“That’s not much time.”
“’Twill be a challenge, no doubt, but one that I must undertake.” Gray held out his hand. “Will you begin it for me, Alban?”
His friend clasped him by the forearm, gripping him tight. “You know I will. I’ll get started at first light.”
Gray nodded and looked back toward the clearing and the orange flames winking at them through the wood. “The men have kindled the fire. Come. We can discuss the particulars of your journey later.”
“After we eat, I hope?”
Gray allowed himself a smile. “Aye, Alban. God knows you think better on a full stomach.”
As they made their way back to the clearing with the horses, Gray jested with Alban about the reliable voracity of his appetite. But for all of his apparent calm, he felt a knot of anxiety twisting tight inside his belly. Because he knew that what he learned about Elise in the next few days would likely spell his heart’s salvation—or mark the beginning of its final demise.
Chapter 13
Squinting, Catherine blew a strand of hair from her eyes. Her knees ached from sitting in a cramped position for the past three hours, even though she’d been using the padded weaving mat that had mysteriously appeared in her chamber a few days ago. Worse, her fingers felt as if she’d dipped them in boiling water. But she couldn’t stop now. ’Twas almost done.
There. Slipping the final strand of willow through, she deftly wove it among the other supple rods until it held. Then she pushed herself to her knees on her mat to better survey the finished product.
The chair was her best yet. Its large, curving back was graceful, the arms sturdy looking, but with an intricate woven design along the edges that set it apart from others she’d made. ’Twas a kingly chair, fit for a noble knight or a great leader.
Fit for Gray.
She stood abruptly, gripping the chair’s back as his name resounded through her mind and soul, flooding her with all of the thoughts she’d done her best to keep at bay for the past six days.
Time was running out. Eduard wouldn’t wait forever to take what he wanted. He’d been with King Henry for nearly two months already, and she had a sinking feeling that her luck wouldn’t hold much longer. Soon he’d be breathing down her neck again, demanding that she help him to finish their evil bargain or allow her children to suffer for her inaction.
Her hand tightened on the chair until the long, graining weave imprinted on her already sore fingers. Her skin was stained with tannin from the boiled rods, and her fingertips had long ago gone numb. She’d been weaving night and day, it seemed, since Gray had left for the grand assize. But the simple act of creating had calmed her, as always. Had helped her to think.
Now she knew what she must do, though it was breaking her heart. For as much as she loved Gray, and as much as it would destroy her never to see him again, she had to leave Ravenslock. She could wait no longer to save her children from Eduard.
Her stomach rolled with the thought of what she planned. Rescuing the twins without help was risky at best. Her skills in swordplay were barely enough to carry her through rudimentary drills, not to mention defending herself and the children against Eduard’s trained knights. But with Gray in Cheltenham for God knew how much longer, it was the best she could offer.
Foolish twit, waiting like a lovesick maid for your prince to return. Such nonsense was the stuff of dreams. It never happened in real life. Not for someone like her, anyway. But she’d clung to the fragile hope that Gray might return in time to hear the truth. That she’d somehow manage to keep his love, despite her lies and her sins against him.
It had been a dream built on air, one that had served no purpose but to place her children in more danger.
Silently cursing herself, Catherine blinked back tears. Ian and Isabel needed her, now more than ever, and she’d sat here doing nothing for them. The time had come to act.
Tonight.
Aye, she’d leave tonight. The Punkie Night celebration would be under way by sundown. ’Twas an evening of freedom and wild revels, when the castle gates opened wide for a flood of people descending to the village for the harvest festivities. If she was careful, no one would notice her slipping off onto the dark down the road back to Somerset. They wouldn’t raise the call that she was missing until much later, after she’d made good distance from Ravenslock.
A tingle of fear went through her as the reality of her decision sank home. What would she need to take with her? Her boy’s garments, of course. And her sword. Her jaw tightened at the thought of actually using it on anyone, but she tried to concentrate instead on what else she should gather before sunset. A large, dark cloak to conceal herself. And a swift mount. As much as she hated the thought of adding horse theft to her list of sins against Gray, she’d never reach the twins by morning unless she rode to get to them.
It was settled, then. Yet those things needed to be gathered at the last moment, to minimize the chance of anyone noticing. What provisions could she garner now without raising undue suspicion?
Food.
She’d need as much food as she could carry with her, for both herself and the twins. Enough to last them all for a few days, at least. By then she hoped to have traveled nearer to London, where the three of them could more easily disappear into the crowds and where she might hope to earn even a meager living through her weaving.
After taking a few deep breaths, Catherine poked her head out the door of the weaving chamber and looked around. ’Twas quiet in the corridor. She headed toward the stairs, preparing to sneak down to the larder to fill a sack that she could hide in her room until tonight.
She could hear the sounds of preparation for the Punkie Night festivities increasing as she got closer to the gallery above the great hall. She stopped a few paces shy of the stairway, keeping back in the shadows. From her position near the rail, she could see people scurrying back and forth, scrubbing, cleaning, setting up wooden trestle tables and shaking out linens. They darted about, trying to avoid colliding with servants who were in the process of laying fresh floor rushes sprinkled with herbs.
Several women moved through the confusion, giggling as they pushed a handcart piled high with fat orange pumpkins toward the courtyard door. One of them shrieked and veered around a boy replacing torches; at their movement, a few of the pumpkins rolled from the barrow and cracked on the stone floor. Peals of laughter mingled with grumbling while the women jostled each other to scoop up the mess of seeds and stringy pulp.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Catherine swept down the staircase and out of the hall. She only stopped when she was in the cool dark of the corridor leading to the kitchens.
