Another Kind of Magic: Caitlyn, #3

Chapter 1

I disliked cats.

The big, ginger tom, mere feet away from me, back arched, fur fluffed out from ears to tail-tip and hissing louder than Cleopatra’s asp, did little to change my opinion. He did not like me, either. Not many did.

He sensed my otherness, despite my appearance. Perhaps I did not smell enough like a cat, or perhaps something else alerted him. I was not what I seemed, and he hated me for the deceit, threatening to tear my face off with each throaty growl.

I was never going to win a fight with this half-wild feline, and both of us knew it, so I showed him my sleek, grey tail and ran. Fleeter and more agile than the ageing tom, I kept just ahead of him, his frustrated yowls loud in my ears. Once or twice, his paw almost caught me as he swiped at my rear leg, hoping to trip me, but each time I bounded out of his reach, fear giving me speed as I raced for my life. He would kill me if he caught me.

I led the way blindly, with no thought to where I headed. We hurtled down treacherous, steep, winding stairs, foot-smoothed and narrow, out into the courtyard, across the muddied cobbles, and into the great hall. One of the castle dogs bounded into my path, barking hysterically. I leapt a good three feet in the air, clearing his flea-ridden back as he skidded to a halt. Yellowed, inch-long canines snapped shut, so close that the stench from his breath blasted into my face. He may have missed me, but the ginger tom did not, raking my side with sharp claws, deep enough to draw blood. Unbalanced, I dropped to the flagstones and tumbled ears over tail, mewing at the sudden hurt.

They were upon me, both of them. The scent of blood drew them like wolves to a kill, the dog sensing I was the weaker of the two cats, and the tomcat, intent on obliterating me, paid the mutt no heed. Hell, he could probably take the dog in a fair fight.

I crouched low, flattened to the floor and hissed, claws unsheathed, teeth bared, standing no chance but prepared to fight regardless. I had no choice, and this vicious little skirmish would be to the death. My death.

‘Get out of it!’

I did not recognise the voice, but when a heavily booted foot swung and connected with the dog’s ribs, I realised the man was friend, not foe. A piteous yelp replaced frenzied snarls, as the mutt was sent sprawling across the floor. A downpour of water from a thrown jug drenched the cat on top of me, and the ginger tom yowled in outrage and dismay. He jumped backwards, and if I were not hurting so much, I would have laughed at the indignation on his face. He spat and hissed insults, orange fur plastered to his body, all dignity lost, and the fight washed out of him. With one final growl, he shot across the hall and disappeared out of the door. The dog had fled, but he still yelped, and I guessed the kick must have done him some damage.

Served him right. Served them both right, although I wished the tomcat had suffered more than hurt pride and a soaking. All cats hated me, but most simply avoided me. The ginger tom, however, had taken my existence as a personal insult. The enormous male cat had attacked me once before and would probably do so again if he had the chance. Dogs, on the other hand, saw nothing but a cat and treated me as such. It made no difference, the result was often the same.

I lay there for a heartbeat or two, too shocked to move, although move I must. A normal cat would have fled already, but I was not a normal cat.

A pair of boots loomed over me, mud-caked and worn, rubbed to a shine from stirrup-straps. Big, calloused hands stroked my water-sodden fur, and I tensed at the violation.

‘Shush, lay still, little cat, I will not hurt you.’

I let the man examine me, and I lay rigid and discomfited as he prodded and poked. His fingers were gentle.

‘You have a nasty scratch across your ribs,’ he announced. ‘But you will live.’

He picked me up, as tender as if I were his own babe, and cradled me in his arms for a moment, before placing me carefully on my feet. I stood, wobbling slightly, more from shock than injury.

‘Go now, find somewhere to hide, and clean your wounds.’

I meowed at him, hoping it sounded grateful and, mindful of his advice, slunk back to my room.

Ever cautious, I hesitated outside my door. The ill-lit passage was empty. Ears swivelling, I listened intently. Reassured by the quiet, I squeezed under the door. Many years ago, I had removed a chunk of wood from the base, sufficient enough for a little cat to slip through, my own secret entrance.

Once inside, I peered up at the door, checking it was still barred and locked as I had left it; it would not do to take chances. As expected, my chamber was empty. The small room, with its tiny slit of a window, was cold in winter and stifling in summer, but at least it was all mine. I shared with none of Joan’s women, for a good reason. Imagine their reaction if they saw me shudder, and blur, and change, going from woman to cat and back again? I did not fancy being burned at the stake, nor drowned for a witch.

Me the witch? Ha! The unfairness of it stung. If caught, I would stand accused of witchcraft and the real witch would walk free, however much I protested my innocence. Even if they believed my story, the Church would want to burn the devil out of me. Either way, a bonfire awaited.

Caitlyn once more, I stood upright, sodden and dishevelled, and removed my drenched gown and shift. I reached for a scrap of cloth to dry the hair clinging to my naked back, the tendrils curling down to my waist and sticking to the raw gashes which reached from underneath one breast to where my bottom-most rib joined my spine. I hissed in pain. Pulling the locks free aggravated the wounds. Blood oozed slowly, but clots were already forming.

Deliberately, I stretched in the opposite direction, muffling a small cry as the three parallel wounds reopened. Ignoring the blood flowing freely down my side, I knelt in front of the hearth and piled logs on the embers, blowing the almost-dead fire back to roaring, greedy life. Satisfied it had taken hold, I filled a small, soot-black kettle with water from a bowl and hung it above the flames to boil.

While I waited for the water to heat, I used the remainder of the liquid in the bowl to sluice my injuries. Lord knows where that ginger tom’s claws had been. I had seen too many wounds fester for want of proper cleaning, not to pay particular attention to my own. The exact same thing had happened to me many years ago after a knife wound to my side, and I had nearly lost my life. I did not want to be in the same situation again. I still bore the scar, although it was on the opposite side to this. When this one healed, I would have a matching pair.

The water had come to the boil, and I added a splash of it to a bowl standing ready-filled with a mix of powdered herbs. I stirred until I had made a smooth paste, then smeared it on the wound. Finally, I folded a square of fresh linen and held it over the scratches, binding it tightly, wincing. I vowed I would catch that damn cat one day and see how he liked being set upon by something bigger than himself.

Taking a clean, dry gown from the chest at the foot of my horsehair mattress, I dressed and laid the wet garment across a chair for the heat of the fire to dry it. I was done here; I needed to return to my task.

With a sigh, I became Cat once more.

Chapter 2

I sat patiently outside the door, primly upright, with my tail curled around my front paws and with my eyes half closed. The bell for Compline rang, made faint by distance and thick stone walls, and I waited some more, the epitome of serenity on the outside but taut as a lute string inside.

I hated playing the spy, despite my many years of experience at the craft, and in spite of my competence. No one suspected a small, dove-grey feline to be anything other than what it appeared, even if its blue eyes were sometimes too knowing and intelligent. People saw what they wanted to see, and my mistress took advantage of their ignorance.

Lord William’s door was closed and locked, with two guards stationed outside. They looked as bored with their vigil as I was with mine.

William… the name always gave me pause. Even after all these long years, and the hundreds, maybe thousands, of children who had been named after the Duke of Normandy, I always thought of my William, my heart-son, and the man who had fulfilled a prophecy to become England’s greatest king. The man behind this door, William de Braose, Lord of Abergavenny, was nothing like my William had been. The only thing the two men had in common was their given name. And maybe their ruthlessness.

The hairs along my back rose, as footsteps drew me out of my reverie and set my heart to pounding. Breathing deeply to quieten my jitters, I crouched low, ready to dart to the door. The guards posted outside Lord William’s chambers straightened, stretching out limbs aching from four hours of being on watch.

Two servants appeared, closely followed by several of Llewelyn’s men. Our lord was taking no chances with his distinguished guest, nor with the man they escorted. I was at the wrong angle to see his face. Though my eyes were night-ready and I saw as clear as day when in cat form, there were distinct disadvantages to being less than a foot tall. All I could see was the underside of a clean-shaven chin.

One of the guards unlocked the door, and the servants were gestured inside with their burdens of food, mead, and fine wine. The prisoner followed. I wove through several pairs of legs, slunk through the open door, and found a dark corner in which to hide. If I were quiet enough, no one would ever know I was there. The servants retreated, the door was locked once more, and the men were left to enjoy their meal; roasted heron, among other dishes, if my nose told me true.

‘Wine?’ The voice was cultured, the man who owned it was well-dressed and confident. He turned from the table and held up a jug, sniffing at it with some caution. William, Lord of Abergavenny, the man who had piqued my mistress’s interest, displayed haughty good-looks, with his fair-haired, sun-lightened locks falling over his forehead, and his handsome face with its neatly trimmed beard.

‘It does not smell like the usual Welsh swill. I would hazard a guess that this is French,’ he added.

‘Please, but not too much, if I am to spend the rest of this evening in Llewelyn’s hall. I shall need my wits about me,’ the second man replied.

I stiffened, the hairs on my back rising again because I recognised the speaker, the seated one, the one whose face I had yet to see. He was the kicker of mean dogs and the thrower of water. My saviour from earlier. I could not recall his face, nor anything else about him, apart from his voice and the gentleness of his hands.

Intrigued, I crept closer, keeping to the shadows, grey on grey, eyes narrowed in concentration, paws soft and silent on the Persian carpet which covered a great deal of the stone floor. No expense was being spared for this particular prisoner, I thought, making sure to remember to tell my mistress how well Llewelyn was treating William.

‘Here.’ William handed the other man a goblet of ruby liquid, and sat in the opposite chair, clutching his own drink. ‘So, where has Llewelyn brought me?’ he asked.

‘We are at Criccieth.’

‘Criccieth! I suspected as much. What do you know of this castle?’

‘Twin-towered, heavily fortified, it has a massive curtain wall and is built on a steep headland. The sea is on three sides and mountains on the other, and it can only be reached by a narrow causeway high above the beach. It is almost inaccessible and is at the furthermost reach of Llewelyn’s lands. Our captor has chosen our prison well.’

William huffed. ‘He has made damned certain Lord Marshal and his forces will not risk trying to rescue me. How many men did we lose?’

‘Too many,’ the other man said. I edged around the room, slinking underneath a low table to try to catch a glimpse of his face. ‘The King ordered Marshal to retreat, and we were cut off. We did not stand a chance.’

His voice carried a Welsh lilt, rounded and polished, like a stone whose sharp edges had been smoothed by a fast-flowing river. The sound of it sent shivers along my spine.

William grunted. ‘Bastard! I might have known King Henry would not have the stomach for a fight with Llewelyn.’

‘Hush, Will. The situation could not have gone on. Llewelyn had the advantage, and Henry knew it.’

‘The King is still a bastard for leaving us there. Him and bloody Lord Marshal!’

‘They had no choice. We were too far up the valley and too far from the town. What would you have Marshal do? Risk all to save a handful of men?’

‘I am the Lord of Abergavenny, not a common foot soldier. How dare he leave me there to die?’

‘But you are not dead,’ the man pointed out. ‘If I am not mistaken, you are very much alive. And you will stay that way; you are too valuable to Llewelyn to let you come to any harm.’

The other man rose out of his chair, and I finally saw him. All of him. Oblivious to the heated discussion above my head, I lost interest in their words at the sight of him. How did I fail to notice his beauty when he saved me earlier? Admittedly, I had not looked at his face, too sore and shocked to consider anyone other than myself, but nevertheless, I could not believe this man had escaped my attention.

Over six-foot tall and rangy, and with a warrior’s loose stance, he carried himself like a man confident in his own skin; a man well-versed in battle; a man muscular enough to heave a sword almost as tall as a grown woman. Raven-haired and clear-skinned, his face devoid of beard, I thought him even more handsome than William. A frown creased his brow and his blue eyes bore signs of strain. He appeared worried, as well he might. Being Prince Llewelyn’s prisoner could do that to a man.

‘At least he is treating us well.’ William gestured towards the table and its burden of food. ‘We should eat, Hugh.’

Now I had a name for him, but I was none the wiser as to his identity, nor his importance, although he must be a man of means, else he would not be treated with the same accord as William.

My mistress, Princess Joan, had commanded me to discover all I could about William, Lord of Abergavenny. So far, I had little more to tell her than that which she already knew.

William had been fighting with Lord Marshal and the rest of King Henry’s forces when Llewelyn took him prisoner, along with some of his men, and brought him to Criccieth in a covered cart. Joan had watched the procession enter the castle from her solar window, and the whole court had blazed with the news of William’s capture ever since.

The two men ate in silence, each man seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and my stomach growled at the smell of roasted meats. I had missed supper for this, and my resentment once more raised its head. My mistress had little consideration for my needs or wants.

An apple hit the floor with a thud and rolled under the table. I held my breath, hoping it would be ignored, trusting there were plenty more in the bowl and that this one would be left for a servant to clear, but a hand appeared, groping for the fruit, followed by a head, and I found myself staring into the eyes of the man with the gentle touch.

‘Hello again, mistress cat.’ His voice was low and sweet, and held a hint of a smile.

‘What is down there?’ William wanted to know.

‘A cat. One I have encountered before.’

‘Chase it out, before it steals the rest of the meat.’

‘Come here, little cat, I will not harm you.’

I slunk out from underneath the table, mortified at being seen. Cats in a castle were as common as the mice and rats they were there to kill, and no one ever noticed them. They skulked in corners, bred in the barns and sheds which dotted the courtyard, and stole food from tables, but no one usually looked twice at a cat. Except for this man. I would need to be more careful. He would never guess the truth, but I had not lived this long without being cautious.

He scooped up the apple, polished it with the edge of his tunic, and bit into it with enthusiasm. His teeth were white and straight, his lips nicely shaped. I watched him as he chewed, and he watched me, in turn.

‘I don’t believe it! I bet it is female,’ William exclaimed. ‘What is it with you and women? They can’t stay away from you.’ William abruptly leaned forward, and without warning, caught me up and turned me over. I hissed and spat, and raked his hand with my sharp, dagger claws, but not before he had seen what he wanted.

He dropped me with an oath, sucking at the scratches on his hand. ‘Female,’ he announced. ‘And a nasty one.’

Hugh laughed at his lord’s words. ‘I would scratch you, too, if you did that to me.’ He searched the chamber and found me hiding under a chair. I would have fled the room, but the door to the passage remained locked and guarded, and the door to the bedchamber was closed. I had nowhere to run.

I growled at him, furious and indignant, but he only laughed. So, I settled for sitting down, wrapping my tail around my paws, and giving him a haughty cat stare.

‘Will, you have scuppered my chances with yet another lady,’ he joked. ‘This one is not happy.’

William became serious all at once. His head dropped and the cockiness leaked out of him. ‘I hope Eva has been informed that she is not yet a widow. I cannot bear for her to be worried,’ he said.

‘All women worry. It is in their nature. Llewelyn must have sent word to the King that you are his prisoner, and the King will have passed the message to your wife.’

That was probably correct. Prince Llewelyn might be a military man, but he was also no fool. If there was gain to be had, then he would ensure he had it. And there was definitely a profit to be gleaned from this particular situation.

Llewelyn ruled North Wales, and all had been relatively peaceful between the Welsh and the English until King Henry allowed Lord Marshal, one of the most prominent men in England, to begin building a castle on Welsh soil. Llewelyn, unsurprisingly, had taken umbrage at that, and had attacked the English and their half-formed castle, capturing William and some of his men in the process. That William happened to be Marshal’s son-in-law, proved to be an added bonus for Llewelyn.

I wondered what terms would be negotiated, for terms there most certainly would be; if Llewelyn did not want to negotiate with the English king for William’s release, William would already be dead. And William knew it – hence the cockiness and the confidence, despite his embarrassment at being taken prisoner.

‘I heard a rumour that Llewelyn is asking for two thousand pounds for your sorry carcass,’ Hugh said, his attention still on me. He held out a hand but I ignored it, as I also ignored the soft, little kissing noises he sent my way as a form of enticement, although I couldn’t help but stare at his mouth as he called to me. A heat started low down in my belly and spread up to my chest, and I imagined those lightly puckered lips on mine.

‘Two thousand pounds! Is that all I am worth?’ William looked indignant.

Hugh glanced up at his lord, then sat up and leaned back in his chair. ‘It is a king’s ransom, Will, a great deal of money.’

Interesting news indeed. Llewelyn might easily raise an army with that kind of wealth at his disposal. There would be little doubt that the ransom would be paid; William was too rich and too valuable to leave to languish in a remote Welsh dungeon, although perhaps dungeon may be too strong a word honoured guest for the luxury the Lord of Abergavenny had been accorded. He might be imprisoned on the topmost floor of one of the massive circular gatehouse towers, but William occupied a guest suite, with a sitting room, a bedroom and his own privy. Expensive carpets were on the floor, rich clothing had been procured and hastily altered for him, he was served the best of food and wines… Llewelyn was treating him like an honoured guest – apart from the locked door and the guards placed outside it.

Hugh had no such restrictions on his movements it appeared, else he would not have been in the great hall when I needed rescuing.

I wondered why.

Chapter 3

Joan was waiting for me, bed-ready, staring into the flames of the night-banked fire and warming her hands at the hearth. Her women would have already been sent to their beds, although I suspected Llewelyn may visit her later. He often did. Unusual for an arranged marriage, and for a marriage of such long standing, the Prince seemed to genuinely love his royal wife, as much as he enjoyed the prestige of being married to King Henry’s half-sister. I did wonder whether he loved her out of choice or witchcraft. A mixture of both, perhaps?

Joan’s mother, Clemence, had been a nothing, a nobody, in the scheme of things. Norman French, of good family, but neither good enough nor wealthy enough to secure the husband she wanted, she had resorted to using magic to enthral King John and tempt him to her bed. He had duly obliged, and she had presented him with a bastard child – Joan, his firstborn. Clemence had been livid – she had hoped for a son – and I had borne the brunt of her temper for months. If the child had been male, he might have stood a chance of being King of England. Instead, King John had married, got himself a legitimate son and heir, and Clemence had been forced to make do with a daughter. Although, the daughter had done extremely well for herself, indeed.

The whole affair had given me a secret smile, for I had witnessed almost the exact same thing with Arlette.

Clemence had continued to use her dark arts to keep Joan in King John’s thoughts, and when the child was old enough to marry, her father had wed the girl off to Prince Llewelyn of Wales at the tender age of thirteen, eager to cement ties with this formidable Welshman. It was not exactly what Clemence had hoped for, but Joan had become the Princess of Wales. Not too bad a rise up the ladder for a bastard girl.

It was a pity Joan didn’t see it that way. Although she held the title of Princess of Wales, she was English through and through. She had resented being sold off to appease the Welsh; even at thirteen, she had hoped for a match which kept her close to the throne of England. I had witnessed her disappointment first hand, and it had not been pleasant. She had schemed and plotted continually, eager to further her position, and Joan had even managed to persuade the Pope to declare her legitimate, though I failed to see what good that would do. Bastard or not, she was married to Llewelyn, and she took great pains to keep him bound to her, heart and soul, using all the whiles and charms at her disposal. There would be no more ladder-climbing for her. Unless Llewelyn died…

‘Well?’ Joan’s expression was expectant.

‘William is to be ransomed for two thousand pounds,’ I said.

‘A princely sum. Is he worth such an amount? And if so, who will pay it?’

‘Lord Marshal?’

‘Maybe,’ Joan mused, ‘Although it would not be for love of his son-in-law. I heard they can barely tolerate each other. No, if Marshal is prepared to pay, it would be for political reasons only. It would not do to allow the Lord of Abergavenny to be held by Llewelyn. It might give my husband ideas.’

‘Such as?’

‘If Llewelyn does not receive a ransom, he will kill William and send his head back to Marshal in a bag. If he did such a thing to one English lord, King Henry rightly fears that the rest of the Welsh princes might throw in their lot with Llewelyn. My brother would have a full-blown war on his hands instead of the petty clashes he deals with at present. In a war for border territories and for Wales itself, there is no guarantee Henry would win, and even if Marshal hates William as much as it is rumoured, he would suffer severe loss of face if the Welsh executed one of his own family.

She sat and gestured for me to loosen her hair. I did her bidding, unpinning her thick yellow locks and brushing out the tangles.

‘I heard he is handsome,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me.’

The image in my mind was not of William; instead, his man, Hugh, filled my thoughts and I struggled to recall Lord Abergavenny’s features.

‘He has a beard,’ I said, as a start.

‘Phish! What man does not?’ Joan was unimpressed with my description.

Hugh. He does not, I thought.

‘Blond hair, tall, a warrior’s build,’ I added.

‘Taller than Llewelyn?’

‘Yes, more muscular, too.’

‘I believe he is little more than thirty years old.’

‘Probably not.’

‘You did not say whether you thought he is handsome.’

My hands stilled, and I replaced the comb on the table. Joan turned to face me.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘Yes, he is,’ I replied, but I was not talking about Lord Abergavenny.

Chapter 4

The great hall brimmed with people: barons, knights, soldiers, pages, and squires, for the most part. Many of Llewelyn’s nobles had accompanied their lord to Criccieth Castle after the battle and were reluctant to return to their own lands, wanting to witness the captive for themselves, and maybe hope to be granted a share of the ransom.

Men were everywhere, loud, brash, and jubilant. Women were scarcer, just Joan and her ladies, and a few wives and daughters of the men-at-arms and knights who garrisoned the castle. Ale, mead, and wine had been poured, and the atmosphere was feast-day exultant. A battle had been won and hostages had been captured, and the men’s relief at finding themselves alive at the end of the day proved irrepressible. They wanted to celebrate.

William and Hugh marched in, escorted by several of Llewelyn’s men; a prison detail thinly disguised as an honour guard. No one carried arms in the presence of the Prince of Wales, except for his personal protectors, who were hand-picked and fiercely loyal. William’s escort bore no weapons other than the small daggers used to cut meat, but no one doubted the status of the strangers. William and his men were prisoners, not guests. The hall fell silent. No one had expected Llewelyn’s prisoners to be summoned for supper, and a quiver of excitement rippled through the hall.

If I had not been watching Joan closely, and if I did not know her so well, it would have passed me by, that little, tell-tale frisson which rippled through her. It took her one glance at William, Lord of Abergavenny, and the very air reverberated with her awareness of him.

I lay curled on Joan’s lap; not a position I liked, but this evening Joan wanted to keep me close. I knew not why, but at least from here I saw faces, not legs. She stiffened and froze when the prisoners entered, and her reaction drew my attention when all other eyes, Llewelyn’s included, were focused