Peony Page 8

  “Hmm.” Mamie studied her.

  Catherine saw no judgment in her eyes. Maybe it was time to share a few more pieces of the horror that haunted her at night. But to what gain? Mamie wouldn’t be able to absolve her. Only the church could do that. Once she completed this journey to Jerusalem, she could perhaps put the dead to rest.

  “And you cannot go home again?”

  Catherine’s chest clenched. How deeply she missed her large family. As much as they had loved her, they would not be able to welcome a murderess back in the fold. “No.”

  Mamie placed a hand on Catherine’s arm. “Ragenard supported you both by jousting?”

  Catherine swallowed past the lump in her throat. Ragenard, while young and impetuous, had been glorious too. The memory of his masculine beauty left her breathless. “He was an excellent jouster.”

  Of course, when there had been no jousts, they’d needed to find another way to eat. She’d used her talents of observation and intuition to tell people what they wanted to hear. For coin.

  “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “Sometimes I would tell the future.”

  Mamie grinned. “Our Madonna played at being a fortune-teller? I like you even better the more I get to know you.”

  They turned as Fay and Sarah came outside, letting the inn’s door slam behind them. “Why did you come outside? It’s cold.” Fay rubbed her arms as she wrapped her red-and-white cloak around her shoulders.

  “I understand that Lord Payen de Montfer and his men are to join our group.” Sarah’s mouth thinned. “To make us feel safe, the king said.”

  Fay snickered. “We think there is more to it than that. What need has the queen of men when she has us?”

  Catherine glanced at the inn and saw Thierry staring out the window at them. She didn’t trust the eunuch. He’d made his enmity of the queen clear. “Hush.” She glanced at Thierry, ensuring the others saw him too. Unlike Payen, Thierry was a known danger. She patted her hip, the place her sword should be. Unfortunately, her peony-pink gown was made to wear with a kirtle, not a sheath.

  “We must be on guard.” Catherine spoke quietly but directly to her fellow spies, keeping her back to the window. “And never forget Lord de Montfer’s first loyalty is to the king. And ours to the queen.”

  Payen took no particular offense to the way Lady Catherine reacted to his announcement, her skin flushed, her agitated fingers touching the area below her throat. Her hands were pale, slender. Her dark brown hair was braided in one thick, long rope beneath a sheer silk veil, a thin silver circlet holding the wispy cloth in place. Her fingers were bare, as were her ears. He thought it appropriate she wore no jewelry to compete with her loveliness. It was an unbiased observation, not attraction.

  He felt the smallest bit of anticipation. A challenge given and accepted.

  Women giggled and tossed their hair, leading their men away from duty and honor. His beautiful mother had betrayed his father. A Scottish lass with blue eyes and black hair had convinced his brother to leave a dying young King Philip to run away with her rather than face his misdeeds. The lovely Queen Eleanor caused King Louis to think with his heart instead of his head.

  It would not happen to him.

  So what if Catherine pilfered missives, perhaps at the bequest of the queen? He did the same for Louis, was doing it now by becoming a member of the vanguard with the queen’s retinue. What else did the ladies do? He would relay all to Louis.

  He got up from the table and walked to the other end, listening to the rulers of France and Germany talk like old friends. Comrades. Conrad told tales of himself, laughing as he mimed spewing over the side of the boat and angering Lady Catherine.

  “I would like to apologize to the lady,” Conrad said. “When I am feeling more myself. Perhaps woo her a bit,” he added with a wink. “If the lady is free?” For some reason, this brought a sharp pain to Payen’s temple.

  Eleanor nodded.

  King Louis said, “It could be arranged.”

  What? Did the king miss the leer in Conrad’s eye? Catherine le Rochefort was a lady.

  Of sorts.

  He cleared his throat and gestured to the cloaks hanging on various hooks behind the queen. “I thought to escort Lady Catherine to the market. She has unfinished business there.”

  “She does?” Queen Eleanor arched a brow.

  He nodded. Had Catherine told the queen of her fascination with the beggar child? “Thread, perhaps. She was not specific.”

  The four women tromped in, rubbing their hands, the tips of their noses red from the cold.

  “My heavens, what were they doing outside?” Waving her guard over, Queen Eleanor called, “Lady Catherine.”

  Shoulders back, face expressionless, Catherine said, “Oui?”

  “Lord de Montfer was saying you have need of the market, and he’s offered to escort you.”

  Catherine’s jaw tightened. “Oh?”

  “I think it is a good idea. I would like a spool of black thread.”

  She bowed her head. “It would be my pleasure. Now?”

  “Oui. King Louis has an announcement to make upon your return.”

  “My shopping can wait, my queen.”

  “Mine cannot.”

  Catherine curtsied. “Of course. Excuse me.” She bowed her head to Louis and Conrad, who eyed her figure with appreciation as she took her cloak from the hook. “Shall we?” She flung her braid over her shoulder.

  Payen followed her from the inn, using all his willpower to keep his gaze from her swaying hips. He’d never been in love, but he knew desire. Most noblemen fulfilled their sexual needs with whores or courtesans. Long-term mistresses were more his style. No commitments, no bastards. When it was time to move on, there were never tears. Just a pouch of coins and a chaste kiss good-bye. Lady Catherine sparked his slumbering libido to waking.

  He doubted she would agree to such a situation.

  Why had the queen insisted on their outing? Perhaps she was to spy on him. He grinned at the possibility.

  A burst of wind slid down his neck, and he pulled the collar of his cloak up around his ears. Lady Catherine slipped on brown leather gloves, her red and white cloak lined with white fur that peeped from the trim.

  “It’s cold.” He stomped his feet. “Colder than when we arrived.”

  The edge of the market seemed quieter than normal, though still busy.

  She stopped. “What are you up to? Why did you lie and leave last night? What news did you have for the king that could not wait until he arrived here?”

  Startled, Payen brought his thoughts to order. “How do you know I left?”

  “I am no fool. You vaulted over the fence like one of the monkeys in Constantinople. Your horse was gone, as was your squire’s. You had no reason to lie.”

  He hadn’t a clue she’d been watching. He needed to be more careful. “I don’t need to tell you my business.”

  “Go back to the inn. I will do what I must without your interference.”

  “And what if this boy has a drunkard for a father who would think nothing of killing you for your warm boots?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “You are stubborn.”

  “At least I am not a liar.”

  He bit his tongue. “Hmm. If we are to exchange such observations, perhaps we could return to the inn and have a hot cider.”

  “You go.” She turned on her heel and rushed toward the market. “I have thread to buy.” Catherine began her search immediately. Olive barrels, jewelry stand. She shook her head, slowing as she scanned the area. “There,” she muttered.

  “The bread stall?”

  She turned, obviously annoyed. “Are you still here?”

  “Oui, at your service.” He had a home, money, station. If the boy’s family had simply fallen on hard times, he would help. If the family did not know another way of life, they couldn’t be saved from the slums. Once a man was immersed in sin, it took a miracle to get him
out again.

  Miracles were hard to come by.

  Unfortunately, the dirty-faced boy studied the bread stall owner with interest. And hunger. Payen smelled the stench of desperation. His instincts urged him forward, yet Catherine was already across the road, her cloak flying.

  “Wait,” he said softly. “Go around, or he will see you.”

  She stiffened but then veered to the left of the stall.

  Payen took the front, blocking the boy’s escape.

  The child remained apparently unaware of their nearness, focused on the loaf of bread in the basket.

  Pity knocked at Payen’s heart, though he squelched it. If the boy was caught stealing, he would lose a hand or worse. He willed the boy to keep his hands to himself.

  Lady Catherine coughed, drawing the attention of the stall owner and the boy. “I would like some bread.”

  The merchant looked at the boy, who was too close to the basket. The child’s fingers touched the loaf, and the man brought his knife down, the blade flat instead of straight.

  “Thief!” The merchant looked to Catherine, as if she were in on the theft.

  Catherine didn’t budge. “I said, monsieur, I would like to purchase some bread.”

  The boy tried slipping beneath the table and dashing out the other side.

  Catherine reached for him.

  Payen braced himself as the boy ran into his unmoving body. He took him by the shoulder and held tight, keeping the cursing child from escaping. “Where are you going?”

  “I will return for two loaves,” Lady Catherine said to the merchant. She pushed past the table, urging Payen toward the road.

  The shoppers and merchants merged around them, unaffected by the thieving rascal. Just another day in the market.

  They stopped on the other side of the street, and Catherine dropped to her knees before the child. “What were you thinking?” she said quietly. “You could lose your hand! I saw you last night when you followed us to the lake. I know you need my help.”

  The boy stopped fighting Payen and stared at Catherine. Payen gave him a shake to remind him of his manners.

  The lady turned to Payen and glared.

  “You can’t be angry at me,” Payen said.

  “I can. Why are you shaking him?”

  “I am holding him so you can have him taken to the authorities. Surely they have a constable of some sort.”

  “Why would I do that? I don’t want him maimed. How is he supposed to support himself if he has but one good hand?”

  Payen, irritated at her lack of common sense, shrugged. “Perhaps they will start with a pinky. Give the boy more chances to steal from his people.”

  “They aren’t my people,” the boy said.

  Payen was surprised to hear his southern dialect spoken along the Aquitanian border.

  Catherine gasped, then turned the boy so she could look into his face. “I knew you weren’t Greek. How did you get here? What is your name?”

  “Gaston.” The boy scowled, and Payen took note of the shape of his brown eyes and brown, shaggy hair. Dirt covered most of his features.

  “Couldn’t think of anything more original?” Payen said, even as his mind quickly chose then discarded reasons a French child would be left to beg in Nicaea.

  “Lord de Montfer!” Catherine bravely put her hand on top of the child’s head. “Do you mind letting the boy—Gaston—speak?” She glared at Payen, then turned a comforting smile on the thief. “Tell me how you came to be here.”

  Gaston kept glancing around. “I’m from Sordet, a small monastery near the ocean. My father was making a holy pilgrimage. We never made it to Jerusalem. He died here, and I was . . .” He wrinkled his nose, then wiped it with the back of his dirty hand.

  “Abandoned here! You poor darling.”

  Payen shook his head. Nobody could be so tenderhearted. “Mademoiselle, pardon me for interjecting some reason here, but you can’t tell me you believe this story.”

  “And why wouldn’t I? He has no reason to lie.”

  “He is a thief. Lying is one of his many skills. He wants coin—you said yourself you gave him some.”

  “Tell me of your family.” She hugged the grimy boy close.

  “I don’t have family,” Gaston said, pushing free. “Just my father and he died.”

  “Your father was a great knight?” Catherine rested her hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “No.” Gaston’s mouth pursed. “He was a priest.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

  Payen snorted. “You’re a bastard.”

  Gaston tensed, as if ready to bolt. “So are you.”

  Catherine held the boy in place. “We should talk this through, perhaps somewhere more private than the middle of the market.”

  “Tell us the truth, Gaston. How did your father die? Or is he the one who taught you to steal?”

  “I never stole anything until I had to,” the boy said with a quiver of his lip that almost made Payen believe his story. But not quite.

  Catherine’s eyes filled with tears. “I understand. I—” She wiped tears off her cheeks. “I will help you.”

  Payen, momentarily forgetting that he too had been on such a mission, stepped back. “Lady Catherine, what do you plan? This boy is no good; I promise you that.” Dear God, she’d invite him to her chamber, and the little thief would steal the necklace hidden beneath her gown.

  “I don’t need your help,” the boy said.

  Perhaps Gaston and Catherine belonged together. She sounded the same way.

  “But why not? How long have you been living like this, stealing to feed yourself?”

  “Lady, I steal to feed my friends. They took me in when my father died. They take care of me now, and I take care of them.” The boy quickly wrenched free of Catherine’s hold. The child’s eyes seemed ancient as he looked up at Catherine. “My father said to pray for help. Are you an angel?”

  “No. But I can help.”

  “Then leave me alone, or it will be worse for us all. Only God can help me.” And with that, the child ran into the alley.

  Payen didn’t know what to make of the situation, and as Catherine pushed his arm, his wits weren’t at their sharpest.

  “How could you let him go? He needs us. You and I can help him.”

  “He just said he doesn’t want help.”

  “And you would listen to an abandoned child who must be scared out of his mind? Forced to steal for food?” Her voice lowered as she stared him straight in the eye. “For his friends? Dear heaven above! How many are there?”

  “You are not thinking clearly,” Payen said, at a loss for something better to say.

  “You are a fool. I will go to the queen. She will help me.” Catherine dismissed him with a jerk of her chin, stoking his ire.

  “Do what?”

  “Obviously, we must find him and take him with us. He belongs in France.”

  “Payen gathered his calm, his reason, relying on logic to pierce Catherine’s delusions. “He has no family there, and I’m willing to wager there was a pretty good reason his father, the priest, was suddenly called by God away from the monastery to Jerusalem.”

  “You are being cynical.” She stepped closer to the boy, as if to protect Gaston from Payen. Catherine couldn’t be more wrong.

  “And you are naïve!” He hated that his voice raised and took a deep breath.

  She turned on her heel, her cloak whirling behind her before settling at her ankles.

  He would not be swayed just because a beautiful woman displayed a temper in the middle of the market.

  “I owe you no explanation,” she said over her shoulder. “I will find that boy myself and take him to the queen. She will understand what must be done.”

  He clenched his jaw. “And what if he decides to steal the crown from her head?”

  That caught her attention, and she faced him once more. “You haven’t even given the boy a chance.”

  “He didn’t
want one.”

  “He felt your disapproval, and that’s why he wouldn’t stay and explain his circumstances.”

  “He was probably afraid the authorities would arrive and make him pay for his thievery.”

  Catherine’s angry mouth softened. “He steals to keep his friends from starving. Have you ever gone hungry?” Her eyes darkened.

  Defensive, Payen offered what was more likely to be the truth. “Or he’s the leader in a band of child thieves.”

  “You don’t make any sense.”

  “And you do?” Payen knew women used tears to get their way. He braced himself.

  Catherine didn’t cry, however. She straightened her shoulders and started walking down the dark alley after her little thief.

  He had no choice but to follow.

  The king’s orders.

  Chapter Six

  “I told you. I am going to find Gaston.” Catherine shouldn’t have answered Payen’s question. All he did was tell her what to do. She shivered as she walked farther into the dark alley. Away from the noise and chaos of the market, she became aware of the dismal surroundings. Refuse and broken pots, old bones and flies swarming over every dead surface.

  This was a place for the poor. The hopeless. The nameless. She shook off a shudder. Gaston was the child’s name, and even if his story was a complete fabrication, she would bet her last coin he could be saved from this life of poverty and crime. She sensed it. There was a reason she felt drawn to him, though she didn’t know what it was.

  “This is a bad idea.”

  “Then go back. Or stay. But be quiet.”

  Though she believed she could take care of herself and the boy, she was not as naïve as Payen declared. She’d committed to the act; it was too late to back down. Besides, she’d left her short sword with her other weapons after training this morning.

  “How do you expect to find him? These hovels all look the same.”

  She glared over her shoulder. Had the man never known a moment’s discomfort in his entire life? Lord de Montfer, king’s messenger, king’s friend.