Mary Reed McCall
Authors: Secret Vows
ARRY
R
EED
M
C
C
ALL
S
ECRET
V
OWS
For my girls, who give me endless joy and inspiration—sweethearts, you are the greatest gifts and loves of my life…
For my husband John, my own valiant knight.
From our very first date “to be better friends,”
I knew that we were meant to be together.
I love you with all of my heart, always…
And for my parents, David and Marion Reed, who cherished a little girl and her dreams.
You’ve read every word I’ve written, encouraging me each step of the way to achieving my goals. I love you both and thank you for everything—most of all for just being you.
I am Catherine of Somerset. A woman without place or…
’Twas but the first step toward damnation.
Darkness blanketed the chamber in velvet folds, mirroring the bone-deep…
Catherine shifted in sleep, catching herself with an aching jolt…
Until the numbness began to invade her wrists, Catherine didn’t…
Gray gripped the edge of the table, balancing himself. All…
The feasting was well under way that evening by the…
Though he’d known she’d come eventually, Gray was still unprepared…
The sun was just coming full above the edge of…
“Come now, ’tis not so difficult. Just cast to the…
Gray didn’t appear at the noon meal. Catherine picked at…
Catherine hunched over her mare’s neck, clutching her reins until…
Catherine watched him go, too stunned at first to say…
Squinting, Catherine blew a strand of hair from her eyes.
A breeze caressed Catherine’s fevered skin as she made her way…
She stood frozen in place, dwarfed by his ridiculously large…
The hearth logs had burned to glowing coals before Catherine…
“This changes everything.” Gray tossed the parchment to the table…
“Eduard.” Catherine tried to swallow her terror. “How did You…
Gray swung his blade, hearing men scream and feeling the…
Gray stood surrounded by guards in the great chamber of…
I am Catherine of Cheltenham. A woman blessed beyond measure.
The Year of Our Lord, 1233
I
am Catherine of Somerset. A woman without place or time. A woman, God help me, without hope.
Even as a small child my first awareness of myself mingled inextricably with a keen sense of disappointment. I knew that somehow I’d failed, and that I was doomed to be corrected for my inadequacies. You see, I fail to fit the delicate, pale ideal of beauty for women in my world, and I was never allowed to forget it. My comforts were few, yet though ’twas difficult to keep my spirits up, I strove to remain cheerful.
When I was sixteen, Father managed to rid him
self of me. He was lucky enough to find a man willing to take me as a wife, if only for the offering of a sizable dower. Father begrudged me that allotment, claiming he’d have been the one receiving payment and goods, if only I was beautiful.
’Twas naught but exchanging one brutal man for another, though the burden increased in that my new husband demanded the right to use my body for his pleasures. Still I considered myself fortunate to have escaped my father’s household. To have made a fresh start, even if ’twas with a man who showed little care of me.
Life passed tolerably for me. Within a year of my union with Geoffrey, God blessed me with the birth of two fine children. Twins, as fair and bright as the sun itself. I named them Ian and Isabel, and lived the next years waking and breathing each day only for them. My darlings grew strong and healthy, with none of the coarse traits for which I’d been condemned all my life.
The year they turned seven was the most difficult of my life. ’Twas as if I’d lost my reason for living. As was customary, Geoffrey had begun to search for a proper family with which to foster the twins, to help Ian learn the skills of a page and for Isabel to study needlework, writing, and household management. But to hurt me, since he knew the love I bore them, Geoffrey chose to foster my babes far from us. ’Twas three days’ ride to reach them, and since he rarely allowed me free movement off of our estate, I saw but little of my children that first year.
I thought my heart would break from grief. I pined
for the sight of their little faces and the smiles that would light them when they saw me. I longed to feel the sweet caress of their breath on my neck as I carried them to their beds of an evening. Now all was vacant and barren. Their tiny beds were cold, and I’d huddle in their chamber, sobbing my loss into the empty blankets.
But God showed me his mercy yet again in a way I’d never have dared to pray for. Geoffrey returned from one of his jaunts to London shivering with a fever. In less than a week he died of the ague, and I felt a sense of freedom I’d never known. I was readying to send for the twins, to bring them home at least for a while, when my brother by marriage, Baron Eduard de Montford, arrived, bringing with him his gentle sister Elise, and an entire garrison of men to witness Geoffrey’s funeral.
Within two days, I was glad I’d waited to bring my babes home. If those innocent children had found Elise, as I did…I shudder when I think of the possibility. I walked into her chamber early one morning, intending to wake her, to accompany me to vespers. Instead of seeing the delicate young woman sleeping in her bed, I found a corpse, dangling from a sash tied to the bedpost.
’Twas not long I’d need wait to learn why Elise had chosen so desperate a path. Eduard heard my scream and rushed in. He helped me to cut the sash and together we lowered the body. Then he sent me to my chambers with a sleeping powder to calm me. When I awoke, my chamber door was bolted, and none would answer my calls.
Eduard came in later and told me of his diabolical plan. He had already primed Elise with beatings and threats to make her do his deadly bidding, but she’d escaped his plots with her desperate act. That left him with no other option but to find a replacement for her.
To my everlasting misery, he chose to use me.
I cannot describe the sickness and shock that flooded me upon hearing his scheme. I tried to tell myself that he played a perverse jest: that as Geoffrey’s brother, he too enjoyed tormenting women. And he showed himself his brother’s equal in one respect; when I refused to take part in his plans, he beat me savagely.
It took two days for me to rise from my bed after that first time, and yet he came again and again, trying to coerce me to take part in his evil. Each time I refused, the beating was repeated, until I began to tremble every time the door opened.
He never would have gained my consent, no matter what the physical cost to me, had he not used the one weapon he knew I could not bear. He gave me a choice—either I would help him, or he would kill my children, his own niece and nephew.
I begged him, pleaded on my knees…but he only laughed. I hated him even more for that, though I knew then that I had no real choice. I didn’t possess the luxury of escaping as Elise had. My children’s safety depended upon my cooperation.
And so I said yes. Yes, I would help Eduard to achieve his unholy ambitions. Heaven help me, but
I would do what he commanded in order to save my innocent children from destruction.
May God have mercy on my eternal soul and the soul of the one who must die because of me.
Amen.
Ravenslock Castle, Wiltshire
’T
was but the first step toward damnation.
Catherine swallowed the nausea that rose in her throat and forced herself to stand stiff in the entrance to the chapel. She shut her eyes against the sun’s glare, murmuring a prayer that the veil she wore would continue to hide her feelings from any that looked on her. But though the silken gauze might mask her guilt from the world, she knew that nothing could stop the horrible truth from piercing deep into her own soul.
In a few moments she was going to pledge herself in holy wedlock to the man she’d promised to help murder.
Revulsion washed over her again, and she swayed
into a cool stone pillar. Reaching out, she tried to regain her balance, squirming at the trickle of sweat that made its way down her spine. Her amethyst kirtle clung to her in sticky folds, worsened by the day’s heat. ’Twas stifling for September, and undoubtedly a sign from God—a taste of the hellfire she was sure to suffer for the mortal sin she was about to commit.
“Damn you, Catherine,” Eduard hissed into her ear. “If you faint on me now, I vow to make you sincerely regret it.” He grasped her elbow and hauled her to a standing position.
The movement made her wince. Every inch of her body ached from the constant abuse he’d lavished on her in the past two weeks, compounded by the wrenching pain she felt in knowing that she’d never see her children again, never look into their sweet faces or hold them close. Thanks to Eduard, the twins thought her dead, and that truth had cut her even more fiercely than any of his beatings; she’d wanted to die from it alone. But she couldn’t. He’d made certain she knew the deadly consequences of changing her mind. If she refused to go through with his plan, her children would suffer what she did, only worse, before he killed them.
The message hadn’t been lost on her.
“I’m not going to faint, Eduard. Just get me some water.”
He grunted in response, but soon a cup of metallic tasting liquid was pressed into her hand. When she finished, she handed the empty vessel back to him from beneath her veil.
“Are you ready now?” he demanded.
Catherine nodded, feeling too sick to hazard an answer. She had to save all her strength for her vows; she knew it would take every ounce of reserve she possessed to utter their blasphemy without choking.
Vaguely, she felt the pressure of Eduard’s hand on her arm as they walked into the main portion of the chapel. Though heavy, the layers of fine gauze covering her face allowed her to see what was before her. The priest stood in his accustomed place below the altar steps, his hands folded in solemn piety as he awaited her arrival to the ceremony.
Almost against her will, Catherine swept her gaze over the other occupants. Four score guests whispered and craned their necks for a better view. Apart from them, all that remained were two men who waited high on the altar behind the priest. The first was older and dressed in servant’s garb, the second a man who appeared to be about a score and ten, outfitted as a knight of the realm.
He, then, must be her groom, she thought. Bewilderment clouded her already weary mind. He hardly seemed foreboding. Eduard had warned her of her future husband’s vicious reputation, wanting to prepare her for what she would face so that she wouldn’t be distracted by undue fear when it came time to bed with him and ultimately clear the way for Eduard’s hireling to kill him. If she hadn’t dreaded another beating, she would have laughed at such skewed reasoning. It had seemed ridiculous that helping to murder someone could ever be made eas
ier, regardless of what one knew about the victim beforehand. But she’d remained silent in her opinion.
Now she wondered why Eduard had bothered to tell her aught about her betrothed. It was clear that he’d exaggerated his description of Baron Grayson de Camville’s powerful stature and warlike demeanor. This man looked sturdy, with fair skin and hair the color of wheat. But he was no muscle-bound monster. She wondered if Eduard’s hatred of his rival was so great that it had made him see attributes that weren’t there.
Until a third man strode out onto the altar.
Catherine gasped audibly before stumbling into Eduard. He let out a curse and managed to right both of them before they could fall onto the marble aisle of the chapel.
“By all that’s holy, Eduard,” she whispered frantically, “with all else that you told me about this man, why did you fail to mention this?”
“Silence,” he hissed back, “I’ll not have you botching our plans now.”
She moved without thinking as he pulled her the remaining few paces to the altar, unable to drag her gaze from Baron Grayson de Camville. He was all that Eduard had said—a fierce warrior knight, taller by a head than any man she’d ever known, and carved from what appeared to be perfectly sculpted muscle and bone. But what Eduard had neglected to tell her was that her future husband possessed the face of an angel, so stunning that were it not for his utterly masculine presence and the way his mouth tightened into a grim line, she might have thought
him one of heaven’s messengers, sent by God to save her from Eduard’s plotting.
The buzzing in her ears slowly gave way to an annoying sound. Gradually, the noise needled and poked at her, until she turned her attention to the nasal voice. It bleated a name, over and over, and her stunned mind suddenly realized its error in failing to respond.
“Elise de Montford?”
Worried that her silence might have exposed her falsity, Catherine quickly looked to the priest who’d been repeating her newly assumed name. He seemed to be waiting for an answer, and he was beginning to appear impatient. She hesitated to affirm the lie, but then her hand was gripped none too gently by a warm, immovable grasp. Another gasp passed her lips, and her gaze snapped to the man who’d touched her so possessively.
Grayson de Camville’s smoky green eyes stared down into her own; he blinked, and she noticed how the sooty fringe of lashes accentuated their unusual hue. Looking into their depths made her feel hot and cold at the same time. His eyes were the color of a misty forest at twilight, his bronzed complexion and ebony hair only adding to his startling beauty. She would have continued to stare at him, but at that moment a corner of his mouth edged upward, in perfect time with one dark, arching brow. “My lady?” he murmured in French that was as flawless as his face.
Catherine found it very difficult, suddenly, to breathe.
“Yes?” she managed to croak.
“The Holy Father attends your answer.”
A shiver progressed up her back.
Calm yourself. He’s naught but a man—a man who will be murdered, thanks to you.
That thought sent a fist of nausea into her belly, and it was all she could do to breathe the appropriate words when the priest asked them of her.
When her betrothed faced the assembly and made the traditional vow granting a third of his estate to her, Eduard caught her gaze. For the first time in a week, her loathsome brother-in-law smiled.
Stealing a glance back at her groom, Catherine saw that he looked calm and expressionless. How did he feel about this union with her? Was he anticipating a long life of happiness and peace with a loyal wife?
The evil of what she was doing settled home in her soul with renewed vengeance. She clasped her hands so tightly together that the crescents of her nails began to bite into her flesh. She stopped when she realized that her reaction had drawn Grayson’s attention. He’d shifted his gaze to stare at her, and she saw that his reserved expression changed to a look of concern that sent daggers of guilt into her heart.
By the Holy Virgin, how could she ever bring herself to aid in his murder?
And yet with her children’s lives at stake, how could she not?
That terrible choice reverberated through her soul during the remainder of the interminably long mass.
Somehow, she kept her wits and her feet until the end of the ceremony. She’d almost breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that she’d soon be allowed to sit in relative peace, when her new husband grasped both of her shoulders and turned her to face him.
She froze. Panic spread through her as he began to lift her veil, and she realized that she’d forgotten about the kiss to seal their union. A whisper of breeze caressed her face as the gauze was pulled away. Blinking, Catherine looked up. For the first time, she stared directly into the angelic eyes of the man who was now her lord husband. Then her knees lost their substance as he fixed her with a stormy glare.
“Sweet Christ,” he growled softly, “what the hell have I gotten myself into now?”
Grayson willed himself not to crush the goblet he held. He stood in his solar off of the great hall, staring at the water in his cup and fervently wishing he’d not taken the vow years ago to forsake strong drink.
He still didn’t know how he’d made it to the finish of his wedding ceremony. Somehow he’d even managed to walk from the chapel to the castle’s main chamber, where happy feasting was already under way. But from the moment he’d lifted his new wife’s veil, he’d lost any desire he might have had to celebrate.
“I don’t know what else to say, but that I’m sorry,” Alban murmured, taking a step further into
the chamber. Gray met his friend’s gaze. Their shared history, the blood they’d shed for each other’s sake in the Crusade, was the only thing making this turn of events a little more bearable.
“I did my best when you sent me ahead to seek information about her. But 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.”
Gray choked back a laugh. “Was the poor wretch blind as well as addled?”
“After having seen her myself, I would have to say he was, though he appeared as sound of mind and body as either of us.”
Gray’s mouth stiffened, and he felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Aye, well my
wife
is more akin to an warrior queen than a sparrow. She barely needed to lift her eyes to meet my gaze. And that face…”
His fist clenched as the image of her came to him again, lush and vibrant. Her unusual appearance had struck him like a blow to the chest. She was tall and solemn, her midnight blue eyes staring up at him, her face framed in rich brown waves that spilled from the circlet on her brow to fall below her waist.
“Damn Montford. The bastard played another farce, allowing me to think her a delicate Court beauty.”
“He’s more the fool then,” Alban said. “You’ve never cared for the fashions of Court, especially when it comes to women.”
“Aye, and yet I still lose. You of all people know why. God help me, but Elise de Montford is all that I vowed never to touch. Never again.”
Alban shook his head. “Let it go, Gray. You’ve served penance long enough. Accept your lady wife for the boon she is and move forward.”
Swallowing his retort, Gray reminded himself that his friend saw the world through clear eyes. Sir Alban Warton had no sin to hide, no rage churning relentlessly in his breast.
He clenched his jaw and looked away, glancing around the richly appointed solar of Ravenslock Castle—his castle—the most grand of the many strongholds he’d won through bludgeoning opponents in countless battles and tournaments for King Henry. He’d worked hard for all he’d gained. Spilling his blood was but a small part of what he’d suffered in the past seventeen years. He’d gone through hell and back before managing to earn this measure of success and prosperity.
And yet for all his efforts, for all his sacrifice, it had all almost slipped through his fingers only a few months ago. He’d almost lost everything, thanks to his new bastard of a brother-in-law.
As another of King Henry’s champions, Montford had envied Gray’s success. He’d wanted the same rewards, the same honors as Gray, whether he deserved them or not. And so to bring him down, Montford had ferreted out and exposed Gray’s
darkest secret. He’d told everyone at Court that Gray had killed his own twin sister nearly two decades ago—that he’d murdered his own sweet Gillian.
Gray breathed in sharply, the pain of Gillian’s death still fresh even now. Montford’s accusation had merely piled shame atop his misery, because he couldn’t deny it. Not in essence, anyway. ’Twas true. He, Baron Grayson de Camville, King Henry’s High Champion on the field of honor, justice and truth, had been culpable in his own sister’s death.
Eduard’s public accusation had disgraced him. It had pushed him to the brink of personal disaster. But it had also sparked volatile disputes at Court. Sides had been chosen and alliances made, lighting the wick to political unrest that had threatened to lead England’s barons into Civil War.
Peace had finally been restored by the king, but not without a price…and Gray had paid it today in his marriage to Elise de Montford—the all too tempting sister of the wretch who’d tried to destroy him.
He cursed aloud. “I can’t do it, Alban. I can’t stay bound to her. I was a fool to think I could.” Gray walked to the end of the heavy table, searching beneath its edge to retrieve the silken pouch with its iron key. Pushing aside the tapestry on the wall, he exposed the door that would lead him into the tilting yard and away from the rage and the agonizing memories that haunted him. “I’ll seek an annulment.”
“No you won’t. There’s too much at stake,”
Alban said. “King Henry commanded this union, and if you deny it now, you’ll only awaken his wrath anew, which at the very least will mean losing your chance to be appointed Sheriff of Cheltenham come Christmastide.”
That undeniable fact sank into Gray’s bones with the swiftness of an executioner’s blade. Alban seemed not to notice. Looking away, he added, “Of course, if you no longer wish to gain the position, or any others that might come along—”
“You know I do.” Gray leaned against the door. His head ached, and his shoulders tightened until it seemed as if his muscles must shred from his bones. Christ, why couldn’t he quench this constant need? Why couldn’t he be satisfied with what he’d already gained? But he couldn’t rest. He craved more power, more influence, more security, like his body thirsted for water or air. And he knew that when it came down to it, he’d do anything necessary to achieve his purpose.