My Lady Imposter Read online

  “What eyes,” the old man breathed softly. Lord Ralf, in the background, smiled. Kathryn glanced up at de Brusac suspiciously, but he smiled and said, “Come child. Tell me what you think of being removed from your sheltered cloister-life by my Lord Pristine here?”

  She bit her lip in thought before replying carefully, “I mean no disrespect, my lord...”

  “Feel free to speak as you feel, child.”

  “I did not like it half so much as I like it here.”

  He nodded. “The piousness of such a place is all very well for those with the gift for it, like my daughter, but for those, like yourself, with so much life... I think you have spirit, Kathryn, and it would be a shame to see it quenched by the nunnery. Turn sideways, child, that I may see your profile.”

  She did so, and stood with her head tilted up. There was a long pause, and then the old man sighed. Lord Ralf came hurrying forward, ready with his excuses if something were amiss. But the old man merely said, “She could pass for a de Brusac, my lord... She has the features and the coloring.”

  “But you are not convinced, my lord?”

  The old man’s black eyes were suddenly shrewd. “I will say nothing, not yet. Leave the child with me, Ralf. You hover about like an attendant nurse-maid. She will be quite safe.”

  Lord Ralf paused a moment, but could hardly refuse. Bowing stiffly, he left them.

  Sir Piers met Kathryn’s big eyes with a smile. And yet there was a sparkle in his gaze, a hint of wicked amusement. And suddenly she realized she liked him, very much.

  “Now, child. Tell me about...”he hesitated, while her eyes fixed on his. “Tell me of your journey from Pristine,” he went on smoothly, and if he noted her sigh of relief, he pretended he had not.

  He watched, rather than listened. Watched the play of expressions on her face, the flicker of lashes over her eyes. He seemed content to watch, and when she had done, said: “I am a dying man, child. An old man without an heir. The king is my liege, he will take my lands, and yet he is my deadliest enemy. On my son’s soul, I have sworn to hate him. I have no wish to leave him my de Brusac. I need an heir, to foil him. You will be that heir.”

  She gazed at him, tears swimming in her eyes. “My Lord, I—”

  But he held up his hand. “No. Say nothing. You must say nothing at all. You are my heir, Kathryn. I swear it, and will put it to parchment. The world will and must accept it.”

  She bowed her head over his wrinkled hand, and kissed the heavy ring he wore. “My lord.”

  “Go now. I must rest. I am very old. When I am rested, I will make out the papers declaring you my heir. I have a priest here, who can write them in the proper form. Tell Ralf that, child. And tell him also this...” His eyes slid to her, opaque. “After you are dead, de Brusac will go to your children, your heirs. It will not go to your husband.”

  She went out into the hall, dazed with his words and their meaning, or seeming meaning. They were in the room off the hall, Lord Ralf and Wenna, Sir Richard standing by the hearth. It was he who came to take her hand as she stood in front of them. His hand was warm and strong, and she looked at him in surprise, noting the angry weal upon his cheek.

  “You have not had your hurt tended,” she said. “I shall do it now.”

  “My lady is most condescending,” he murmured, and the laughter in his eyes made her flush.

  “I would do the same for anyone,” she said shortly, and brushed past him to where Lord Ralf stood.

  “Sir Piers says I am his heir,” she said, “and that he will draw up papers tomorrow with the help of the priest.”

  For a moment the golden eyes were lit like sunlight. And then he had turned to Wenna, whose own cold grey eyes were narrowing with pleasure. “We have won, then.”

  “Did he question you?” Wenna asked sharply.

  “Only of our journey from Pristine.”

  They exchanged glances again. Sir Richard’s step sounded behind her. “Mayhap you need not have gone to the trouble of choosing someone with similar coloring after all?”

  “There will be others less careless of questions than Sir Piers,” was the grim reply. “The servants have told me that his mercenaries will be returning shortly, and there is a knight among them, a Sir Damien, who already treats de Brusac as his own.”

  “Then we have only him to deal with,” Richard murmured, and laughed. “We could take him between us like a felled tree.”

  “Aye, we could,” Ralf s smile was affectionate towards the other man. He frowned, “Let the wench see to your cheek, man! I will seek out the priest and see what manner of man he is.”

  He went out, and Wenna, after a single glance, followed.

  “Our sweet Wenna stabs you with her eyes,” Richard murmured at her side, half-amused, half-mocking.

  “She is a whore,” was the cold reply. “I take her of no account.”

  “And you are not?” the eyes still mocked, and yet the mouth was hard. “I have yet to meet a Pristine peasant girl who has not given out her favors to some dolt.”

  The black eyes were so angry for a moment it was as if firelight flickered in them. “Then you have met her!” she hissed. She took a breath, seeking control of her trembling anger, and managed, “Sit down, I will dress your wound.”

  His eyebrows had risen up. “As my lady pleases.”

  Scorn twisted her lips, but she turned to the serving girl and gave her a clipped order. The woman bustled off, and soon returned with water and medicines. Kathryn began to wash the wound with gentle fingers, trying not to think of him as the hateful Richard Tremaine. The fact that his flesh was cool and smelt of leather meant nothing. She rubbed salve onto the already mending wound, frowning as she noted the way his eyes slid down her soft, white throat, where the gown gaped a little over her bosom.

  “It will heal without poisoning now,” she said, and stepped back abruptly with her bowl and towel.

  “Tis not often so great a lady would soil her hands with a common soldier,” he murmured.

  “Spare me your wit!” she burst out, angry and embarrassed by his smile.

  He laughed, and rising suddenly strode towards her so quickly she was unable to retreat. He took the bowl from her hand and placed it on the table at her side. “Where did you learn your skills?”

  She watched him, unable to hide the uneasiness in her gaze. “From my mother, before she died. Not only great ladies know of hurts.” Bitterness there. She bit her lip in dismay at having revealed it to him.

  He put his hand out, his fingers curling into the tendrils of her hair at her shoulder. She felt herself drawn closer, and, bemused, came up against his hard chest. He stooped, setting his lips against the soft flesh of her cheek, in the shadows near her jaw. “Thank you,” he breathed, stirring her hair with his breath, and drew back. The blue eyes still mocked, but there was something else in them, something which made her being ache in the region of her heart. The meeting of their eyes lasted fully ten seconds, while his blue gaze tangled with her black.

  And then she had backed away, mumbling something incomprehensible, and fled from the room and up the winding stairs. She threw herself onto the bed, and lay with her face buried in her arms for a long time, wondering why she felt so elated, and yet so miserable, all at the same time.

  Sir Piers sent for his priest that afternoon, and the papers were duly drawn and signed. He seemed, Kathryn thought, much weaker than before. As if now his mind was settled over his land, he had no longer anything to hold him on the earth. Kathryn sat with him for a short time after it was done, but he did not speak to her and she was almost glad to leave. She had seen death often in her young life, and it was not something she liked to dwell on.

  He lingered on for two more days, and then, on the third day when she came down for the meal, Lord Ralf came and knelt before her, and Wenna came to curtsey. For a moment she stood, straight and stiff, not understanding. And then Ralf said, “Sir Piers has died, Kathryn. You are the Lady de Brusac now.”

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nbsp; The golden eyes gleamed with triumph. He had won his gamble. He led her out into the castle yard with all due pomp and ceremony. She kept her chin high as she spoke. She didn’t know where the words came from. It seemed to her, at the time, that she was but an instrument for them. She faced the upturned faces of the people of de Brusac, and told them how she would make the castle’s heyday come again, how she would dispense justice with fairness and with firmness. She spoke for a moment with the fervor of a true de Brusac, and when she had done, weariness hit her like a stone in a well. She gazed about her with waking eyes, seeing for the first time the effect of her words.

  The servants were listening, most of them were weeping. Lord Ralf’s face, beside her, was aglow with pleasure, Wenna’s was cold with disdain and dislike. Richard was staring at his feet, his fingers playing with the hilt of his sword. Kathryn put her hand to her brow, swaying, and a woman rushed to her with a goblet of wine, muttering words of sadness and hope and love.

  “Kathryn,” Ralf breathed, when the servant had gone. “You have sealed our victory.”

  But her speech had drained her, and his words gave her no pleasure. Instead there was a spark of shame, that he could use her heartfelt words for his own treacherous ends.

  Beside her, Ralf and Richard had begun to whisper. Kathryn felt stifled; de Brusac being hers was suddenly a weight dragging her to her destruction, and she needed to be alone. She had not realized before what being the lady of such a place would mean.

  She ate little, and when Wenna rose to retire was glad to follow her without protest. But it was not to bed after all. She must keep vigil, it seemed, by the old man’s body. She had to sit and kneel and pray and cry, while a withered little priest performed the rites and said prayers for the old man’s soul.

  She remembered little of it. She slept in between the rising and sitting. The murmur of the priest’s voice soothed her fears and doubts. It seemed like a dream.

  When Wenna came in the morning, sharp tongued, to harry her to her bed, she could hardly stand. She slept until afternoon, and woke refreshed and hungry.

  The girl, Emma, brought food, eyes alight as they rested on Kathryn with an emotion she realized, uneasily, was love. Her speech, it seemed, had won her loyalty, but it had also won her the love which was less often its partner. She allowed herself to be reverently dressed, and went down to the hall, still wondering at her conquest.

  The room was crowded. As she hesitated uncertainly upon the stairs, Wenna came hurrying up to her with a whispered, “The mercenaries are returned! Mind your tongue, girl, and don’t gawk!”

  Grim men, tough and warlike. She scanned them, noting the tools of their trade, the swords and axes and daggers. They had seen her too, and silence fell over them like a cloud, as they turned to look at her. Her legs didn’t move. She had the sudden, sharp presentiment that she would not be able to go through with it.

  And then Richard was striding towards her, parting the crush as he came, his spurs striking the stone floor so determinedly, so confidently. “My lady,” he said, his voice loud and clear, and reaching the bottom of the stairs, held out his bare hand.

  She came down lightly, almost running, and her fingers clung to his. He stooped to kiss her hand, and in a whisper said, “They are not so eager as Sir Piers to believe in you. Guard yourself well!” He had straightened almost immediately, and, still retaining her fingers, led her towards one of the men at the forefront.

  Broad shoulders, a face hardened with battle and treacherous work. The man bowed to her only slightly, almost insolently, and his pale eyes scanned her suspiciously.

  “This,” Richard murmured close behind her, “is Sir Damien, your commander-at-arms.”

  “Sir Damien,” she repeated. “I hope you will accept me in my grandfather’s stead.”

  The man bowed again, murmuring some civility, but he was not happy. He had obviously hoped for de Brusac as his own, perhaps he meant to act as proctor for the king, and now she had taken it from under his very nose. He hated her, and she hadn’t the heart to blame him.

  “My lady?” Richard had her hand again, drawing her from this man to that. She kept her smile on her mouth, though she ached to turn and run. But his hand held hers, and for some reason she could not turn coward, with him there so smooth, so seemingly untroubled by the danger.

  When it was done, he led her across the hall and out into the garden. She took a sharp breath of the air, lifting her face to the warmth of the sky. For a time they were silent, and when at last he spoke to her it was without his usual humor.

  “My Lord Ralf fears you cannot be left alone here, Kathryn. Damien is a problem, and must be kept under the thumb. You know nothing of guarding a place like this. You realized, did you not, that you would not be left to rule alone, despite your charming speech of the other evening?”

  She bowed her head and said nothing, the weariness cloaking her once again.

  “Ralf must go to London; the King is there.”

  “Why?” she said, sharper than she meant.

  “To show his loyalty, Kathryn!” The exclamation mocked her.

  “A false loyalty. Why does he show it if he means to rebel?”

  The blue eyes narrowed. “To test the air, to stave off suspicions. You are too curious, lady. Watch your tongue in any other presence but mine. I would dislike my bride to be a mute.”

  She turned and stared at him with her mouth open. He closed it gently with a finger under her chin.

  “No,” she whispered. “You can’t mean it.”

  The dark brows lifted a fraction with pretended concern. “Why not me? Does the fact displease you? I agree the match is not quite... equal. You are so much the higher than I, a mere knight. But needs must, and when I put the point to Ralf he agreed it was imperative you have a strong man by your side to see your orders carried out.”

  She felt her face blanch.

  “Sir Damien needs a watchdog, and de Brusac needs a master beside its lady. Ralf feels I fit both gloves.”

  “And you would not think to disobey him?” she breathed,

  A swift bow, and he kissed her hand. “I do my duty, my lady, nothing more.”

  She jerked her hand away as if stung, and turning, picked up her skirts and ran back towards the castle. He stood looking after, her until she had vanished, an expression on his face which would have puzzled her, had she been able to observe it. And then he, too, made his way back towards the castle.

  Chapter Seven

  “Of course it’s true!” Wenna’s lovely mouth was scornful. “Do you think you would be left here to ruin everything? Richard will rule for Ralf, until the rebellion has been fought and won. You’re to be a mere mannequin.”

  “I see.”

  Wenna’s eyes slid over her, malicious, and Kathryn felt herself go cold. “Did you think it else?” she mocked savagely, “What other reason could Richard have for marrying a peasant? I pity him with all my heart! He might have made a match with the King’s daughter, and been shamed by neither birth nor blood, if his father had not rebelled against Henry Plantagenet... And now he must wed you.”

  There was little to say to that, Kathryn decided, it being nothing but the truth. When Wenna had gone, she sat alone by the window, gazing over the dense woods that surrounded de Brusac, trying to pierce the equal thickness of her future.

  Ralf summoned her at noon. He was flushed with his success and greeted her almost affectionately. “Ah, Kathryn. Richard has told you? The marriage must be made as quickly as may be. Quietly, of course, because of Sir Piers, and the King. The King would insist on being present. But, this way, we can tell him you were married before even you came to de Brusac, hmm? I have made arrangements with the priest. He will do as he is told or we will send him packing.”

  Her throat was dry as she swallowed. “I do not wish to marry him, my lord.”

  He stared at her a moment as if he could not believe what she said, and then his brows came down and he said softly, savagely, “Yo
u had best do as you are bid, Kathryn, or I shall have to punish you. A bride need not necessarily be unmarked to wed. I could have you beaten.” A smile, making his golden eyes burn, “Shall I ask Richard to chastise you?”

  “I am used to beatings,” she retorted.

  A silence, and then he laughed. “What, do you pine for your filthy hovel? Do you really?” When she did not look up he caught her chin and jerked her face up to his handsome, ruthless one. He laughed softly. “No, you do not, do you? You have grown used to the ways of noble people. You are afraid of doing without them now. Well, take care, girl, I do not send you back to your sty. Remember, you are still my serf.”

  The priest, it seemed, was as unwilling as Kathryn. But, like her, his livelihood forced him to go against his conscience. His face, the old face she remembered from the night spent by Sir Piers, was tense with disapproval and his eyes sought hers out in silence. But he spoke the words over them firmly enough, as he performed the ancient ritual of marriage.

  Kathryn answered listlessly. She had no choice, and it seemed that all her spirit had departed from her body. She kept her eyes lowered and her head bowed—like a serf. It was Richard who spoke up, who laughed and toasted her. It was Richard who charmed the old priest into a smile and frowned over the problems the men-at-arms brought to him. It was Richard who was the real ruler of de Brusac.

  “My lady?”

  She had been sitting by the window, and looked up swiftly. Sir Damien frowned at her, his serious face drawn into lines too old for his years. She realized, with a shock, he could not be as old as Richard. She had thought him much older.

  “Sir Damien. Do you enjoy the celebrations? I thought the minstrel very fine.”

  “Aye, he was fine enough, if you enjoy mummers,” he sounded as if such things were too frivolous for him.

  Kathryn smiled and offered him a seat beside her. He sat down rather awkwardly and frowned at the floor between his feet. “My lady,” he said at last, “Sir Piers was my master. He paid me to protect him, and his, every year. If he were to die, it was to my own discretion whether I remained with the new master, or left de Brusac.” He looked at tier with eyes as sharp as daggers; she could not look away. “I am a mercenary, a man who fights for coin. I was a knight, with honor, once. But God saw fit to make it otherwise. I am dishonored.” A shrug. “I will not speak of why it is so, for these things are painful and in the past. But I will say that you remind me of someone in that past, my lady. She was as pretty and sweet as you, and as honest. She too was put upon by evil men. No,” as she went to speak, “I am not a fool, and not blind. I see how it is. You are a pawn in this game, my lady. But I am paid to protect Sir Piers’ heir. I will stay for your sake.”