She covered her face. “I will not do it! I will not!”
“Catherine!” the bishop shouted. “Stop this at once!”
“You must ask the king to spare me this,” she pleaded, clutching his sleeve. “Please, Your Grace, you must ask him!”
“Come to your senses, woman,” the bishop said, taking her by the shoulders. “You have no choice.”
“What if I refuse?” She felt the anger rising in her chest.
“That would not be at all wise,” the bishop said, his voice quavering.
“You must tell me, Your Grace,” she pressed.
“The king will have you imprisoned.”
The blood drained from her head as she finally understood. Why did she not see it before? Henry was fighting rebellions on both borders. His hold on the throne was weak. If he did not move quickly to put her estates into the hands of one of his own men, one of the Marcher barons would take it.
“You should be grateful this FitzAlan will have you,” the bishop spat out. “The king did not require it of him.”
Through clenched teeth, she said, “Perhaps the Tower would be a better choice for me.”
“Think of your son. What will happen to him if you are imprisoned?”
The bishop hit his mark squarely. There was nothing she would not suffer to save her son.
“How long do I have,” she asked weakly, “before I must make my choice of prisons?”
When her head was clearer, when she did not feel so ill, perhaps she could find a way out of this.
The bishop’s nostrils flared. “The marriage is to take place at once.”
“At once?” she asked, stunned. “Am I to go from one hell to another with no reprieve!”
Her burst of anger left her feeling drained and light-headed.
“When?” she asked, fixing her gaze on the wooden planks of the drawbridge beneath her feet. “When will he come?”
Please, God, let it be weeks and not days.
“He is here now.”
She looked up to find the bishop peering over his shoulder. In her distress, she had forgotten about the others.
The soldiers at the front moved aside to allow a single rider on an enormous black warhorse to come forward. Unable to move, Catherine watched in horror as the huge animal bore down on her. Its hot breath was on her face before the man reined it in.
She swallowed and forced her gaze slowly upward to take in the man. Her eyes rested first on his hand, grasping the hilt of his sword as though he sensed danger and was prepared to meet it. She followed the line up his arm. When she reached his chest, her stomach tightened. His surcoat was streaked with blood. Blood of his enemies, blood of the vanquished.
Her eyes were drawn inextricably upward toward his face. She saw grime and blood and matted hair. Then her gaze met the raging fury in the beast’s eyes, and she fainted dead away.
When the bishop greeted the bold young woman on the drawbridge, William realized this was Lady Rayburn herself. Since he knew what the bishop had to tell her, he shut out the bishop’s words and lost himself in contemplation of the woman.
Of course he hoped she would be attractive, though it made no difference to his decision. Luck was with him. While she may have the soul of a snake, Lady Rayburn appeared—at least from this distance—to be young and exceedingly pretty, with a lithe, shapely form.
He was jolted to attention when she dropped to her knees, crying out, “Praise be to God!” It took him a long moment to comprehend she was thanking God for her husband’s death. How could the woman weep on her knees with joy at the news of her husband’s death? Even his mother was not as heartless as that.
When he heard her liken her prospective marriage to him to a prison, his shock turned to outrage. She should be grateful to him for saving her. Instead, she was ridiculing him! Edmund grabbed his arm, but William threw him off and spurred his horse onto the drawbridge.
As he rode toward them, the bishop took several steps backward. But the woman did not move, even when his horse was snorting above her. Haltingly, she raised her eyes, as if taking in every inch of horse and man. When her gaze finally reached his face, their eyes locked.
