She smoothed her hands over her curved hips and tilted her head ever so slightly, fluttering her thick fringe of lashes at him. Ah, she was good. Too good, perhaps. It wouldn’t surprise him if he came back here in a year to find Cassie full and ripe with a babe, courtesy of one of the men with whom she so shamelessly flirted.
“Are you sure you want to make do with cider, milord?” She blinked again, pulling his attention back from his meandering thoughts. “And not try something a bit more…potent?”
“Nay, Cassie. Cider will do fine if you can find it for me.”
Disappointment flared for a brief moment in her eyes, but then she just nodded, a bit more shyly, he thought, before going off in search of his drink.
By the time she returned with it, he’d worked most of the stiffness from his neck and was even beginning to relax a little. He took the spiced brew from her with murmured thanks and drank deep. He was readying to take another healthy swallow, when the hissing, slurred voices of two men hidden on the other side of the jutting hearth gave him pause. He leaned forward to look. They appeared to be common soldiers of some sort, engaged in drunken conversation.
“’S blood, Francis, I’m sick to death of hearin’ it! You didn’t bury the wrong corpse! ’Tis a story the like of which you’ve told a hundred times. Only if Lord Montford hears you tellin’ this one, it’ll be the long sleep for you, it will!”
Lord Montford?
Gray set down his cup. Eduard was lord of these lands, and had been since his elder brother’s death some five or six months past. The soldiers could mean no other man.
“Christ Almighty, I’m tellin’ true, Rolf!” the man named Francis hissed, before dropping his voice so low that Gray strained to hear.
“May Saint Peter strike me down if I’m false! Lord Montford made me sneak in and put her in our lady’s tomb. ’Twas the dead of night. He had her wrapped up real good, so’s I couldn’t see her, but I’m telling you, ’twasn’t mistress Catherine! I knew our lady as well as anyone, and ’twasn’t her! This one was ’alf her size. Like a little bird, she was. And I saw a lock of hair peepin’ out the top of the shroud—not brown like our lady’s, but pale as spun gold!”
Golden-haired? Like a little bird?
Montford kept her so secluded within the keep, ’twas impossible for me to gain an audience with her. I told you the only information I could gather from the people of the village. They described Elise de Montford as small and fair-haired. One of the villeins even likened her to a tiny sparrow.
Alban’s apology from the day of his wedding shot through Gray’s brain like fire. Without even realizing that he was going to do it, he surged to his feet and lunged across the hearth, grabbing Francis by the front of his tunic and pushing him up against the wall.
Francis gasped and sputtered, his eyes rolling wildly in his head. “What—what the devil?” Before he could say more, his gaze fell on Gray’s fine garments, took in his masterful height and the iron-muscled arm gripping him, and then he fell to blathering like an idiot.
“Please, milord Montford! God save me, oh Lord, sweet Jesu in heaven spare me, milord Montford! I didn’t mean any of—”
“I’m not Lord Montford!” Gray muttered, giving him a shake hard enough to rattle his teeth, while he jerked his other arm to remove the loyal Rolf, who’d attached himself with drunken fervor to Gray’s elbow in an effort to protect his friend. Rolf slid to the floor, a boneless heap, crossing himself repeatedly and moaning that they were both doomed now, for sure.
Gray scowled and leaned into Francis, talking slowly, so that the man couldn’t help but understand him. “Tell me everything you know. Who was the woman you buried? And if she was a lady, why was she buried in secret? I want to know everything, damn you, and I want to know it now!”
“Gray, for Christ’s sake, let up on the wretch. He’s senseless already.”
With a growl, Gray released the swooning Francis and twisted to face Alban. His friend’s expression was stony, and a chain with something round and metallic dangled from his fist. Alban held out the object. “I think this will go a long way in explaining what you want to know.”
Taking the offering from him, Gray squinted at it in the dim light, trying to see it more clearly. ’Twas a locket, fairly new. He popped the clasp to see the miniature inside. A thread of shock wound through him. He looked back to Alban in question, not understanding how this could explain anything.
Rolf had been kneeling in desperate prayer on the floor near Gray, but now he dared enough to peer around him and catch a glimpse of the tiny painting. “Ah,” Rolf murmured softly. “’Tis our beloved mistress Catherine, God bless her soul. A fine lady and a good woman she was.” He crossed himself again. “May she rest in peace.”
And in that instant all of the strength seemed to leave Gray’s limbs. He sank down to the bench like a stone, wondering if he’d ever find means to rise again.
Chapter 14
Abreeze caressed Catherine’s fevered skin as she made her way across the clearing, toward the path that cut through the fallow field. With each breath, she inhaled the fertile scents of fallen leaves and sun-warmed grass, but she had no will to enjoy autumn’s bounty this day. Her stomach felt sick, the echoing notes of thenonesbell matching the relentless thrumming in her ears.
In a few moments she was going to reach the abandoned crofter’s hut and come face to face with Eduard’s evil spy.
Her fingers tingled, and she kept flexing her hands to keep them from going numb. Trying to force herself to focus, she patted the handle of the sheathed dagger she’d secured at her waist as protection. ’Twas little comfort, considering the ordeal that lay ahead, but ’twas better than nothing.
The wind seemed to pick up, gusting through the trees as she approached the old cottage. It crouched like a troll in the woods, with chunks of thatch missing from its roof and several boards hanging askew. A fitting choice, she thought, for Eduard’s misshapen spy.
She paused at the portal, trying to gather her courage to go in and face the man. But then the door creaked open, and she forced her trembling legs to carry her into the cottage’s dim recesses.
It was quiet inside. A film of grit seemed to blanket everything in the oppressive atmosphere, and a damp, musty smell assaulted her. Rubbing her eyes, Catherine squinted, trying to make them adjust from the light of outdoors. Where was the wretch? He’d arrived first, the open door made that clear. Was he hiding to frighten her? Was this some perverse game he played, worthy of his evil master?
A grinding crunch sounded to her left, and she swung her gaze to the spot. The hunched man stood half in shadow, his form partly illuminated by daylight streaming in from the shutter he’d just opened. Dust motes danced in the slash of light, swirling round him. He stepped closer, and Catherine forced herself not to shrink back. As before, only his thin, pale lips showed beneath the folds of his hood.
