“Of course,” she said, her face turning grave again, “if I had returned to Harlech, he would have seen I am with child and never believed me again.”
It was midday, so William called his men to halt so they could eat and let their horses drink in the nearby stream. He took Catherine’s hand and drew her away from the others. They found a flat boulder to sit on in a sheltered spot at the stream’s edge to have their meal. The sun was out, but it was still cold. Huddling close to him, she took the cup of mead he poured for them to share.
“Glyndwr would have thought you carried the prince’s child?” he asked as he laid out dried meat, bread, and cheese on a cloth. The question was an awkward one, so perhaps he should not have asked it.
“Glyndwr began to doubt what he’d been told about the prince and me,” she replied thoughtfully. “However, on the chance he held the only child of the heir to the English throne, he would have kept me and the child under lock and key.”
If that had happened, William might not have gotten her back until this miserable rebellion was crushed.
“William, you are hurting my hand.”
Startled, he eased his grip. He kissed her fingers, saying, “Sorry, love.”
“Edmund was badly injured when they took you,” he said.
Her eyes went wide. “He was?”
“ ’Twas a long recovery,” he said. “But he has his strength back now, except in one leg.”
They sat in silence while William got up his courage to ask the question that had tormented him for months. He heard the rustle and clatter of his men packing up their things, but he ignored their restlessness. He needed to ask this question face-to-face; he could not wait and ask it as they rode.
“Edmund and Stephen both say that the Welshmen who took you that morning…” He paused, struggling to find a way to ask what he wanted to know without sounding as though he were accusing or blaming her. “Well, they thought the men knew they would find you riding to the abbey then.”
“ ’Tis true! I have given it much thought,” she said, putting her hand on his arm and leaning forward. “We must have a traitor at Ross Castle—or in the village.”
Unbidden, the image came to him of his wife laughing as she told him how well she lied to Glyndwr.
“I asked Maredudd how they knew,” she said. “He said he did not meet our traitor but that Rhys Gethin did.”
William was not sure what she had done, or if she had done anything at all. But he wanted her to know she did not need to lie to him. Not about this or anything, ever.
“I want honesty between us now,” he said, resting his hand on her knee. “You told me I hurt you even more than Rayburn had. So perhaps you wanted to leave, to get away from me, and later changed your mind. If that is how it was, I would understand. Nay, I would be grateful you changed your mind.”
He took one look at the shock and fury on her face and started backtracking as fast as he could. “I am not saying that is what happened,” he said, holding up his hands. “What I mean to say is that I do not care how it happened or what you did, so long as you will stay with me now. Nothing else matters.”
Catherine threw the full cup of mead in his face and jumped to her feet. “That isnotall that matters!” Her eyes were narrowed to slits, and her voice was low and threatening.
He had seen her angry before, but never like this. Fleetingly he thought of the blade she usually carried and hoped her Welsh captors had disarmed her.
“Honesty! You ask for honesty between us?” Her voice was seething. “You bed me for two days, all the while thinking I arranged my own kidnapping? What, did you think I went willingly, and only came to regret it when Glyndwr threatened to marry me off to the Fierce One?”
“He did what?” William said, rising to his feet.
He would have been impressed by the string of oaths Catherine rained on him if he was not quite so intent on getting an answer to his question. When she turned on her heel and stomped off, he ran after her and caught her arm.
“Who is this man you call ‘The Fierce One’?”
She turned and shoved his chest hard with both her hands. “You insult me with these horrid accusations, and all you can say to me is, ‘Who is the Fierce One?’ ”
Belatedly, he realized that if she had played no part in her kidnapping, he had committed a very grave error by asking if she had. Why could he never think clearly when it came to this woman? He would never have committed such a blunder with anyone else.
“I am so very, very sorry, Catherine,” he stumbled. “I… I just could not find another explanation. And I wanted you to know that I love you, no matter what.”
“I don’t want you to love mein spite ofwho I am and what I’ve done,” she ranted at him. “I want you to love mebecauseof it. If you think I am someone who commits treason and breaks promises to those I care about—or, worst of all, abandons her child—then you do not know me at all.
“I do not know who you think you are in love with, William FitzAlan,” she finished, “but it surely is not me.”
Beneath her anger, Catherine’s heart was breaking with hurt and bitter, bitter disappointment. While she had pined for William over those long months apart, he was thinking unspeakably low thoughts of her.
