Epilogue
Near Seton Castle
East of Edinburgh, Scotland
When he found her, he was going to spank her.
Well, maybe not spank her, but she was in for an earful.
She had waited until he’d gone into Edinburgh before making her move, but he’d returned sooner than expected and the terrified nurse tending his one-year-old son had been the one to tell him that his errant wife had gone into town, to church.
She thought Catherine had gone to pray, but Kress knew better.
She’d gone into town to collect her money from the clerics of St. Martin’s.
Loping along the road into the village of Seton, Kress headed towards the village of Tranent, not far from Seton Castle.
The castle was a powerful bastion along the coastline east of Edinburgh that had been gift from William the Rough (later known as William the Lion) for a particular job Kress had done for him a couple of years ago that had ridded him of a particularly problematic enemy.
It would have been a difficult job for most, but not for a man who still considered himself an Executioner Knight.
For him, the task of eliminating an enemy was something he’d been born to do.
Kress had lived up to his nickname.
But he was involved in more than simply assassinations and dirty work.
He was also engaged in the king’s politics.
There was a political alliance brewing between Scotland and France, and Kress had returned to Seton to tell his wife of his involvement in it only to discover that she had gone into town.
Now, he was also going into town to corral her and force her to return home.
Given that he was going to be away from Seton for an unknown length of time, he didn’t want to worry about his wife who liked to wander like she did in the days of Castle Rising.
He wanted her home where she belonged.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to go all the way in to town, for he met his wife on the road as she was heading back to their fortress.
Goliath was with her, the faithful beast they had learned to love, but there was also a knight with her, a young Scotsman who had trained at Berwick Castle before pledging his service to Scotland and Scotland’s king.
Half-Scots and half-English, Sir Kerr de Vaux caught sight of his liege as the man headed in their direction and clearly resisted the urge to run the opposite direction.
Even as Kress came near to their small party, Kerr rolled his eyes and looked away, unable to meet Kress’ gaze.
But Kress was unforgiving.
“So she pulled you into this, did she?” he said, looking at the knight who refused to look at him. “I thought you had better sense than that.”
Kerr scratched his neck, unhappily. “I had no choice, my lord,” he said in a faint Scots accent. “She was coming with or without me. I couldna let her go alone.”
“You will not speak as if I am not here,” Catherine said, looking straight at her husband. “You were away and I wanted to go into town.”
He frowned at her, struggling with his temper.
“You waited until I was gone before deciding you needed to go into town,” he said, holding up a finger to silence her when she opened her mouth to argue.
“Do not deny it, for I know it is true. Kerr, leave us. I will deal with you when I get back to the fortress.”
Happily, Kerr spurred his horse onward, thundering back down the road beneath the clear and sunny skies that summers in Scotland often brought.
It was a beautiful day, with a soft sea breeze blowing in from the north.
But beneath that lovely sky, a battle of sorts was about to happen.
When Kerr was out of earshot, Kress shook his head reproachfully at his wandering wife.
“Why did you force him into your scheme?” he demanded softly. “Cadie…”
Catherine gasped at the use of her real name outside of the privacy of their bedchamber. They had agreed to never use her name where anyone could overhear the truth of her identity. In Scotland, she was Catherine, Lady de Rhydian, for Cadelyn of Vendotia had ceased to exist.
That persona had died the day they’d fled Longton.
Gone.
But Kress knew her fears and he calmed her. “Cadie, no one is around to hear. Focus on what I am to tell you. Kerr is responsible for you when I am away and you put him in a very bad position. It is not fair to him.”
Catherine stood her ground, as weak as her foundation was. “I needed to go into town,” she said. “The clerics owed me money from last week. The babe has been ill and I’ve not had a chance to collect it and make a full accounting.”
Kress looked like a man who was at the end of his patience. “And you took them another poem, didn’t you?”
She didn’t lie to him, although she was losing some of her confidence. “Aye,” she said. “But it was a truly beautiful one, Kress. It will make us a good deal of money.”
Kress slapped a palm against his forehead, begging the gods for patience. “Sweetheart, we do not need the money,” he said. “I know you like to write this poetry. You have been doing it since I met you. But I thought we agreed that you would no longer do this after Keene was born.”
She was feeling scolded, even if she knew she deserved it.
“I thought I could stop and focus on our son, but it seems that I cannot,” she said, reining her horse nearer to him.
“Please understand. I love Keene and I love you. You know that, Kress. You are my sun and my moon, both of you. But there is something inside of me that wants to write poetry and I cannot stop it. I wish you could understand that.”
He was genuinely not trying to be cruel about it. Looking into her dark eyes, he could see how much it meant to her and, as usual, he was a slave to her wants. He couldn’t help himself.
“I know you like to write your poems,” he said. “But the ones you have written since the child was born are… well, far naughtier than the ones you have written in the past. There is no other way to put it.”
She grinned. “That is because I understand what it feels like to need a man,” she said, lowering her voice. “I understand what it means to feel his shaft deep within me. You know how I crave such things.”
Talk like that instantly aroused him and Catherine wasn’t afraid to speak to him in ways that most women would be ashamed of.
But not her; the woman demanded he bed her at least once a day, sometimes twice, even when she was pregnant with their son.
The physic had warned against such a thing when she was heavily with child, but it only seemed to arouse her more and Kress, of course, could not resist her no matter how much the physics warned against it.
Fortunately, their son had been born healthy and beautiful, and their intimacy had resumed just a couple of months afterwards.
But, God, what the woman did to him.
Frustrated, and resigned, he simply shook his head.
“I do not know why I fight it,” he said, turning Samson around as they began to head back towards Seton Castle with the old dog trailing behind them.
“You did this when you were at Castle Rising and now you are doing it here. You write these… these poems and convinced the poor clerics of St. Martin’s to reproduce them on those shingles and you continue to make a fortune at it. Why do I even resist?”
He was asking questions he already knew the answer to. Catherine grinned, reaching out to take his hand even as they rode along, side by side.
“Do not worry so,” she said. “The Scots are much more open-minded about such things. They love the work of Mhuire Dorcha. I was Lady Dark in Lynn and I am Lady Dark here, only in the Scot’s language.
But the truth is… well, it is more than my need to write.
I also feel that I am keeping poor Yerik alive somehow by continuing on. He was very devoted to my poems.”
Kress lifted an eyebrow. “He was devoted to the money.”
She shrugged. “In part, he was,” she said softly.
“But he believed in me enough to leave Lynn and go with me those years back. Had he not gone with me, he would still be alive now. I feel some obligation to him to continue on, so that his dedication to me would not be in vain. Does that make sense?”
The conversation took a somewhat somber turn.
They didn’t learn about Yerik’s death until well after the event, on a missive Alexander had sent them once they were settled, and it had been months before Catherine could speak about him without crying.
Even now, Kress could sense her sadness and he squeezed her hand as they rode along.
“It makes sense,” he said. “I am sure he would have been quite happy wherever you settled, producing the prayer cards for you. You must remember that the man was doing what he was happy doing when he died.”
“I know,” she sighed. “But for him, at least in part, I wish to continue writing my poems. I know you are afraid people will discover who Mhuire Dorcha is, but the clerics at St. Martin’s are very discreet. They would never tell and give up a great source of income.”
Kress nodded, rather ironically. “I would believe that,” he said. “Money over piety.”
“Are you angry with me, then?”
He looked at her, a reluctant grin on his face. “Am I ever angry with you?”
She flashed her dimples. “Sometimes you yell.”
“But do I mean it?”
“I do not like it when you yell.”
He started to laugh. “Then do not do anything to make me yell, it is that simple.” He watched her grin before she turned to watch the countryside around them, gloriously content with her life and her love.
That was why he dreaded to tell her what he must. “And speaking of yelling, you and I have something to discuss.”
Catherine turned to him with interest. “Oh? What is it?”
He maintained a casual manner, hoping that if he didn’t seem disturbed by what he was about to tell her, then she would follow suit. That was the hope, anyway.