Knight's Ransom. Suzanne Barclay
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girl laughed, a pudgy hand plucking at the skirt of her silken cotehardie. “I look like a short, puce cow in this,” she said merrily. “But Mama insisted I wear it instead of the black, which at least doesn’t cling to these horrid hips of mine.”
“The color is most becoming on you,” Cat replied, unable to truthfully say the close-cut style of the gown complemented Margery’s full figure.
“What a diplomat you are, Cat.” Margery laughed again, transforming her plain-as-pudding features to something approaching pretty. “May I say your gown fits you to perfection and the blue deepens the violet of your eyes. Or has Sir Archie already said so?”
Cat rolled the eyes in question. “Thus far I’ve not seen him this eve. ‘Tis probably too much to expect he’s drunken himself into a stupor and won’t attend.”
“How you speak about the most ardent of your many admirers,” Margery teased without the slightest hint of jealousy or envy. “And you know Sir Archie doesn’t overimbibe.” Planting a hand on her ample bosom, she crossed her eyes in fair imitation of the love-struck knight and intoned, “Moderation in all things, that’s my byword…except in my adoration of you, my fair Catherine.”
Cat laughed and shook her head. “You’ve a wicked sense of humor, Margery.”
“No more so than your own. ‘Tis why we’ve become such fast friends, you and I.”
“Aye. Your friendship is all that’s made Bordeaux bearable.”
“Never say you’re lonely. Why, you’ve a string of men trailing after you that’s made you the envy of every woman here.” Every woman save Margery. Which was but one of the reasons she was Cat’s friend, her only friend. “Especially Lady Clarice. When I went looking for you, I had only to follow that woman’s malevolent stare to find you,” Margery added.
“I don’t understand why she hates me so.”
“She’s jealous of your beauty and wealth.”
“But she has both in abundance, and I’ve made it plain to everyone here that I do not desire any of the men at court.”
“The men, contrary creatures as they are, desire you all the more for your aloofness. And who wouldn’t choose you over her? True, she is pretty and she inherited a rich estate from her poor dead husband, but she’s shallow and vicious, without a care for anyone save herself. While you are good and kind and patient.”
“Patient.” Cat laughed. “I wish my family could hear you say that last. Even I admit I’m impetuous and headstrong. Because you are my friend, you see only my good points.” As she turned to smile at Margery, she spied Clarice.
The woman wrinkled her nose as though she’d scented something bad, then leaned to whisper in the ear of one of the silly women who trailed after her. What were they saying about her? Apprehension trickled down Cat’s spine, making her shiver.
“Don’t give them a thought.” Margery seized Cat’s hand and squeezed. “There is naught bad they can say about you.”
If you only knew. Cat repressed another shiver. Each time a new person arrived from England she braced herself, wondering if they’d be the one to reveal her ugly secret. Though two years had passed since the sordid incident, ‘twas the sort of thing that lingered on people’s minds and leaked out their lips. So deep was her shame she hadn’t even mentioned Henry to Margery, to whom she’d bared all her other foibles and dreams. And if Lady Ela, Margery’s proper mother, learned of the aborted elopement, she’d forbid her daughter to speak with someone as tainted as Cat.
“They’re just jealous because all the men are wild for you.”
Cat grimaced. “I’d settle for one man who was more interested in me than in Papa’s money. Someone who accepted me as I am…warts and all.”
“You do say the oddest things, and I doubt you’ll find such a paragon here. ‘Tis a greedy group that’s come to Bordeaux.” Margery glanced about, frowning. “The old ones have come to relive their glory days, the youths for fame and fortune. Those who can’t earn it in combat, seek to marry wealth…or steal it.”
“True.” Cat sighed, heartily sick of being pursued by men with gold lust, not love in their eyes. Before leaving, her mother had warned Cat to be on her guard. “Philippe will watch you as zealously as he would his own daughters, but you must do your part. Take care you are never alone with any of these men. Most are even less honorable than that disgusting Henry Norville was, and God knows we don’t want a repeat of that disaster,” Gaby Sommerville had added, never one to mince words.
As if Cat would ever leave herself vulnerable to a man again. She drew in a breath of hot, stagnant air and released it noisily. “How I long to leave this stifling court behind and ride out for a day,” she said wistfully.
“’Tis too dangerous.” Margery’s eyes widened. “Never say you are going to sneak out and ride alone as you used to do at home.”
“Nay. I may be bored nearly to death, but I’m not stupid.” She gestured toward the two hulking men-atarms, who stood with their backs to the tiny alcove, giving the illusion of privacy. “Gamel and Garret guard me so zealously I cannot even visit the garderobes without them. I wish…”
“Mon Dieu. I’ve never seen him before. Who do you suppose that is?” Margery murmured.
Cat followed Margery’s gaze to the man who’d just entered the hall. Tall and wide shouldered, dressed all in black, he stuck out like a raven in a room full of peacocks. Looking neither right nor left at the gawking nobles, he walked toward the dais and their host, John, Duke of Lancaster. The sight of the crowd instinctively parting to permit him passage reminded Cat of her father. Though the stranger was more leanly built, he had the same proud carriage, determined stride and stern expression that made men stand aside for Ruarke Sommerville.
Power. It radiated from this man the way heat did from sunbaked rocks. Here was a presence to be reckoned with, Cat thought, going up on her toes to get a better look. Torchlight flickered over his rugged profile, high forehead, a straight nose and solid jaw. Inky hair fell past his nape, accentuating his deeply tanned skin. She gasped softly, recognizing him as the man who’d stared at her through the window. Who was he?
“Whoever he is, he’s causing a stir,” Margery whispered. “Lady Clarice looks like a child ready to pounce on a sweetmeat.”
Cat realized her own jaw had dropped open, snapped it shut and forced her gaze from the magnetic stranger. “He’s likely some impoverished knight. Why, he isn’t wearing a bit of gold chain.”
“He’s impressive enough without.”
Aye, he was. And that rankled. Cat fought against the insidious pull of something she’d sworn she’d never feel again. Desire. Only Henry had never affected her this strongly.
The stranger stopped before the dais and inclined his head. “Gervase St. Juste begs Your Grace’s leave to enter the tourney.” His low baritone raised Cat’s heart rate another notch. Though his form was correct, uttered by hundreds of men anxious to participate in the tourney, his voice had an edge the others had lacked. Pride, she thought. And mayhap anger, as well.
“I bet he never begged for a thing in his life,” Margery said, and Cat was disposed to agree.
Lord John leaned forward, the disinterest of the past two weeks absent from his leathery face. “From whence do you hail?”
“I’ve a small holding called Alleuze in the Languedoc.”
“Hmm. Have you fought before? We want no inexperienced lads injuring themselves in their quest for glory.”
The strikingly beautiful Clarice sidled up. Her red lips and the black kohl lining her eyes contrasted vividly with her white skin. “Oh, I doubt Sir Gervase is inexperienced.”
“If he is, you’ll soon cure