Chapter 11
Catherine hunched over her mare’s neck, clutching her reins until the blood left her hands as their mounts crashed through the woods.
’Twas fortunate that Gray and Alban led the way back to the village.
Even at their breakneck speed, she couldn’t seem to focus on the trail ahead; she barely managed to duck when a fir branch snapped back at her, and just a moment ago she’d almost lost her seat when her horse had stumbled on the rough terrain.
Her thoughts kept dwelling on one, festering point.
How could she have been so selfish? She’d had a chance to tell Gray the truth with no one near to report of it back to Eduard, and yet she’d put her own wants, her own decadent, carnal desires, ahead of her children and their safety.
Her face felt hot and her stomach rolled with guilt and dread.
She’d waited too long to tell Gray and beg his aid, and now the opportunity was lost. Such a chance might not present itself again for days.
Perhaps even weeks, and by then it might be too late.
Eduard might have returned to Ravenslock to demand her fulfillment of their foul bargain.
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, relishing the bone-jarring pace and alternating between reviling herself for her weakness and trying to plan what she could do to make it right.
They passed through another clearing and more woodland before reaching the village, which consisted of two score rough, thatched-roofed cottages clumped here and there among several larger buildings.
As they entered the main thoroughfare, chickens ran squawking out of their way, but before they reached the square, Catherine saw telltale signs of the fighting that Alban had witnessed.
Ale barrels lay overturned, their rich, golden brown contents trickling onto the road.
As they rode farther, the damage looked worse.
Two or three wooden display stalls were cracked in pieces on the ground, and blood clotted the soil, staining it dark red.
At first she thought it gory evidence of the brawl, but a closer look calmed her fears.
’Twas animal blood, she was almost certain.
One of the broken stalls must have offered poultry, since fowl carcasses were strewn about the area; several dogs growled over the birds, snatching them in their jaws to lope off and rip them apart without interference.
Catherine frowned, her mind straying from her own troubles for a moment as she wondered why none of the villagers made any move to stop the beasts from gobbling up the goods.
Then she saw what held their attention so inexorably.
The angry mob surrounded nearly two dozen young knights who stood bound in pairs or threes to stakes in the middle of the square.
Even with many of them slumped over from exhaustion or pain, Catherine recognized some of the lads as being from among those Gray and Alban were training at Ravenslock.
Four of the remaining knights were strangers to her.
All of the men were bound, but someone had tied the unknown knights’ hands behind their backs.
These four looked more disheveled than the rest from what must clearly have been vicious fighting, and yet they stood rigid, their faces wary against the snarls and insults thrown at them by the crowd.
They tried to hide it, but they were frightened.
Aye, so much so that it made their skin gleam pasty in the late day sun.
All but one, anyway.
He was the largest of the captured knights, and he also seemed to be the oldest, appearing to be of some nineteen or twenty years.
He stood firm, his blond head held at a regal angle, his bloodied face a mask of hate and derision that blasted the villagers all to hell.
Catherine shuddered, unable to dismiss the thought that if this young man could have disemboweled those taunting him with a look, he would have done so without a second thought.
The shouts and jeering began to die away when Gray strode into the circle.
He stood taller than everyone, knight or villager, his head easily visible above the crowd; everyone backed away and made room for him as he passed.
Alban stayed close by him, but Catherine lingered at the edges of the crowd, allowing two of Gray’s men to help her dismount so that she might stand within their protection to witness the proceedings.
Gray didn’t speak for a moment, seeming to assess the condition of those bound before him. Catherine saw his gaze flick over some of the lads he knew so well—among them Matthew Osgood, Bernard de Varienne, and wiry Derrik Lowes—before settling with stern concentration on the four unknown men.
Without looking away, he called for Stephan Baker and Clyde Potter to step forward.
The two men, both freeholders of Ravenslock land, pushed through to stand proudly next to him.
But in the next instant, someone from the crowd hurled a rotten apple into the square; it hit the blond knight in the chest, spattering his face.
He threw himself forward against his bonds, sneering and calling out curses upon all of them as cowards.
“Enough!” Gray roared, his command ringing through the village and bringing everyone to silence. He cast his gaze around before coming to rest again on the captured knights. A shiver tingled up Catherine’s spine.
“This will be settled peaceably. As Lord of Ravenslock, I hereby convene a hallmote. A jury will decide the guilt or innocence of each accused man. Clyde Potter and Stephan Baker will serve as manorial officers to choose the remaining ten witnesses of the court. Once we hear both sides of each case and the jury passes verdict, I will dispense justice.”
A low murmur of approval rumbled through the crowd, though Catherine saw the blond knight scowl and spit off to the side. But the other young men seemed to relax a little, the panicky look easing from their faces.
Soon the remaining ten witnesses were chosen from among the freeholders and knights, and the accused men, whether they were lads from Ravenslock or the strangers, were brought forward one by one.
Each had witnesses stand to represent him and argue his case; for each a verdict was delivered and, if necessary, a fine imposed.
In some cases, the young knight in question agreed to make restitution with work, rather than with money, to those whose property had been destroyed, while in others, the jury determined innocence of the charges.
Catherine watched Gray where he stood at the makeshift table that had been set up for the jury.
She saw him working with his people—freemen, low-born, or noble—lending his view, or nodding and observing with serious concentration, but always serving as a powerful, stable presence in the center of the gathering.
She marveled at his skill, his composure.
It was amazing, really, his ability to arrive at this scene of chaos and wrest a civilized proceeding from the midst of it.
Pride burned in her breast. And love. Aye, she could deny it no longer. She loved Gray in a way she’d never thought it would be possible for her to love a man. He’d won her heart with his goodness and passion, with his sense of right and wrong, and his determination to see justice done.
She brushed her finger over her swollen lips, remembering the feel of his mouth taking hers as he stroked deep inside of her this afternoon.
Her cheeks burned as she stared at him now, here in the square, gazing at his striking face, his powerful body…
those graceful hands that were strong enough to kill with one pass of his sword, or gentle enough to caress her into mindless ecstasy.
She ducked her head as the memory of their lovemaking washed over her again, filling her with renewed heat. Darting her gaze to the people surrounding her, she prayed her expression hadn’t given away her thoughts.
A jolt went through her. Someone was watching her.
He crouched, motionless and furtive, about ten paces away through the crowd.
’Twas the deformed man, the one she’d first seen peering at her from the shadows of the corridor the night of the king’s feast weeks ago.
He wore the same, swathed garments that obscured his face from full sight, but she knew by the chill up her spine that he stared nonetheless.
Just like that first night, his gaze sliced into her, hard and penetrating. Then, suddenly, he looked away and ducked into the shifting masses of the crowd. No one else seemed to have noticed his presence—or her discomfort. All eyes were trained on the proceedings.
Catherine craned her neck to try to see where he’d gone, but he’d disappeared as if he’d been no more than a figment of her overwrought imagination.
She suppressed a shiver, cursing that there was nothing she could do about him, or anyone else she might suspect as one of Eduard’s spies, other than to be more careful than usual about what she said or did.
She glanced back to the jury table. The last of the accused was being readied for trial; it was the blond knight, but as he was led from the stake to face the council, he shook himself free of those who held him and walked to the table unaided, his gait cocky.
“Your name?” Clyde Potter asked, nodding for him to stand nearer to the scribe.
“Gilbert de Clare.”
“Clare?” Gray’s gaze snapped to the young man. “Be you kin of the king’s former regent, William Marshall?”
“Aye,” the knight answered insolently. “William Marshall was my father’s cousin.”