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  True Love

  Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition

  Published By Flora Speer At Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 © by Flora Speer

  Cover Design Copyright 2014,

  By http//:DigitalDonna.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Note:

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To my son-in-law, Kevin, with thanks for all the help and advice he provided for this book.

  Prologue

  Windsor Castle

  February, A.D. 1121.

  “Cursed intriguers,” the king muttered. “They are plotting against me, attempting to subvert my will. I wish I could order all of them hanged.”

  “A highly impractical desire, my lord,” Royce the baron of Wortham responded. “Under the present circumstances, plots are to be expected.”

  Henry I, ruler of England and Normandy, swung away from the window to face the man who was the only other person in the royal chamber.

  “You are right, of course,” the king said with a sigh.

  In the previous November, Henry's two legitimate sons, William and Richard, had been drowned in the sinking of The White Ship off Barfleur. The tragedy left Henry with illegitimate sons aplenty, but no legal male heirs. Even before the dreadful news was carried to him, his barons had begun their scheming, each hoping to influence the choice of a new heir to his own advantage. Swayed by the pressure of so many voices and hoping for a little peace, the aging, long-widowed Henry decided to marry a second time, to the daughter of the count of Louvain. Adelicia was young and sweet-natured, and Henry's intent was to produce a son with her. The wedding was to take place on the morrow.

  Royce had, ostensibly, traveled to Windsor for the celebrations. The real, private reason for his presence was this secret early morning interview with the king. In the past Royce had undertaken so many clandestine missions for Henry that in certain circles he was known with some contempt as the king's spymaster, for spying was considered a dishonorable activity, unworthy of a nobleman. Royce cared nothing for the opinions of others. He knew how valuable his covert activities were to the king, and he surmised that the royal summons meant there was more work of the same kind to be accomplished. Furthermore, he suspected that he already knew what the royal command was going to be. He was delighted to hear the king confirm his expectations.

  “I have read with great interest the report you sent about Phelan of Sutton and his son, Eustace,” Henry said. “And I have heard rumors about them from my courtiers. Since Phelan's daughter married into your family, those two have been using your name as if you are in agreement with their activities. I know it's not true; still, the connection with Phelan makes you the ideal man to discover what his intentions are, and who else is involved with him and his son. I fear there is more at issue here than who my heir will be. Phelan and his associates may be contemplating treason.”

  “There will always be a few disloyal souls,” Royce said. “Then there are other men who, at heart, are loyal to you, yet who are eager to use an unhappy situation if they see a way to increase their own wealth and importance. Fortunately, those are the souls who can be made to understand their error.”

  Royce was pleased – and comforted, for he loved his king and worried over Henry's prolonged grief – to see the royal eyes suddenly blazing at his words as they used to do in earlier, happier times.

  “I prefer to avoid executions whenever possible. Nevertheless, unrepentant traitors will be punished,” Henry said with great firmness. “I believe there is a large market held in Wortham village each year during the weeks just before and after Whitsunday?”

  “There is, my lord.” Royce understood that the king's abrupt statement was not a change of subject.

  “My Whitsuntide court is to be held at Westminster,” Henry said. “Ordinarily, I would expect you to attend. However, I am pleased to make an exception for you, since you will have other duties this year. You, my friend, will be at Wortham, hunting vipers. Use whatever means you deem necessary to rout them out of their dens.”

  “It is always a pleasure to serve you, my lord.” Royce bowed low. When he lifted his head to meet the king's gaze, the two men smiled at each other in perfect understanding.

  Chapter 1

  Wortham Castle

  May, A.D. 1121.

  “I will never understand my father,” Catherine said. She watched Royce greeting the most recent arrivals, while around her the great hall bustled with the crowd of noble men and women who were to be their guests for the next two weeks.

  In addition there were the servants, men-at-arms, youthful pages, and squires who had come with the guests, as well as the usual complement of men and women who lived and worked at the castle. Both the inner and outer baileys were filled with huge warhorses, with the gentle palfreys that ladies usually rode, and packhorses laden with the armor and baskets of clothing which had yet to be taken to the guest chambers. The stables were already overcrowded. The castle baker was overworked. The cook was frantic.

  “It's not strange for Lord Royce to invite guests,” said Catherine's cousin and companion, Aldis. “We have housed and fed more folk than this on other occasions. Do you remember Christmas two years ago, when eight barons came from Normandy to celebrate with us? This is not so large a crowd as that was.”

  “But why now?” Catherine asked the young woman who was a dear friend as well as a close relative. “Why at this particular time?”

  “Because of the Whitsuntide feast, of course,” Aldis said. “Not to mention the great Wortham market. Just think of all the wonderful goods, the fabrics and jewelry and trinkets brought right here to Wortham from far away. The ladies will enjoy themselves and the merchants will make handsome profits. And then, there's the tournament for the men. Two days of glorious mock combat. What fun it will be.”

  “Perhaps.” Catherine doubted if Whitsunday was the true reason for the gathering. Nor could she think it would be much fun for those who were hurt during the tournament. It was her duty to see to the preparation of clean linen bandages and various herbal remedies. Tinctures reputed to speed the healing of open wounds, liniments for aching muscles, and salves to soothe the rashes that were inevitable when men wearing chainmail armor fought for long hours under the hot sun, were all stockpiled in the stillroom, ready for immediate use. She devoutly hoped no one would be killed.

  She simply could not comprehend why her father, who had seen enough of the horrors of warfare to be uninterested in playing at it, should insist upon holding a series of armed contests. It made no sense to her, and Royce's evasive response to her probing questions had left her unsatisfied and feeling oddly uneasy.

  She did not mind the extra work involved in planning food and lodging for close to one hundred people. Having served as her father's chatelaine since the death of her mother almost a decade ago, when Catherine was not quite fourteen years old, she was used to entertaining on a grand scale. But she was convinced there was a hidden motive to Royce's decision to hold a springtime festival that was intended to last for two weeks. She did not for a moment imagine the decision had anything to do with the Wortham fair. She was sure Royce was using the fair as an excuse.

  And why had King Henry given permission to hold a tournament when he was said to despise the violence involved in mock warfare, which too often resulted in serious injuries or even death?

  “Oh
, no!” Aldis exclaimed. The way she clutched at Catherine's arm conveyed utter dismay. “Lord Phelan of Sutton and his son have just arrived. How dare they come here?”

  Catherine stared in disbelief at the two men who were greeting her father at the entrance to the great hall. The older man was stocky and red-faced, with coarse features. The son was larger and brawnier, but with a dull expression that Catherine knew from past acquaintance was caused by a combination of naturally slow wits and constant heavy drinking.

  “Lord Royce cannot have invited them,” Aldis gasped. “Surely, he would not, not after Phelan was so angry because you and I helped Lady Margaret to run away from her wedding this past Yuletide.”

  “In the end, Phelan was pleased to see his daughter married to my brother instead of to his original choice for her,” Catherine said. “He proclaimed his delight at becoming a member of our family to anyone who would listen. It was disgusting to watch him fawning over my father.”

  “Eustace hates you,” Aldis said, “because you and Margaret inspired his poor, abused wife to leave him and return to her father. Eustace cannot be pleased to be here.”

  “Eustace will do what his father tells him to do.” Catherine fell silent, watching the three men who stood just inside the hall. She saw in her father's smile and his apparently pleasant conversation with Phelan and Eustace a new puzzle to add to her many unanswered questions.

  She was well aware that there were matters her father could not discuss with her. She knew he frequently undertook secret missions for King Henry, but never before had he invited enemies into the castle that was his stronghold. She did not doubt that Phelan and Eustace were enemies, nor did she doubt that her father knew it. Why, then, were those two at Wortham as honored guests? The question nagged at her, prickling the too-ready curiosity which she knew was one of the worst flaws in her character.

  From across the hall Royce motioned to her. Catherine moved forward to join her father in greeting the guests from Sutton and bidding them welcome to Wortham.

  “My lords.” She made a polite curtsey, but could not bring herself to extend her hand to either man. She did not want to touch them. The contempt she saw in Phelan's eyes and the undisguised look on Eustace's face as he took in her scarred cheek were all the proof she needed to know they had not forgiven her for the events of Twelfth Night when she had aided Phelan's daughter in her flight from an arranged marriage to an elderly and dissolute baron.

  Catherine decided she would seize every possible opportunity to avoid Phelan and Eustace during the next fourteen days. She would spend her time with her lady guests and leave the men to her father. With a hasty excuse about being needed in the kitchen, she stepped away from Royce's side.

  So intent was she on escaping the presence of Phelan and his son that she did not notice the man who was coming through the doorway until after she bumped into him. She halted with her nose pressed against a broad, very firm chest. A pair of strong hands caught her shoulders to steady her.

  “My lady,” said a deep voice from someplace high above her head, “have a care. If you charge at me so fiercely, you will overcome me before I can enter the tournament. Then where will I be, without a chance of earning a prize?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” Did she only imagine that the stranger's hands caressed her upper arms as he removed them from her shoulders, or was he really so daring while in full view of her father and the guests? “I did not see you.”

  “You wound me deeply,” he said. “I thought I was unmistakable.”

  Catherine looked up – and up again, tilting her head back, for he was a tall man. His short hair was dark and his face was sharp-featured, with a long slash of nose and a firm mouth. She had the impression that his eyes were as dark as his hair, but she could not see them well, because his black lashes were lowered. He seemed to be gazing at her mouth. Or, perhaps, it was just that she was so much shorter than he, and thus he had to look downward to see her at all. Catherine did not even reach to his shoulder. She felt suddenly very small, very fragile, and more than a little breathless. Her left hand came up to cover her cheek.

  “I do not know you,” she said, startled by her own reaction to a man who was a complete stranger.

  “A sad truth which I shall rectify at once,” he responded. “I am Sir Braedon, known to my fellow knights as Braedon the Wicked, and I am an invited guest at Wortham.”

  “The Wicked?” Catherine thought she detected a gleam in the man's dark eyes as she repeated the appellation, though she was unable to decide whether it was malice or humor she saw in him. Under his penetrating gaze she struggled to regain her usual air of competent serenity. It was a great relief to have her father join them at that moment and to feel his steadying hand on her shoulder.

  “Sir Braedon.” Royce reached around Catherine to clasp the younger man's hand. “It's a pleasure to see you again. I am glad you were able to accept my invitation. This lady is my daughter, Catherine.”

  Before Braedon could respond Phelan was there, pushing Catherine into the background as he thrust out his beefy hand to the newcomer. “I do not believe we have met. Royce is a near relative of mine, since his son and my daughter were wed in January. Are you a cousin to whom I have not yet been introduced?”

  “I am no relative at all, merely an acquaintance from court,” Braedon answered.

  “I consider all of Royce's family and friends to be my family and friends, too,” Phelan said. “Here is my son, Eustace. I suppose you two young men will be meeting in the lists.”

  Braedon responded absently to Phelan, whom he disliked on sight. Considering what he knew of Eustace, Braedon was surprised to see that he appeared to be a dull-witted fellow. But then, perhaps it was precisely Eustace's lack of wits that had caused Linette's ruin. Braedon warned himself not to dwell on that particular subject. Contemplation of Linette's life always made him angry, and anger was not conducive to clear thinking. Instead, he diverted his attention to a far more interesting person than Eustace of Sutton.

  No one had told him that Royce had a daughter. None of his contacts at the royal court, not a single noble, cleric, man-at-arms, servant, nor any of the lower forms of human life to whom he had spoken while gathering information in preparation for his visit to Wortham had mentioned her existence. He thought that was odd, for surely Lady Catherine was well dowered and, therefore, she was of interest to any nobleman who was hoping to increase his wealth and land holdings through an advantageous marriage. Braedon was certain she was unwed. In the performance of his duties he kept careful track of King Henry's nobles. He would have been aware of any connection formed with a baron as well-known as Royce.

  Perhaps the omission had occurred because, as beauty was counted among courtiers, Catherine of Wortham left much to be desired. She looked to be in her early twenties, at least a decade older than the usual age for marriage. She was short and her figure was too well-rounded to match the slender, small-breasted ideal. Still, there was a delicacy about her. When he had held her shoulders for a moment Braedon had known that he was strong enough to crush her bones in his bare hands – except he was by nature incapable of damaging anyone as exquisite as this most unusual girl.

  Catherine did not possess the blue eyes and pale blonde hair that poets lauded, nor even tresses black and smooth as a raven's wing. Instead, her vivid coloring was similar to her father's. Her gray-green eyes sparkled with intelligence and the twin, red-gold braids hanging over her shoulders were so rich in color and so thick that Braedon's fingers fairly itched to unwind them and spread wide the shimmering wealth of her hair. He was sure it would feel like liquid silk pouring over his hands. The lady's chin was pointed and so was her pert, slightly upturned nose. Her rosy mouth hinted at easy laughter and she moved with quiet assurance.

  She took Braedon's breath away.

  The jagged scar on her left cheek did mar her smooth skin, but not irreparably. He wondered how she had acquired it. Surely, it could not be a reason for her lack of
a husband, for it appeared to be a recent injury.

  Tearing his attention from her, he made a fast survey of the great hall, noting its cleanliness, smelling the lavender and rosemary scattered amongst the fresh rushes on the floor. Brightly colored tapestries hung on every wall. Beneath the tapestries sat carved wooden chests, with gold and silver plate displayed atop each chest. Many-branched silver candelabra held the fine wax tapers that lit the rich scene. Like most stone buildings Wortham keep needed fires to chase away the chill on all but the warmest days. The huge fireplaces at either end of the hall were burning apple wood and the fragrance carried to Braedon's nose, mingling pleasantly with the smell of the herbs on the floor and the hint of roasting meat that wafted from the direction of the screens passage and the kitchen beyond..

  No, a woman like Lady Catherine, born into such wealth, child of two noble parents, honored and respected for her high lineage, was not for Sir Braedon, simple knight, landless bastard. He knew it, and told himself so. Then, still feasting his eyes on Catherine's bright and animated countenance, he told himself a second time.

  Uncomfortably aware of Royce's cool gaze on him, Braedon tore his attention away from Catherine so he could concentrate fully on the conversation with Phelan and his son. It was a relief when Royce moved off to greet a party of newly arrived guests. Phelan and Eustace trailed after him, which left Braedon alone with Catherine.

  “Sir Braedon,” she said with a glance for the young man who had followed him into the hall to stand patiently waiting by the door, “you and your squire are both welcome here. One of the servants will show you to a guest room, and I will order hot water and a tub carried to you.”

  “After a long ride on a hot day, I will be glad of a bath,” he said, and grinned at her in expectation of an interesting hour It was the custom for the lady of the castle or the lord's daughter to bathe honored guests upon their arrival. Any man who took impolite advantage of so intriguing an opportunity was considered a boor and beneath contempt. All the same, the thought of Catherine on her knees, scrubbing his back and assorted other parts of him, was delightful. Captivated by the way in which she so quickly assumed the serious demeanor of chatelaine and hostess, Braedon could not resist the chance to tease her. “I eagerly await the pleasure of your company in my chamber,” he said, and was rewarded for his boldness by the sight of her cheeks blushing bright pink.