My Lady Imposter Read online

  “I have lost nothing. No thanks to your efforts!”

  His hand snaked out and caught her shoulder. Before she knew it, his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. She fell back under, his kiss, unable to fight him, her head spinning. “I did not try so hard as I might have,” he whispered, harsh with mockery. “I had a mind to, before Ralf brought you here. I meant in truth to have you, and to teach you my own lessons. But not now, Kathryn. You are altered. I do not want you.” He turned and strode away. She rose, legs shaking and cried out: “You arrogant fool! I hate you. I would have spat in your face!”

  But her words sounded mournful in the wind, and fresh tears blurred her eyes. Oh, why did she too wish that things were still so simple!

  They set out early, as the crisp air was warming, and the woods and the road shone with a chill sheen. Kathryn had never ridden so far in her life, and found it uncomfortable and painful. Her mount was quiet enough, but seemed always to be going up when she was coming down or vice versa. She clung on with tense fingers, afraid any moment of falling off into the dust.

  Lord Ralf rode ahead with the men-at-arms and the knights, while at the other end of the train were the baggage carts rumbling and rattling with their load of baggage, food and servants.

  Kathryn smoothed her mantle over her thigh, feeling the soft cloth with pleasure. Beneath it, her gown was again of soft green, while a thick cloak covered her from head to foot. Lord Ralf’s glance at her, when she had been brought down into the castle yard, was encouraging. He seemed pleased with her downcast eyes and gentle manners, pleased with her subdued smile. Wenna must come too, of course.

  “As your attendant, my Lady Kathryn,” Ralf said, and watched her color fade, while Wenna’s flushed up into a bright pink. But whatever might have been said was lost in the impatient jostling of the horses. They must be on their way.

  It was a beautiful, clear morning after all, Kathryn decided, lifting her face to the sunshine. And they were off into the unknown, already miles further from Pristine than she had ever been or thought to go. And never had she imagined she would be upon a dappled mare, like a lady, with such finery, and so many strong, hard-looking men to protect her dainty person. It thrilled her, and frightened her, all at the same time.

  She stared defiantly at the sun. If she was to play at being a noblewoman, then she would play it well! She was no longer a peasant, it seemed. She would be Sir Ralf’s pawn in this confusing game of loyalties and politics, and when it was over she would, perhaps, find some niche for herself at de Brusac, or perhaps employment as a lady’s maid in some middling household. Already she knew how to dress hair to the best effect, and how to sew and read a little. She must use her newly learnt accomplishments as assets, and being quick witted she would soon learn more.

  The idea cheered her flagging spirits. Yes, she would do that. There was no need to fear poverty and destitution. No need to remember what it had been like with Grisel, and how Snuff had failed to recognize her.

  They rode west through woods, and her mind drifted back to the day of the blackberries, and what her greed had brought her to. But after a time weariness intruded, and her aching bones demanded she stop and rest them. She lost interest in the shifting terrain. The fields and hills and forests, the grey forbidding walls of manors and estates, the wooden, tumbledown cottages and smoky villages of the peasants, the smells of roasting meat from the hostelries along the way.

  There were travelers other than themselves. Men and women with produce to sell, laborers seeking employment, serfs with their subservient scrapings, pilgrims in rags with staffs and white faces. None of it mattered before the ache in her own body. She longed suddenly for Grisel. The memory of that scolding face was so sharp that the tears pricked her eyes, and she bowed her head and bit her lip to prevent them spilling over. She must not show weakness... how the nobility scorned weakness! Her chin rose again, sharply, and she saw that Lord Ralf had ridden down to speak with Wenna. Their heads were bent close together.

  She had been his mistress for years now, Kathryn knew. She had heard gossip enough, even secluded as she had been. Wenna had been the daughter of an impoverished nobleman, a Saxon. How they had met she did not know, but the fact that Wenna had won Lord Ralf and kept him so long must be a triumph. He seemed a man not content with anything or anyone for long at a time.

  “Why so solemn?” a deep voice mocked harshly at her side.

  She turned so sharply her neck hurt her, and found blue eyes close to hers. She looked away as swiftly, as his eyebrow quirked. But her fear, confused feelings of hatred and misery must have been plain to him. She had been trying so hard all day not to think of him or the hurtful things he had said to her on their last meeting that the strain had wearied her defenses.

  “What?” he murmured. “No reply?” There was a note in his voice she had not heard before. A hard, cutting note. “Well, ‘tis not such a bad thing to be silent. The less you say at de Brusac, the better.”

  “Is it far?” she demanded, as coldly as she dared.

  He turned to look at the road before them, across the moving backs of men and horses. “Some days yet,” he said at last. “We are to rest this night at a nunnery.”

  She wondered at the sarcasm in his voice. There was a pause while she considered whether she should make the request that hovered on her tongue... “Could I not ride in one of the carts for a time?”

  She saw at once, by his astonished look, that she should have left the words unsaid. “On a cart?” he breathed. And then, savagely, “Only a peasant would think of riding on a cart! What are you?”

  She swallowed, bowing her head. “I am the daughter of Lady Alys de Brusac.”

  “Remember it,” he said brusquely, and wheeled away.

  He despised her, she thought, as much as she hated him. But she gritted her teeth and took up the reins again, kicking her mare back into its jolting canter.

  The hospice was beyond a bustling town. However, the streets were quiet enough by the time they reached it, and the shadows stretched long, while candlelight flickered like phantoms through closed shutters.

  Their horses were stabled and fed, and attendants led them to their quarters. Kathryn slid from her mare gratefully, and it was only as her feet touched the ground that she realized her previous discomfort was as nothing to what she suffered now. Pain laced her flesh like hot needles, and she caught her breath and clung to the mare, trying to bite back her cry.

  A strong arm slid about her waist, holding her with ease as she wavered. “I’m crippled,” she moaned in real terror, and he laughed softly into her ear.

  “You’re unused to riding,” he corrected. “The nuns did not ride in Bristol.”

  She turned and tried to draw away, remembering suddenly how much she loathed him. “What do you know of Bristol or nuns!”

  The blue eyes chilled. “Enough, my lady. I know everything Lord Ralf has told you. Those men he does not trust he has left behind him at Pristine.” He moved impatiently, gathering her in against him, with one arm about her waist while his other hand cupped her elbow in a firm grip. “Come!”

  Her legs could not resist. She let him lead her across the cobbled yard, towards a lighted doorway. Beyond lay a small, sparsely furnished room, and though there was a fire its heat did not reach them.

  He was gazing into the room, his profile to her, and she saw suddenly how grim it was. His hair seemed darker, with dust, and a strand hung limp over his forehead. As if sensing her gaze, he turned. The blue eyes shone with a grim mockery, and then he had released her, retaining only her hand to bow over in the approved manner. His lips did not touch it, as he murmured, “Goodnight.”

  Kathryn watched him stride away, her heart beating unpleasantly fast. She did not hear Wenna come up until the woman pinched her arm and demanded she follow the two nuns to an even smaller room.

  Here, there was a pallet bed and some food on a trencher, as well as two smoking candles. “Do not linger in doorways,” Wenna said
sharply, when the nuns had gone. “And do not make sheep’s eyes at Richard Tremaine.”

  Kathryn’s lip drooped sulkily. “I could not stand because of the horse, and he helped me. That is all. I hate him.”

  “Indeed,” but she sniffed and obviously did not believe it. “You’d do better to refuse any help from him altogether. He is as far above you as the moon and stars. He may think you amusing, at the moment, like a child with a puppy. But puppies become tiresome. He will be bored with you soon enough, and return to more adult pursuits.”

  Kathryn didn’t reply, and after a moment Wenna turned to her food. With a sigh, Kathryn followed her lead. It was plain but tasty, and she ate in the delicate, fastidious manner Wenna had taught her. What the girl had said was true enough. Richard had been amused by her, and now he no longer was. He had said he meant to make her his mistress, before Ralf brought her to Pristine. But now she was no longer naive and willing he wanted nothing to do with her. Would she ever have agreed to it? Her denial was violent, and she closed her mind against the niggling doubts that mocked her for a hypocrite.

  The pallet was hard, but better than Grisel’s, and Kathryn slept well. It was almost like being at home again. The crying of the cock at dawn, the lowing of cattle and snuffling of pigs. She lay half-waking, expecting any moment to hear her sister calling to her. It was a rude shock when Wenna ripped back the single blanket and said, “Get up, girl! We must be on our way.”

  It was agony to move. Her limbs creaked and groaned like an old water-wheel. And it was with great difficulty she stood up, under those cold, grey, unsympathetic eyes. “I cannot ride,” she whispered.

  “You will ride. A lady never complains of pain.”

  “I will fall off!”

  “Then you will fall off.” The fine mouth curled. “Do you think I do not ache, girl? You are a fool. A lady should never complain of physical discomfort—it is a weakness.”

  Kathryn was silenced. If Wenna could pretend, then so could she. She dressed, gingerly, but without further complaint. Wenna’s serving girl dressed her hair and helped her with her cloak. The girl had not yet shown any kindness to Kathryn and, by the look of her thin mouth, never would. She would find no friends in Wenna’s camp.

  The horses were waiting when the women made their way outside into the cloudy morning. Her own mare was standing docilely enough, but she approached it warily and it was only as she actually put her hand out that her heart failed her. She began to turn, ready to concede defeat, but never had a chance to utter the words.

  Richard was behind her and, as she turned, offered his joined fingers for her slippered foot.

  She hesitated, and he said wryly, “The pain will fade in a mile or two. You may not think it now, but it will.”

  “Pain?” she demanded haughtily. “What pain? I was merely wondering if I had left anything behind.”

  “My pardon,” he murmured, and yet his eyes mocked her. She gave him her foot with ill humor, and he tossed her lightly into the saddle, tucking her skirts about her, while she glared over his head. She nodded curtly as he stepped back, as though he were some lackey rather than a knight.

  “You learn quickly,” he said, suddenly cool. “You begin to sound like as highborn a bitch as the women at court.”

  “Richard!” Ralf was calling, controlling his jibbing mount with an easy touch. “Come here, man.”

  He turned and was gone. Like, Kathryn thought sarcastically, a falcon to its master’s hand. She sat alone, gazing about her at the bustling horses and men, his cold words still ringing in her ears.

  The aches in her body did grow less painful after a time, but every jolt was still a small death, and she told herself over and over again that, after this journey, she never wished to set eyes on another horse, let alone sit on one.

  The countryside was growing more hilly now. They stopped again at Winchester, where Ralf had a house, and she looked in wonder upon the fine churches and holy men who congregated. Wenna kept a close watch on her, and she was confined to prayer after supper, while the men went out to make merry.

  “Men must take their pleasure,” Wenna said coldly, in answer to Kathryn’s complaint. “We may not question nor deny them.”

  “And cannot they take their pleasure at home?”

  Wenna laughed derisively, but there was also bitterness in her voice. “At home, girl? Home is a duty, not a pleasure, for most men.”

  Outside, the yard was quiet now, apart from the occasional snort of a horse. Kathryn was asleep when the shouting and the laughter came, muted through the muffled strains of a bawdy song, rising intermittently above the jingle of swords and harness. She heard footsteps in the room next to hers, where Wenna slept, and Ralf’s rumbling voice, and sat up, wide-eyed, staring about her in the darkness.

  Were they being attacked? The stone floor was cold on her bare feet as she crept to the door and peeped out. Downstairs, in the hall, candlelight flickered, throwing shadows on the stairwell. A man, climbing them, fell and there was a howl of laughter. A girl’s voice was scolding, while another giggled coquettishly.

  Kathryn’s mouth dropped. So these were their pleasures! To come home drunk and foolish, with loose women! She returned to her bed in disgust. There was little difference after all between the peasants and the nobility. Why had she ever thought them so high above her?

  They left Winchester the next morning, with the sun high up. The men were pale faced, with bleary eyes and aching heads. Ralf scowled at her, and growled out orders. Richard climbed carefully upon his mount, and stared ahead of him with an overly straight back. Kathryn watched them with amused disgust.

  They stopped at a hospice the following night, and set out much earlier. The countryside was much more wooded now, and the clouds of the morning grew heavier, threatening them with rain in the sultry, still air. Kathryn was damp with perspiration beneath her thick clothing, and rode with a bowed head, hardly aware of her surroundings.

  It was a shock when the cry went up, and her head jerked upwards as her heart went chill with dread. A dozen or more men, just ahead of the main party, came swarming down from the trees and the hillside, and fell upon the unwary travelers.

  Kathryn pulled back on her mare’s reins so suddenly it half reared, dancing sideways across the narrow road. The outlaws dragged some men from their saddles, others hacked with blades and axes. The air rang thickly with the clamor, the cries and groans and clangs, and the sudden high-pitched scream of a wounded horse. From away to her left, Kathryn heard Wenna’s voice calling out to Lord Ralf, and then a face appeared at her saddle bow.

  A beard peppered with filth, a grimy face ragged about the edges with matted hair. The glint of steel caught her eye, and she felt him clutch hold of her skirts. Her instinct for survival sliced through the chains of fear. She slashed down with her whip, and a weal of red stood out on one dirty cheek.

  The outlaw reeled back, but only momentarily. His eyes went flat and dead, and he came for her again. She brought the riding crop down but he snatched it from her, and lifted his knife. She screamed, and threw her hands up over her face. She was still screaming when a strong arm closed about her waist and lifted her clear of the saddle. She felt another horse beneath her, and a strong, warm body against her own, and thinking it another brigand she began to struggle in earnest.

  A voice said sharply in her ear, “Be still, Kathryn!”

  She lifted her eyes to Richard’s grim face, dusty and grimy with sweat. There was a gash on his cheek, bleeding sluggishly. “The brigand—” she began.

  “Is dead.”

  He wheeled his mount around, and she clung fast to his shoulders, pressing against his tunic as the muscles beneath corded with the strain of controlling the terrified animal. Peeping up, she could see the rest of the party closing into a tight-knit group, fighting men to the outside, women and the baggage animals to the centre. Wenna was there, with Ralf himself busy slashing at two brigands with one sword. Many more lay bloody upon the ground. On
e of his own men also lay still, a horse standing, head downbent, beside him.

  “We should have been prepared,” Richard murmured above her head, and his arm tightened about her, making her catch her breath in a rush. He sounded angry. She glanced uncertainly up at his face, and found his mouth and eyes hard, the bloody cheek standing out like a brand against his pallor.

  “This is de Brusac land,” he added, looking down at her. “We thought here, at least, to be safe.”

  Lord Ralf had dispatched one more of the brigands and the other ran off towards the forest, Ralf behind him. There seemed to be a great deal of blood. An arm lay neatly severed some feet away from them, and Kathryn felt her head begin to spin.

  “Wenna is beckoning us,” his voice said, and she took a breath.

  “My horse...”

  “Is unharmed, and waiting.” There was a flicker of mockery about his taut mouth. “Did you hope it had fled?”

  She closed her own mouth with a snap. Wenna was looking a little pale, but her voice was steady enough when they reached her. “You are hurt, Richard.”

  He wiped the blood from his cheek with a smile. “No more than a scratch, Wenna.”

  Wenna frowned, but whether at the wound or his use of her name so freely, Kathryn didn’t know. She didn’t have time to ponder it, however. Her mare had been brought across, and Richard lifted her back into the saddle. She murmured her thank you with ill-grace, and settled herself once more to make the best of an uncomfortable ride.

  He nodded briefly, and turned back to Wenna. They spoke a moment in soft voices, and then Lord Ralf came galloping up, flushed and breathing swiftly. His boots were splattered with blood.

  “Geoffrey’s dead,” he said, without seeming emotion. “We’ll take the body on to de Brusac, the castle is not far now. No use in leaving it here for those vultures. I thought Piers would have had his land clear of brigands by now. But mayhap he’s too ill to care.”