Chapter 3 #2
“Ah, yes, the mélée. It should provide us with some lively sport, eh, Warton?”
“Indeed.”
Eduard smiled, though the look was more predatory than friendly. “I’m hoping to take ransom from Camville on the field today. ’Twould be a fine jest to trounce him so soon after his wedding to my dear sister.” Grinning now, Eduard pulled Catherine against him as if giving her an affectionate hug.
A muscle twitched in Alban’s jaw. “I wouldn’t wager my spurs on besting Gray. ’Twould be unwise to attempt it.” Then, as if dismissing Eduard, he directed his gaze to Catherine. “You’ll be coming in soon, then?”
“Aye, we’ll be in directly,” Eduard answered for her. “I plan to eat hearty in preparation for battle.”
Alban gave them a curt nod and stepped into the hall.
As soon as he disappeared, Eduard renewed his punishing hold on her and walked her across the yard.
In a few moments they’d rounded a corner of the main building, secluding them in the shadows between the castle wall and the stables.
Gripping her shoulders, Eduard shoved her hard against the stonework, forcing a cry from her.
“Be silent, woman,” he snapped, “lest I assist you in the endeavor with my fist.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Catherine ground out, straightening to level a hate-filled glare at him. “You no longer have the right now that I am another man’s wife.”
Anger flared hot in Eduard’s eyes, and for a moment, she thought he would follow through with his threat anyway. But he released her. “Aye, your correction is Camville’s pleasure now.” Stepping away, he growled, “Still you must needs answer me. What happened last night with him? What went awry?”
“Nothing was amiss.”
“Nay? Then why did your husband ride out so early this morn? He saddled his mount and set off as if the devil himself chased at his heels.” Eduard leaned in, digging his finger under her chin. “The mongrel learned you’d been used before, didn’t he, Catherine?”
She jerked her head from his touch. “He discovered nothing. The sheet was bloodied, and all was as it should be.”
“Then why the hell-bent ride at dawn?”
“Perhaps ’tis his habit to ride early.”
“The morn after his marriage?” Eduard scoffed. “’Tis more like you failed to keep him interested enough to remain abed with you.”
Catherine kept silent, unable to refute Eduard’s jibe and unwilling to add to his animosity by trying.
Pushing herself away from the wall, she clenched her fingers and faced him.
“Whether that be true or not, I do not know. But ’tis likely that you and I will be missed at table if we tarry longer. I’m going back to the hall.”
Eduard looked surprised for an instant. Then he smiled.
“Ah, the titmouse has a bit of hawk in her. Marriage to Camville has added some backbone to you, foolhardy though it may be.” Gripping her tightly by the back of the neck, he hauled her close enough so that his mouth brushed against her ear.
“Just be wary, sweet Catherine. I know two very precious ways to keep you groveling, and I’ll take great pleasure in using both of them against you if you force me to it. ”
Yanking herself from his grip, Catherine pressed her lips together and pushed past him. She headed for the hall, but Eduard fell into step right next to her, mocking her with a whistling tune that sounded profane coming from his lips.
As they neared the building, he slipped a brotherly hand under her elbow, and though she wished to pull away, she knew such an obvious movement would be noticed by the many eyes that now witnessed their approach.
Yet she couldn’t stop herself from muttering a curse against him under her breath, ordering him to release her.
Her oath had an effect opposite to what she’d hoped. Eduard let go of her elbow only to reach out and encompass her waist, pulling her tightly and painfully close to him as they walked.
And though she forced herself to endure his embrace without outward reaction, it was all she could do to shut her mind against the sound of his laughter, ringing soft and malicious in her ear.
Gray looked at the array of swords on the table before him, alternately lifting and swinging one and then another as he tested their weight and balance in his hand.
The selection of practice blades should have been sufficient, but he found himself dissatisfied with every weapon.
’Twas an annoyance and not like him to allow himself to be so distracted.
Yet the image of his wife kept coming to him, taking his thoughts away from his work.
He’d avoided her successfully so far this day.
But in his mind’s eye he saw her as she’d been last night, pressed against his chamber door, her eyes beseeching, her skin golden honey in the firelight.
She’d begged him not to hunt down her brother then, and he’d agreed.
But no such constraints bound him today.
Pacing to a window of the nearly barren chamber, he glanced out of the open shutter.
It was not yet midday and already the heat oppressed, undulating over the fields in waves.
In less than an hour the mélée would commence; he could see preparations taking place at the edge of the grounds, saw patches of brightly colored silks shining in the sun, pitched by traveling knights who’d come to try their luck at winning the tournament ransoms this day.
His reputation as the best of King Henry’s champions always seemed to attract droves of young men eager to try their mettle against him.
Gray frowned, wondering how many of those same men would be carried from the field of battle on pallets.
Turning on his heel, he strode back to the table and stripped off his shirt.
He hefted one of the swords, swinging it in wide arcs, then lunging and jabbing in a few practice passes.
But as he warmed to the task, his movements became more intense; soon he was repeating the series of motions over and over, driving himself with relentless focus until he ran with sweat.
Yet it wasn’t enough. The familiar beast grew inside him, thirsting for the feel of his blade hacking through flesh, for the slippery heat of blood spilling over his hand.
Gray pushed himself harder, moving faster, as he swung his sword with greater precision and violence against his invisible foe, the adversary who’d made every battle he’d fought in the last seventeen years a struggle for life or death.
He struck at the guilt and anger that had been eating him from the inside out since that horrible day…
since the moment he’d lost Gillian forever.
Gillian. His mind breathed her name as he swung and sliced with his blade. The images flooded back, assaulting him, pummeling him with fury. He’d choked on her name then, unable to speak it aloud after he’d found her, his twin, his second self, knowing that it was his fault. His unimaginable error.
Gray. Oh, Gray, it hurts…make it stop hurting.
Her whispering voice haunted him, sharpening his rage and twisting his gut until he felt sure that he too must bleed from the pain.
But he’d never escape the guilt, never be absolved of the sin or the memory.
He’d left Gillian alone, and the son of a bitch had gotten her.
Thornby had broken her with his fists, leaving nothing but a bloodied, bruised shell.
And as he’d held his beautiful sister—his equal—in his arms that day, she’d opened her eyes one last time, looked into the depths of his soul… and stopped breathing.
The red haze of agony and rage swelled, bubbling and building to a wordless roar that filled Gray’s chest and burst free in a sound to rival the howling of the damned.
With one, swift movement, he swung his sword into the air and slammed it point first into the table.
Then he sank to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
His breath rasped painfully, straining his sides.
His body felt numb, and he fought against the flood of emotions, even as he ached for the cleansing relief of tears that wouldn’t come.
After a moment he became aware of sight and sound and touch again; he heard the heavy hilt of his sword rocking back and forth atop the blade he’d embedded in the table.
His hands fell limp to his sides as he pushed back the darkness and the fury.
But it was there anyway, always lurking close to the surface and waiting to spread bloody destruction.
Pushing himself to his feet, he moved slowly to the door.
His time was up. The mélée was about to begin, and yet he dreaded its start almost as much as he despised waking each day.
It wasn’t the danger he feared. Clashing swords, grinding bones, pain, injury, even death—none of it held any power over him.
Nay, ’twas just the opposite. He was bound by an understanding of the dark forces that drove him; somehow he needed to find control, to rein in the raging beast that clawed for release whenever he was on the field of battle…
Because he knew that if he didn’t, Eduard was going to need the protection of God Himself to walk away from the tournament this day with his life.
Catherine felt sick as she climbed the raised pavilion that had been set up at a safe distance from the field where the mélée was being assembled.
Several ladies and the few older lords who sat as spectators viewed her surreptitiously as she passed.
Because of her husband’s position, she knew that none would use outward ill manners, but it was clear that they were curious about the woman who’d wed the powerful Baron Grayson de Camville.