryn, to learn to be a lady so that she could visit some lord’s castle in autumn? And why should Lord Ralf go so white when he saw her? It made no sense. But her heart still swelled a little at the thought. Childhood dreams, it seemed, were not quite so impossible after all.

  Shadows came crowding closer, and suddenly Kathryn realized she was weary. For the first time since her arrival in the room she allowed herself the luxury of examining her surroundings. A table of heavy, plainly carved wood, a stool, a chest, more intricately patterned, with a bolt and, by the far wall, a narrow wooden frame upon which lay a straw-stuffed pallet and a number of coverings. It was better than anything she had been asked to sleep on before, and for a moment she wondered if she dare. But her eyelids were drooping, and she was cold, and it looked so soft and comfortable. And if she was to be a lady, she had better get used to a lady’s ways!

  She woke with wonder at the strange silence of her room. Where was Grisel and her noisy brood, where was Snuff and his coughing? Everything seemed wonderfully still, and she rose, huddling her arms about herself in the soft gown, and went to the window.

  The woods lay misted and still, and the sky was turning to rose before the birthing of a new day. She was at Pristine, locked in one of the high towers. She was a prisoner.

  The sun had already risen well over the trees when the bolts on the door drew back and a page came with food to break the fast. Kathryn pounced upon it ravenously, and had already begun cramming the food into her mouth when she realized another woman had come in and was silently watching, scorn curling her finely drawn lips.

  A fair woman, abundant hair plaited under her headpiece. A smooth round face with pink mouth and deep grey eyes under arching brown brows. She wore a fine woollen gown, a brooch adorning her bodice, and her fingers were heavily ringed. She was, Kathryn thought, the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. And the most disdainful.

  “I am Lady Wenna,” she said, in a high, clipped voice. “I am come to teach you to be a... highborn lady.” She sounded scornful, as well as looked it. “We will begin with your eating habits. You will not eat with both your hands. One will suffice. And you will eat with delicacy!”

  For a moment Kathryn was tempted to throw the lot on the floor, despite her growing awe of the other woman. Perhaps Wenna saw it, because she said shrewdly, “Lord Ralf tells me you will be obedient. If you are not I am to have you whipped.”

  Kathryn’s bottom lip stuck out. “My sister will worry for me.”

  “Your sister has been informed of your stay here.”

  “And should that not cause her worry!”

  Lady Wenna smiled faintly, “By all accounts she raised thanks to heaven at your good fortune.” She came forward gracefully, her skirts sweeping the floor. “Eat as I’ve told you,” she said coldly. “Or you will be punished.”

  With a sigh, Kathryn began.

  After that, there was not a moment when she was not being instructed upon that, or told about this. Her head reeled. She must do this and do it again and again, until she longed to drop. She must watch that, until she too could do it as well.

  Feeding the pig, and threshing, were as nothing to this hard work. The hours fled by, and her head ached with remembering and repeating. When darkness came, she had barely the strength to stay awake long enough to eat, and when sleep came it was the sleep of sheer exhaustion. Weariness and confusion curbed her usual spirit of rebellion. Curiosity too, and the wonder of everything, helped to keep her from wondering what it was for. She was humble, as Richard had bade her.

  She learned to eat, and then how to dress and how to walk. And how to speak, softening her country dialect, and instilling a little preciseness into each word. She copied Wenna like a parrot, until her pronunciation, if not her voice, was of a likeness. Her head ached, and when she forgot to do her task perfectly, Wenna informed her she was hopeless.

  “A peasant!” she cried, throwing up her long, white hands. “How can I change that?”

  “I don’t want to be changed,” Kathryn retorted angrily. “I want to go home.”

  A laugh for that, a bitter twist of those fine, pink lips. “My lor
d commands you to stay, and as you are his property, girl, you will stay.” They glared at each other, their hatred a tangible thing.

  “Home to your pig, Kathryn?”

  The two women looked up. Richard stood by the door, blue eyes mocking.

  “Richard,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Oh Richard, I don’t want to learn anymore.”

  Wenna’s hand came out like a snake striking, and landed on her cheek. Kathryn stared in amazement, and the grey eyes drew close, dark with fury. “How dare you speak so to a knight! He is Sir Richard Tremaine, or my lord. Do you hear me, girl!”

  Tears welled up and slid down her aching cheek. Wenna threw her hands up again, turning to Sir Richard. “What can I do with her? She is a fool.”

  He laughed, mocking again, and the laughter pierced Kathryn’s hurt like steel. He lifted Wenna’s hand to his lips, kissing it as a lover might. “You will manage it, sweeting, if anyone can.”

  She sighed, and preened herself a little before his gaze. Then, brightening, “What do you here?”

  “I’ve come to offer my services for an hour or two. My lord Ralf dislikes you having to work so hard.”

  The carefully plucked brows lifted. “You could help with her conversation, mayhap. She refuses to converse with me. And dancing too, if you can abide the thought of her mashing your toes, Richard.”

  He bowed slightly, “I am at your mercy, my lady.”

  Kathryn wiped her eyes furiously and stared out of the window at the garden below. Herbs grew in neat rows, flowers bloomed and bees hummed. She longed suddenly for the cool greenery, the scent of fresh air. She longed to be away from the imprisoning bustle and clatter of Pristine manor.

  “The day is a fine one, is it not?” Sir Richard asked her, seating himself beside her. She stared resentfully forward, her lip stuck out like a sulky child, the tears still clinging to her lashes.

  “Who would think the weather should hold so long? In London, I’m told, it rains continually. The King roams about like a caged lion, mane flowing. I don’t suppose you’ve been to London, or even five miles beyond Pristine. I suppose you know nothing of the wars brewing beyond our narrow channel? The French King dislikes ours, and I cannot find it in my heart to blame him, when Henry has stolen his Queen Eleanor.”