My Lady Imposter Read online

  She bit her lip, stopping sudden tears. He was offering her his loyalty. Her alone. He had seen straight through Lord Ralf s falsity to the heart of the matter. He was her man, and would protect her and stand by her.

  “I thank you for your allegiance,” she murmured, and held out her hand. “But I ask for something more, Sir Damien. I ask for your friendship.”

  He looked at her a long moment, and then he bent and kissed the ring Richard had placed upon her finger—the de Brusac ring which they had removed from Sir Piers’ cold hand.

  “I give it gladly, and will take from you, in return, all burdens you wish to place upon my shoulders. And I swear to protect you and yours until death, my lady.”

  “Kathryn.”

  They both looked up guiltily. Richard surveyed her with amused blue eyes. “Come and dance, my love,” he said, and held out his hand. She could do nothing but accept, and rose gracefully. She dared not look back at Sir Damien, in case something in her face gave them away.

  “What were you discussing with your worthy mercenary?” Richard murmured, as the dance drew them together.

  “He was speaking of Sir Piers.”

  “Was he indeed?” Richard’s mouth went hard. “You would do well not to lie to me, Kathryn. I wish to know all your doings.”

  She blinked at him, feigning stupidity. His mouth went even harder.

  “The man is a murderer. Did you know that? I thought not. He killed his opponent in a joust, a boy not more than sixteen, through foul means. His lands were taken, and he now must earn his living as a mercenary. Such men are best not trusted.”

  “I... I feel pity for him. To have taken all he owned was punishment enough.”

  Richard laughed, “You have a soft heart.”

  He made it sound a fault, and she was almost glad when the dance was over, and Wenna came to take her away to undress for bed. It was Piers’ room, all freshened and cleaned, with candles making a halo about the canopied bed. She thought of the old man lying there, dying there, and shivered. But there was no time for such thoughts. She must undress and be washed and scented, and then redressed in a silken white nightgown, her hair brushed out over her shoulders in a black veil, shimmering in the candlelight.

  Wenna glanced over her and nodded. “Well enough,” she said. “You are as good as could be expected with such raw material.” Her grey eyes were cold. “You will be obedient to Sir Richard, whatever he demands of you, girl. Do you hear me!”

  Kathryn stuck out her lip and turned away. Emma, smoothing a truant lock of hair, smiled and patted her arm. Her whisper was for Kathryn alone, “Do not be afraid, my lady. All will be well.”

  And then the room had resounded with voices and men, and there was Lord Ralf and Richard, the former bellowing his drunken laughter. They all seemed more than a little inebriated, and Kathryn shrank back fearfully. But Wenna pushed her scornfully towards the bride bed, and as suddenly as they had come, the men had gone... except for Richard.

  He was breathless, his face flushed with laughter and the wine, looking splendid in a red robe, his hair like gold.

  “Don’t pout, Kathryn. It cannot be helped. We are both merely pawns for the larger pieces on the board.”

  “You could have said no!”

  “And leave you to some other knight of Ralf s fancy?” His eyes narrowed. “Why should I bother? You had to wed someone, and it was better me.”

  She turned her back, straightening her shoulders. After a moment his hands rested on her shoulders. He had come up so silently his touch made her jump. “Come,” he said, soft and soothing. “I will not hurt you.” And then, sharply, “Kathryn!”

  She turned to look up, obedient to the command, and his mouth came down on hers. Panic struck her like an arrow, but he held her and after a moment the beating of her hands and heart stilled. His lips brushed her cheek, her jaw, her throat. His fingers curled in her hair. She felt weak, liquid as syrup, and swayed against him.

  “My lord,” her voice was breathless and shaking. “I am aware of how distasteful this union must be to you. Mayhap we could dispense with this part of it... please.” On the last word her voice broke.

  He lifted his head to stare at her in surprise. “My name is Richard. Use it. I will not slap your face for calling me what I was christened. And as for the rest...” he shrugged indifferently. “If you wish it, we will dispense with... this side of it, as you refer to marital union.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Richard.”

  “However,” he said, “as Ralf will expect otherwise, I think I will sleep on the maid’s pallet. Or do you offer me the bed?”

  The blue eyes were cold and angry. She bit her lip and said nothing, afraid he would change his mind, or perhaps beat her. But he did neither, merely turned away to the truckle bed against the wall. She began to breathe again, only to stop when he turned, fumbling with his robe.

  “I have something for you. Here!”

  A piece of parchment, sealed with Lord Ralf’s ring. She picked it up from where he had thrown if on the bed, frowning in puzzlement. “What does it mean?”

  The candlelight caught in his eyes as he laughed, making her long to cower. “It releases you, Kathryn, from your bondage. You are a free woman, no longer a serf. Lord Ralf has released you.”

  He turned his back then, and began to snuff the candles in a brisk, purposeful manner, and when it was completely dark lay down and went to sleep. She also lay down, stiff and wide-eyed. He had given her her freedom, and she had not even thanked him for it. She stared into the darkness and wished, humiliating as it was, that he had not given up so quickly, that he had continued to kiss her and hold her. Oh, how she wished...

  She woke drowsily. The sunlight warmed her face and she lay a moment, content not to think. The pallet was empty, the blankets tossed onto the floor. She stirred then, looking about the room carefully, but there was no sign of him. The curtain to the dressing room had been pulled across, and, as she sat up, pushing her hair from her eyes, she became aware of low voices.

  The cold floor made her toes curl, but she crossed over, intending to ask if he wished to eat in here or in the hall. Ralf’s voice stopped her. “As her husband, de Brusac should be yours, Richard. If that cursed old man had not written that clause into his will... but it is done and can’t be undone. At least, not while the King sits on our English throne. The blasted priest sent word to him, a copy of the will.”

  “I can see that it will be difficult,” Richard sounded somber, thoughtful.

  “But once we have him toppled, then we shall see about de Brusac. Your wife will be better dead when that time comes, Richard. I want you to be prepared for that.”

  “I’m prepared for it, my lord.”

  Ralf laughed, as if the clipped, loyal response amused him. “What, no entreaties, Richard? By God you’re a cold one! Only married a night and the girl such a beauty.” He laughed again. “I’d have wed her myself, but for Wenna.”

  “I feel entreaties to be pointless, my lord.” She could hear the smile in his voice, above the throbbing of her heart. “The strategy you’ve planned calls for her death, therefore she must die.”

  “But not yet, my friend. The time is not yet ripe.”

  Ralf moved as he spoke. Kathryn heard wine being poured.

  “And, when it is, you will find a way to make it look as if it were an accident. We cannot have blood on our hands if it can be helped. The new rulers of England should be above such stains as murder.”

  She found the strength to move back, the silk nightgown cold against her bare legs. Was it only hours since, that he had lain feet away, in this room? Was it this same man, who now plotted her death? She felt sick, and stumbled to the window to stare out. The bright, sunny morning mocked her.

  After a moment she heard the rustle of the curtain being thrust aside, and Richard said, “You are awake,” his voice cautious.

  Her fingers clenched on the stone embrasure and she took a breath, praying
silently for strength. He mustn’t know; the longer she could prevent him from knowing, the safer she must be. If he guessed, for one moment, she had overheard, he would kill her at once.

  “Ralf is ready to leave. Wenna goes with him, of course.”

  He had come up behind her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, and forced her voice out, light and almost gay, “Of course.” And then, “Why doesn’t he wed her?”

  He laughed softly. “Wed a Saxon?”

  “You did.”

  She felt his hands stiffen on her, hurting. After a moment he said, “But the case is entirely different, my love.”

  Different, she thought. Oh yes! This Saxon wife would not live long enough to be an embarrassment, Once Ralf had begun his rebellion. No one but Ralf and Wenna knew that this wife was tainted with peasant blood. She bit her lips to redden them and detract from the pallor of her face, before turning to him.

  “We must bid them farewell, Richard, if they are leaving. I must dress.”

  He released her without protest, and she hurried to the bonded trunk against the wall, tossing back the heavy lid. Clothes lay within, neatly folded between layers of perfuming petals. As she bent, seeking blindly for the gown, her mind turned over furiously. She would not sit back and let them kill her, she would not! When the time was ready for them, she would also be ready. She would build herself such defenses, they would never tumble them down!

  “I’m sending some of the men-at-arms, to protect them to Pristine,” he said, after a moment. He was brisk again, the man she remembered from the battle. “Then will be time enough to rid ourselves of the brigands.”

  “As you say, my lord.”

  She found the gown and shook it out, the soft folds wafting perfume. “What is this?” he demanded, mockery stinging in his voice. “As you say, my lord! Are you sickening, Kathryn?”

  “I thought duty was expected of wives.”

  He laughed. “Come kiss me then, if you’ve a mind to be dutiful.”

  Her fingers trembled and she clenched them. After a moment she turned to face him. He was smiling a little, daring her, commanding her. She had no choice, if she were to lull him into suspecting nothing from her but obedience.

  “Can you kiss me?” he breathed, mocking. “I think you are not at all dutiful, Kathryn.”

  The gown slid to the floor. She stretched up, her eyelashes lying dark against her cheeks, and felt his breath warm her lips. The kiss was light, but he held her closer, and despite fear and hatred, she felt her body comply. Her head spun, and she gasped as he left her lips for her bosom, holding her captive back over his arm.

  “Kathryn,” he whispered. “If you weren’t such a frightened child, I would have you here and now, and then we would make such a pair... Ralf would tremble.”

  The curtains behind them rustled. Emma, arriving unsuspecting upon Ralf’s orders, squealed and spun about. Kathryn broke away from him, her hands shaking as she pulled her nightgown back into some order. “I—I must dress. Really, I must.”

  He was frowning, but after a moment he shrugged and turned abruptly on his heel. When he had gone, she sat down heavily onto the trunk and buried her face in her hands. Her entire body was atremble with emotions she dared not analyze. It took a long moment for her breath to steady and her heartbeat to slow.

  What was it he said? Together we would make such a pair that Ralf would tremble. What did it mean? What could it mean? She shook her head wearily. She would not dwell on it. She would dismiss it and concentrate upon her own future.

  Wenna’s blue veil fluttered in the wind, brushing her soft skin. Ralf held his mount as it stamped and snorted impatiently. About them the walls of de Brusac soared grey to the blue sky. The cavalcade of men, heavily armed mercenaries among them, stretched back towards the drawbridge. A mule near one of the laden carts began to sound its displeasure at the delay.

  “I trust you to make de Brusac safe for us,” Ralf said, golden eyes cool and intent on Richard.

  Richard bowed his head. “My lord.”

  Wenna held out her hand, a smile twisting her pink mouth. “God keep you, Richard, until we meet again.”

  He brushed the fingers with his lips. Kathryn saw the girl quiver and lower her eyes as she withdrew her hand. She had noticed before the woman’s partiality for Richard and wondered briefly if the feeling were returned.

  “Kathryn.” Ralf was smiling down at her, but it was a cold smile, and she stared up at him proudly, hating him. He meant to dispatch her with no more emotion than he would kill a rabbit. He read something of her feelings and laughed. “Sweet Lady de Brusac. Your eyes are very expressive. Take care your tongue,” and he leaned closer to foil listening ears, “is not so free. Richard will be listening, and he will be my proxy.”

  She curtseyed, very low, mocking him. Wenna took a sharp breath, but bit her lip on whatever words she meant to utter. And then they had turned, and there was a great boom and rattle as the party moved off over the drawbridge. They yard was alive with men and movement, the horses” hooves struck fire on stone and wood. Kathryn covered her ears, and, stepped back from the clouds of dust-laden air. Richard shouted something to the men on the wall. The drawbridge was raised again.

  “My lady.”

  Sir Damien had come up behind her unheard, and she spun around in surprise. The man bowed.

  “What is it?”

  “The priest wishes to speak with you, lady.”

  Richard had heard, and moved his hand impatiently. “There is no time for that now, man. Tell the priest he must await our pleasure.”

  He turned his back arrogantly, and did not see the cold, furious glint in the other man’s eye. Kathryn shivered, and her smile to Damien was as apologetic as her voice. “It is as my husband says. Thank you for bringing me word of it, however.”

  Some of the stiffness went out of the mercenary’s bearing. He bowed and went away.

  “Perhaps I should see the priest after all,” she said after a moment, but Richard snorted.

  “You have a peasant’s awe of holy men, my love. The priest will be wanting his chapel glorified, and you have not the funds to waste upon such vanities. We need all our treasures to make de Brusac the iron fortress it used to be. We need arms, we need workmen and supplies, and we need more soldiers to patrol our forests and our lands. We have much to do and very little time.”

  “But... are the brigands so dangerous?”

  He mocked her ignorance with his smile. “Set your women to cleaning the castle, my lady, from top to bottom. The place is filthy. If they are tardy tell me and I will see them whipped.”

  His eyes were hard, his stance arrogant. He seemed every bit the lord of this manor. She stared back at him a little wonderingly, but was obedient to his command. However, on turning, she paused with one more question. “Does Lord Ralf mean to begin his rebellion so soon, my lord?”

  He looked at her consideringly. “I wish to hear no mention of rebellion from your lips.”

  “But if it is not the brigands you are making us strong against, it must be the King. Lord Ralf wants de Brusac to be his stronghold. Is that not so?”

  It was so, but the words did not seem to please him. He frowned at her darkly, his eyes cold as winter. “You have a keen mind, my love. I wish to hear no more talk of arms or rebellions. Concern yourself with your cleaning women, and leave the war to me.”

  He strode away towards the gatehouse. The wind tossed her skirts as she stared after him, wondering if she had said too much. But it was too late now, and she had needed to know, so that she too could be prepared.

  She set the servants to work. Orders seemed to come naturally to her after all, with all the attendant arrogance of great ladies. And if she wasn’t so confident of running a place as large as de Brusac, the women seemed to know what was expected of them. Walls and floors were scrubbed. Tables were cleaned, new rushes laid. Everything was scoured. In the kitchen, everything was boiled and scrubbed, everything swept clear. Sir Piers had let
his household grow grubby, and now the servants seemed almost ashamed that it had happened, and eager to make everything as it should be. They had given her their loyalty, and that was no transient thing.

  The dark-eyed servant girl, Emma, fussed that Kathryn should be in the midst of the dirt and the work, but she would not listen. De Brusac was hers. She felt it, knew it in her heart. She was not ashamed of dirtying her hands for its sake.

  She found time, during the days of hard work, to slip up onto the walls and gaze out over the countryside. The green forest rose up all around, and the pale stripe of road slid through the dark shadows, away towards the east. It was beautiful.

  There was smoke, a thin trickle of it, in some places, proclaiming village or perhaps brigands. Even further away, larger towns clustered about the shoreline, their people living on the trade from the ships that paused there. Her towns, her villages, her lands.

  The shouts below broke in upon her agreeable thoughts. Richard was shouting orders to a group of mounted men. She watched him, his fair head bright against the dark chain mail. Her face creased in a frown and she sighed. He had taken his own room now, and no longer slept in hers. She was glad of it and yet... her heart ached a little that he should hate her so, even while her pride bade her hate him equally for plotting her death.