True Love (7 page)

“I expect he is trying to make a favorable
impression on you,” Royce said.

“No doubt about it. When a man begins wooing
a lady he does not know, it's safe to assume he is aware of the
size of her dowry,” Catherine observed tartly. “Before I make any
decision, I want to see how Achard comports himself in the company
of men, and how he treats other women, servants as well as ladies.
I want to hear what the servants' gossip says about him.”

“Very wise of you,” Royce said, nodding.
“Take your time, my dear. Simply allow Achard's courtship while he
is here. After he leaves Wortham, if you wish to refuse him I will
send word of your decision to him in Normandy. Thus we will avoid
any unpleasantness over the matter during the festival. Now, if you
will excuse me, I must finish reading this document before I can
return to our guests.” He indicated the parchment laying on the
table.

“You still haven't told me whether this
entertainment we are holding has a secret purpose,” Catherine
protested.

“Ask no more questions of me,” Royce said.
“Control your curiosity. Think about Achard and give me your answer
when you are ready.”

When he picked up the parchment and began to
read it, Catherine realized with a surge of renewed frustration
that, as far as Royce was concerned, their talk was over. She was
not satisfied by what he had said, and she suspected him of using
the revelation about Achard's proposal as a diversion for her. He
probably reasoned that if she was thinking about the possibility of
marrying Achard, then she wasn't likely to spend much time
wondering what was actually transpiring at Wortham.

She marveled at the way men, even her dear,
loving father, imagined they could keep their secret activities
hidden from their womenfolk. Sooner or later she was sure to
discover what Royce was really doing. As she quietly closed the
door on the little office, she began to consider ways to make that
discovery happen sooner.

So much noise was coming from the great hall
that Catherine paused on her way from her father's office to the
stillroom and looked into the hall to discover what was causing the
loud voices and the sound of crashing furniture. “I might have
known,” she muttered, planting fists on hips and sending a fierce
glare at the men who were quarreling. Everyone in the hall was so
intent on what was happening there that at first no one noticed
her. She quickly took stock of the damage.

One of the tables and several benches were
overturned, which explained the crashing sounds she had heard.
Plates and cups and the remains of the last course of the banquet
were scattered across the floor. The few guests and men-at-arms who
still lingered after the meal had formed a circle, and the servants
were peering over their shoulders, agog with excitement. Catherine
noticed Aldis standing to one side of the open space with her hand
tucked into Robert's elbow.

At the edge of the circle Achard held
Phelan's arm in a tight grip though Phelan repeatedly tried to pull
himself loose. And in the center of the open space Eustace,
obviously in a drunken state, was brandishing a large knife in one
hand while he circled Braedon. Or, rather, Eustace was weaving
around Braedon, for he was too inebriated to move in a true
circle.

“The reckoning is overdue!” Eustace shouted,
and swore a blistering oath. He jabbed his knife at Braedon, who
easily sidestepped the thrust. “It's past time to kill you,
Braedon. Always you interfere. I know what you have done, and why
you did it, and now you'll pay for thwarting me.” The effect of his
threats was considerably diminished when Eustace emitted a loud
belch.

“Get yourself to bed and stay there until you
are sober,” Braedon told him coldly. “I will gladly kill you, but
not when you are in this condition. When the time comes, I want you
to know exactly why you are dying at my hands.”

“Bastard!” Eustace shouted at him. “You are
nothing but a bastard.”

“So I have often been told,” Braedon said,
displaying no outward reaction to Eustace's drunken taunt.
Braedon's mouth curved upward in a cool smile and when he spoke
again it was with a lazy insolence that was plainly calculated to
further infuriate Eustace. “When the time is right, I think I will
begin by castrating you. It's what you deserve.”

“Bash-tard!” Eustace shouted again, lunging
forward. This time Braedon did not bother to step aside. Eustace's
blade went far wide of its mark and he nearly toppled over before
he recovered his balance. “Bash -” Eustace interrupted his insults
to belch a second time. Then he stood unsteadily, his face red from
wine, his breathing labored.

Braedon moved in the blink of an eye,
knocking the knife out of Eustace's hand. He caught Eustace by the
upper arm, spinning him around and flinging him into Phelan's
arms.

“I suggest you take your son to your
chamber,” Braedon said to Phelan. “When you are there, explain to
him what is appropriate behavior for a noble guest. Tell him if he
does not begin to comport himself decently, Lord Royce is likely to
order both of you to leave. That ought to impress him with the need
for restraint. I am sure Eustace doesn't want to miss the
melee.”

“I'll kill you before the melee, you
bash-bash-tard!” Eustace surged forward so violently that only the
combined strength of Phelan and Achard prevented him from throwing
himself on Braedon.

Catherine had seen and heard enough. As
hostess, she could not allow an open dispute to continue. As a
woman who had endured repeated frustration during the past few
days, she found in the occasion an opportunity to vent some of her
simmering anger.

“Stop this at once!” With her hands still on
her hips she advanced into the hall and planted herself squarely
between Eustace and Braedon. “I will not permit personal quarrels
to disturb my father's plans for the entertainment of our guests.
Lord Phelan, your son is disgracefully drunk. I am sure you recall
it is not the first time I have seen him in this condition. You
will kindly follow Sir Braedon's suggestion and take Eustace to
your room at once and keep him there until he is sober again.
Perhaps Lord Achard will agree to assist you.”

“It will be my great honor to obey your
commands, my lady,” Achard said so promptly that Catherine sent a
sharp look in his direction. He smiled and nodded at her,
presenting the very picture of a guest who wanted to be helpful in
ending an unpleasant situation.

“You interfering bitch!” Eustace shouted at
Catherine.

She ignored Eustace and looked straight into
Phelan's eyes.

“That was a deadly insult,” she said quietly.
“Shall I tell my father of it?”

“No.” Phelan responded at once. “I apologize
for my son's unseemly behavior, and for his slighting words to you.
As you, yourself, have said, he is out of his wits from too much
wine.”

“I never said he was out of his wits,”
Catherine stated very firmly. “I said he is disgracefully drunk.
There is a difference, Lord Phelan, which I am sure you perceive as
clearly as I do.”

Phelan looked as if he wanted to hit her, or
perhaps he was merely trying to think of an insult to add to the
one Eustace had uttered. Catherine faced him without fear, knowing
from past experience that Phelan was a bully who would change his
tactics as soon as he saw a chance to advance his own
ambitions.

“Well, sir, shall I report this incident to
my father?” Catherine asked, tapping one foot with impatience. “I
warn you, he will be greatly angered by what Eustace has said to
me.” She was not surprised when Achard intervened.

“Sir Eustace, allow me to assist you,” Achard
said in a cajoling way. “How often it happens that bright sunlight
and an overly warm day combined with a heavy meal will make a man
ill. I am certain a bit of rest will restore you. Just put your arm
across my shoulders and lean on me. You see, here is the entry
hall. I'll help you up the stairs. Be careful, they are steep.”

Catherine spared only a quick look at the
departing Achard and Eustace, with Phelan climbing the stairs
behind them. She motioned to Aldis, who came to her at once.

“My dear, are you all right?” Aldis asked,
keeping her voice soft while she looked hard at Catherine. “I think
I have some idea how difficult it must be for you to face down
Eustace after what he did to you last winter.”

In fact, Catherine was trembling inside,
though she refused to let anyone, even Aldis, see how upset she
really was. She sought refuge in her familiar duties as
chatelaine.

“Will you please direct the servants in
clearing away this mess?” she asked her cousin, indicating the
overturned furniture and the dishes scattered about. Raising her
voice, she added, “The rest of you, kindly go about your business.
Just remember that neither my father nor I will permit another
quarrel such as you have witnessed here.” Seeing the guests and
men-at-arms beginning to disperse, she spun around to give her full
attention to Braedon.

“You,” she said, stabbing a finger at him,
“come with me.”

She led him to the stillroom, which was the
nearest place she could think of where they could have a private
conversation. Braedon looked around the room, sniffing
appreciatively at the bunches of dried herbs that Catherine kept
there. Sunlight beaming through the open window glimmered on his
dark hair and touched the humorous lines that marked the corners of
his eyes.

“This is a pleasant room,” he said. He
touched a pile of neatly folded linen bandages. “I see you have
kept your promise, Lady Catherine, and have seen to the preparation
of supplies you will need after the melee.”

“I did not bring you here to discuss
tournament injuries,” Catherine retorted rather sharply. “I want to
know why you quarreled with Eustace.”

“As you noticed, he drank too much wine,”
Braedon said, shrugging his shoulders as if the incident did not
matter. “It is an unfortunate habit of his.”

“What was the cause of your quarrel?”
Catherine demanded. She was trying hard to hold on to her temper,
but if Braedon continued to sidestep her queries as her father had
done, she was likely to forget her manners and treat him to a
serious tongue-lashing. She gave him another chance, asking more
pointedly, “Why did Eustace choose to quarrel with you and not with
someone else?”

Braedon was silent for long minutes, until
Catherine's control snapped.

“I want the truth,” she warned him, “and I
want it now.”

“I have just told you the truth,” he said.
“Eustace was drunk.”

Fighting the urge to hit him, Catherine flung
out a hand. Her fingers closed around the rim of a small metal bowl
that sat on the worktable. She lifted the bowl and slammed it down
hard on the tabletop. The noise it made was so satisfying that she
maintained her grip on the bowl, holding it as if she would use it
for a weapon to batter Braedon about his chest and shoulders.

“I will not be put off again,” she shouted at
him, “not by you, or by my father, nor by Achard, either. I will
have the truth from you!”

“Achard?” he repeated, frowning and looking
puzzled. “What has Achard to do with anything?”

“Do not attempt to distract me.” Again she
raised the bowl in a threatening gesture. “You are just like my
father, changing the subject, raising new issues so I won't pursue
any further the matters you don't want to discuss. I tell you now,
I have had enough!”

She swung the bowl at him. Braedon leapt
aside just in time. On the downswing the bowl struck the edge of
the worktable and flew out of Catherine's hand. It landed on the
stone floor with a loud clanging noise that reverberated off the
walls until the bowl finally stopped spinning.

Catherine could see Braedon was trying hard
not to laugh. She lifted her chin, preparing to scald his ears with
furious words if he dared to make a joke at her rage.

“I cannot blame you for being angry,” Braedon
said. “You are far too intelligent not to notice the undercurrents
of conflict swirling amongst your father's guests.”

“Exactly.” Catherine's temper was somewhat
calmed by Braedon's acknowledgement of her outrage, though she did
not entirely trust his remark about her intelligence. Most men
believed women possessed little in the way of native wit. Unlike
most men when dealing with a woman,
she
was prepared to
listen to what a man had to say. “Sir, I am waiting for your
explanation.”

“Of course.” Braedon spoke slowly, as if he
was thinking the matter through very carefully. “You do deserve an
explanation. You wanted to know why Eustace and I nearly came to
blows. I will tell you why.” He fell silent and Catherine waited,
determined to have the truth of the quarrel from him, and then to
learn all she could about the undercurrents he had mentioned.

“I have only three relatives living,” Braedon
said. “My mother was the daughter of a prosperous weaver. She died
soon after I was born. She and my father were not married. Eustace
was correct when he called me a bastard. I have never seen the
point of taking offense at a fact that is common knowledge. When my
mother died, her brother took me into his household and raised me
as his ward.”

“That was kindly done of him,” Catherine
said. “I am sure there are men who would claim that a sister who
has borne a child out of wedlock has brought shame to her
family.”

“My uncle was well paid for his care of me.”
Braedon's voice took on a timbre that warned Catherine not to
pursue that particular line of questioning. “We were discussing my
quarrel with Eustace.”

“Yes,” Catherine said. “Please continue.”

“My uncle had one son and a daughter, my
cousin Linette. My male cousin treated me with contempt, but
Linette was always kind to me.”