A Stain on the Soul: Caitlyn, #2

By Elizabeth Davies

Magical realism at its best.

 

Resigned to another lifetime of being a witch's familiar, Caitlyn has found a degree of peace in her role as the Duke of Normandy's protector and spy.

But that peace is shattered when she returns to her native land, only to come face-to-face with her past and fall in love with a man who she desperately hopes will become her future.

 

Perfect for fans of Sarah Woodbury and Dianne Duvall

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Davies
• Release date: Oct 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386346845

Elizabeth Davies

Elizabeth Davies is a paranormal author, whose books have a romantic flavour with more than a hint of suspense.

Book preview

Chapter 1

‘She dares to refuse my son? Who does this little upstart think she is?’ Arlette threw the letter onto the table, whirled around in a flurry of crimson, silken skirts, and sought me out, her furious gaze meeting my unflinching one. I saw the intent in her eyes and felt a momentary pang of concern for the upstart Arlette referred to. The pang did not last long; the upstart, Matilda of Flanders, meant nothing to me except for the trouble her refusal would undoubtedly cause all of us.

Arlette’s brother waited patiently. Walter had guessed what was coming too, and he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. I ignored him. We were not close, the witch’s brother and I, though we both bore allegiance to the same cause. Our main difference came from his willingness to do his sister’s bidding and my absolute abhorrence to perform any task which furthered her cause. That, and the small matter of my having no choice; although come to think of it, perhaps Walter didn’t, either.

I wrapped my tail around my front paws and stared impassively into the flames, certain my indifference would irritate her. I was proven correct when a silver candlestick flew past my head. I did not so much as twitch a whisker; my mistress’s aim had never been true.

‘Why do you let the damned thing share your hearth if it annoys you so much?’ Herluin asked, stepping forward with a raised boot aimed at my head.

Stupid man. After all his years with Arlette, I would have thought Herluin de Conteville would know better than to cause any harm to his wife’s pet.

Clearly not. 

Arlette hissed at him, sounding remarkably like a cat herself, and Herluin paled and lowered his foot, then turned away from me. I cocked my head at her in mock appreciation, though it was for the noise she had made and not because of her intervention, for I was more than capable of taking care of myself. She hissed again, at me this time, and I gazed back at her without blinking. Maybe I should suggest we swapped places? I would dearly love to take a turn at playing mother to the most powerful man in Normandy, rather than playing familiar to a witch. With my particular talents, heritage, and breeding, I would probably do a better job of it. Though to be fair, Arlette had ensured that since his father’s death, William had kept both his title and his life, which had been no mean feat, though she did have considerable help from me. Walter too, deserved some praise for keeping the child safe as he grew.

We had both killed for her son and Arlette never let us forget it.

By the murderous look on her face now, maybe she intended for us to do so again.

I baulked at the idea of murdering an innocent, and though the girl really did deserve to be castigated for her appalling manners, death was too harsh a punishment – even if she had referred to Lord William, Duke of Normandy, as a bastard. She was only speaking the truth. It was hardly the girl’s fault if William’s illegitimate status was a sore spot, both with him and his witch of a mother alike.

Arlette gestured for Herluin to pick up the letter, and her husband was wise enough to do as he was told. He had a healthy respect for his wife, which was probably why she hadn’t disposed of him – yet. I supposed she kept him around for his title and his protection. Not that Arlette needed protecting per se, but having a husband meant she could avoid all those hopefuls who would dearly love to wed the mother of the Duke of Normandy, for the status and power it would bring them. Better the devil you knew sometimes, eh, Arlette?

My mistress read the letter again, her face screwing into a mask of hatred.

‘The girl didn’t even have the courtesy to tell William to his face, but instead she bandied her rejection around the court for all and sundry to hear,’ she cried. ‘She has made him a laughing stock. I care not a fig if the wench can trace her lineage back to Charlemagne and Alfred the Great, and it matters not that she has royal blood running through her veins. What matters is that she did not have the manners to inform my son directly of her refusal. Did you not hear me?’ Arlette waved the parchment in the air.

I had no idea which one of us she was, in fact, speaking to, and I didn’t care either.

‘Count Baldwin agreed to the match but the stupid girl refused to do her father’s bidding,’ she continued to rant, ‘and she made no secret at court that she thinks it is beneath her to marry a bastard. She refused him publicly and the insult cannot be forgiven. How dare she spurn William, Duke of Normandy?’ She stamped her foot, her face as red as the beets which were fed to the pigs to sweeten their meat.

Now I understood. Both mother and son thought the deal had been sealed, and as far as matches go William and Matilda’s marriage would have been greatly advantageous to both Normandy and Flanders. William would not only buy himself a degree of legitimacy, courtesy of his wife’s name and lineage, but she would also provide him with a powerful ally indeed in the form of her father, as well as considerable wealth in the dowry she would bring with her. She was a highly sought-after bride indeed.

To be fair to Matilda, it would not be the young woman herself who would benefit from being married off to the Duke of Normandy; it would be Count Baldwin, her father, who would gain a powerful ally in the form of his son-in-law. William had proved his political strength and worth a hundred times over. Maybe then, she surmised she had little to gain from this union, and I admired her spirit for disobeying her father, foolish though it would undoubtedly prove to be, were she to know it.

I shrugged. How could a noble girl living a secluded and cosseted life in another country, be expected to realise the stupidity of angering the mother of the Duke of Normandy, when those who were closest to the witch had no inkling of her true nature? Actually, that was something of an exaggeration; Walter suspected, and I bet William most definitely knew that there was more to his mother than beauty and cunning (though she possessed both of those qualities in abundance, even if over the years her prettiness was fading).

She had not been as careful to keep her true nature hidden from her brother and her son, as she had been to conceal it from Duke Robert, William’s dead father, and the rest of his court, although she had taken great pains to bring William up under the cloak of the church. Her son was as devout and as pious as any other noble. Or so it appeared, but everyone knows appearance and reality are as different as fish and fowl. What William did and what William believed, might be two separate things, especially when it came to securing his dukedom. He would not let a simple matter of doing what was right and godly come between him and his ambition. I might love him dearly, but that did not mean that I was unaware of what he was capable of.

Arlette was focusing on the flame of a candle which sat on the ornate sideboard and staring so intently at it, I wondered what she saw in its depths. 

‘Go. Leave me. I need to think.’ She sank into a chair.

Herluin scuttled out of the door with rapidity, probably thankful to be dismissed. The britches may well hang on his skinny hips, but it was Arlette’s arse which filled them. Walter hesitated for a heartbeat as his eyes went to me. Though it remained unspoken (and I predicted he would never find the courage to voice what he suspected to be true) he had a fair idea that the feline sitting placidly by the fireplace was more than a mere cat.

I, too, got to my feet, languidly stretching each leg in turn. Walter’s eyes widened, and they widened enough to practically pop out of his head when Arlette said to me, ‘Not you,’ and I sat back down. I think she loved playing games with her brother, almost as much as I did.

The fact that I was staying told him Arlette had plans for the unfortunate maid in Flanders – dark plans. It also reaffirmed (not that it needed reaffirming) that I was no mere cat.

‘Fetch me my bowl,’ my mistress commanded when we had the room to ourselves, and she turned her head away as I left Cat behind and became Caitlyn once more.

I was under no illusion – her disinterest in my transformation was a result of boredom (for she had witnessed the event countless times), and not consideration for my feelings. She had long ago ceased to watch me change with glee in her eyes. Now the act of transforming from one state to the other was one of necessity – the magic of it had faded long ago in her eyes.

I wish it had faded for me, because changing from Cat to Caitlyn hurt as much as it always did, and each time my innards were turned inside out and my bones were seared to a crisp, my body felt the magic as keenly as it always had.

When I was done transforming, and had composed myself, she took the key to the armoire from around her neck and handed it to me. I locked and barred the door to her private rooms before carefully removing the blood-filled skull from its hiding place in the armoire, and setting it on the table.

I hated handling that thing. I hated every item in that damned cupboard, but there was one thing I hated more than any of the others, the skull included, and that was those tiny fragments of an infant’s skull bones in their baby-skin pouch.  Even with the door to her fancy cupboard firmly locked, I was certain I could sense them through the richly carved wood.

Arlette took a moment to collect herself and I waited patiently. I had become rather good at waiting over the years...

Satisfied that she was ready, she moved to the table and sat with her head bowed over the skull, peering at its almost-black surface, willing it to answer her silent question as she chanted so softly I barely heard her.

Faint stirrings in its depths made it my turn to look away, unsettled at the working of her dark arts. No matter how many times I witnessed them, the images in the scrying bowl disturbed me.

‘Well, well, well, there is more to this hussy’s rejection of my son than mere vanity and misplaced pride,’ my mistress observed, and my gaze crept back towards the skull of its own accord. A man’s pale, handsome face and golden hair shimmered darkly within in. I stared at him, a frisson of something which I could not identify, tickling the soft hairs on the back of my neck.

‘Give me his name,’ she breathed, and the vile contents obliged.

‘Brihtric.’ Arlette waved a hand over the top of the skull and the image faded and its contents stilled. She leaned back, her eyes narrowed. ‘I have heard of this man. He is an envoy of King Edward of England.’ She paused as she thought. ‘I wonder why he was at Count Baldwin’s court?’

I rolled Brihtric’s name around in my mind, liking the feel of it. I had heard of him also, and I recalled that some folk claimed Brihtric’s wealth and power were second only to his king’s. I also remembered King Edward and his unfortunate brother, Prince Alfred, with fondness, for the latter had helped me escape England after I killed Idris. I was not sure I had entirely forgiven Alfred yet though, for if he had not brought me to Normandy I would not be in thrall to a witch. Still, I was distressed to hear that his eye had been put out during the struggle to place England’s crown on his brother’s head, and that he had subsequently died of his wounds. He had not deserved such a fate, despite what he had done at Arlette’s bidding, for I understood deep down that he’d had no more choice in his actions than I.

Now Edward ruled England, and his right-hand man, Britric, had visited Flanders.

‘I believe he has not fucked the bitch yet.’ Arlette sat up, her eyes still cloudy with magic, and she signalled for me to return the bowl to the armoire. As I did so, I thought about what she had just said. 

I had never met Brihtric, but his handsomeness was famed: fair of face and even fairer of hair, the reflection in the scrying bowl had shown a man who was as attractive and as striking as people claimed. He was nicknamed "Brihtric Mau (mau" being the Saxon word for snow) on account of his colouring, and he was rumoured to be tall and strong. I estimated him to be ten to twelve years older than Matilda. He was a catch for any woman, including the most eligible girl in Flanders... wait…

‘Was there not a scandal around Matilda and this Brihtric?’ I asked, searching my mind for half-remembered gossip. Despite the distance between our neighbouring countries, rumours spread with all the speed of women gossiping at the well, with France, Aragon, Spain and the other major combatants all listening avidly to news from the other countries, true or false.

Arlette tapped her fingers on her chin. ‘Yes, you are right. I seem to recall hearing a whisper or two; something about Lady Matilda throwing herself at him and him rebuffing her. Yes, yes, that is it! The Flanders Filly offered herself in marriage to this Englishman, without first seeking Baldwin’s approval, and Brihtric refused her.’ Arlette let out a spiteful laugh. ‘At least she, too, knows what it feels like to be spurned, but as she is now eighteen, still unwed, and with a whiff of scandal about her, she should be grateful that a man of my son’s standing is willing to offer her his hand in marriage.’

Arlette was focusing on the wrong part of that story. She should be working out why Brihtric would refuse Matilda, not the girl’s unimportant feelings. There was something not quite right… Brihtric may have wealth and an impressive lineage, but he was her inferior in rank by some way. I would have thought he would have leapt at the opportunity to further his standing in the eyes of the world, even without Baldwin’s consent. Once the marriage vows were said, and the consummation over with, the deed would have been done. Anyway, Baldwin probably would not have objected to England’s second highest noble for a son-in-law, especially with the King of England childless. And as for Brihtric, I could not see any reason for him to refuse the girl. With Matilda for a wife, he would stand a fair chance of aiming for England’s throne, himself. The man had nothing to lose by marrying Matilda of Flanders – so what had stopped him?

The more I thought about him, the more my spine tingled, and the image of him in the skull was seared onto my inner eye, like a brand on the flesh of a horse.

Arlette turned to stare at the flames. ‘My scrying revealed nothing more, though I do honestly believe that the girl is intact. He did not fuck her, but there has to be a reason for his face to appear to me, and I think I know what it is. He might have refused her, but she believes herself to still be in love with this English lord, which is why she spurned William.’

I was less concerned with the feelings of a flighty maid, and more curious about why an English envoy had been in Flanders in the first place, but I kept my thoughts to myself, knowing they would not be welcome.

My mistress put her hands to the small of her back and stretched to ease out the kinks. ‘Read,’ she commanded, jerking her chin at William’s letter.

I read, though I did not see the point of it, considering she had read it aloud several times, ranting as she had done so. 

William, it seemed had set his heart on Matilda, though to my knowledge he had never, even once, clapped eyes on her. She might be rumoured to be a beauty, but rumours were not noted for their accuracy. She might be a gargoyle for all he knew, and more suited to sitting atop a church roof than at a duke’s table. But she did not need to be comely – for William’s purposes she only needed to be well-bred and well-connected, and she was most definitely both. It would be an excellent match for him.

Like mothers everywhere, what sons wanted sons got if it was within their power to give, and Arlette was powerful enough indeed to give her son most of what he wanted. Matilda would be no exception.

I guessed what was heading my way.

‘Love is a fickle lady,’ my mistress mused, tapping her long, slim fingers against her chin. ‘One day she blows in one direction, the next in another. Let us see if we can turn Lady Matilda’s head away from England and get her to set her sights on Normandy instead.’

We, what was this we? Arlette meant me. Oh, my mistress would play a small part in that she would cast a spell, but all the risks would fall on my shoulders.

My fears were justified when she announced, ‘Fetch me a lock of the girl’s hair,’ as if I could simply waltz into the room next door and pluck some from a brush, instead of riding for days on end into another country and risking my life. 

‘I need to make a love potion,’ she added. 

Oh good. I love making those, was my sarcastic, but unspoken, reply. 

Chapter 2

‘The girl is too headstrong for her own good,’ Walter declared as he mounted his horse. ‘Why can’t the bitch just do her duty?’

Why not indeed? It would save me a day’s ride to the castle at Fecamp and witnessing William’s wrath, not to mention the actual task of obtaining a lock of Matilda’s hair. I had yet to work out the intricacies of it all, but Walter would have to accompany me to Bruges, a gruelling two hundred miles away. I could not easily travel such a distance on four paws, and I could hardly travel as a woman on my own without some kind of companion or protector, so Walter was it. To say that I was not looking forward to the journey, was an understatement.

Walter was still grumbling. ‘And why you have to come with me, I do not know.’

I accepted help from one of the stable lads, slotting my foot into his cupped hands and letting him hoist me into the saddle. When I was mounted, the look I gave Walter was full of meaning. He pretended not to understand.

‘She gave me the letter,’ he said, referring to Arlette. ‘Duke William is perfectly capable of reading a note from his mother without a servant’s help.’ He sounded sourer than a sack of lemons.

I settled my backside on my horse and sighed. This ride was going to be a long one if Walter kept this up, and added to the fact that I had not ridden much for years, not since the Duke became capable of fending for himself, the journey was going to be an uncomfortable one. The days when I was called on at a moment’s notice to grab the boy and flee, were long gone. I was not looking forward to the ride purely because of the anticipated physical discomfort, and I knew my arse would be sore, my back would ache, and my shoulders would be stiff before the day was even half over. Did I have to tolerate Walter and his continual griping, as well?

‘I am the writing between the lines,’ I declared loftily and Walter, who had been just about to gripe some more, closed his mouth. Walter knew exactly what was in the letter, because it was unsealed, and the first thing he had done was to read it. What he did not know, was what Arlette had instructed me to do.

I thought he had given up, but a few miles outside Bourneville and about a quarter of the way into the journey, he started up again.

‘What role does my sister wish you to play?’ He always called Arlette my sister when he wanted to emphasise his relationship to her, and diminish mine. Little did he know that I was of far greater value to her than he was, and if push came to shove it would be me she would choose. I let the slight go, but if he hoped to intimidate me, he was way off the mark.

‘Arlette,’ I did not bother to give her the courtesy of a title, ‘has tasked me with speaking to Lord William in private.’

Walter bristled like a mongrel meeting an unfamiliar dog. He hated not knowing the full story. Poor man, he had not known the full story since Herleva had married his father. He suspected, but what his heart and soul knew to be true, his mind and conscience baulked at. He had done well to champion Arlette, suspecting what he did; most men would have been too frightened of eternal damnation. Most men would have accused her, then stood back and watched her burn. But then, most men did not have such close ties to her, and she ruled her household with a subtle, but no less effective, fear. Besides, Walter enjoyed the prestige, the wealth, and the power she bestowed on him so much that it would be nigh on impossible for him to give it up.

‘What are you to say to him?’ Walter persisted.

‘Did my sister tell you any of it?’

‘No.’ This was admitted with reluctance, and a shifty look in his eye. I could tell that he wanted to know, but at the same time, he was wary. It was strange, but he treated me with far more respect when I was a cat than he did when I was a woman. I was still unsure whether he had joined the dots and was seeing the whole picture and knew that Arlette’s pet cat and Caitlyn were one and the same. Yet, if he had not worked this out by now, he was not as intelligent as I thought he was.

‘Then I shall not tell you either,’ I said. ‘If your sister had wanted you to know, she would have taken you into her confidence.’ I played my trump card, hoping to silence him for a while by saying, ‘It is better for you if you don’t.’

He blanched at that, and I guessed he understood that the dark arts might soon be at play. ‘How old are you?’ he asked, surprising me with the question.

‘Too old,’ I replied wearily. I had walked the earth for close to fifty years, on both two feet and four. I had witnessed things I would not have thought possible, and had done things which had cast a stain on my soul for eternity, yet I looked no older than the twenty-three years I had been when Herleva had cast the terrible spell on me.

Walter had known me then. He could see for himself that I had not changed. Not so much as a wrinkle creased my face, my hair had not greyed, my waist had not thickened, and my body remained straight and strong. I knew he could not help but compare me to Arlette, who was my younger by some seven years. Despite her collection of creams and potions, and her use of things I did not want to think about, her eyes had creases at the corners and her jowls had begun to sag.

‘You must be nearing fifty,’ he persisted, ‘yet you do not appear to have aged since I first set eyes on you. Why not, when my sister clearly has?’ He saw my face and misread my expression. ‘She is still a handsome woman,’ he insisted hastily, probably worried I would go running back to Arlette with tales that Walter had said she was an old hag. ‘She looks ten years younger than her true age, yet she does look older than she used to.’

‘Childbearing,’ I replied, shortly.

‘Pardon?’

‘It leaves its mark on a woman.’ It had most certainly left its mark on Arlette and so had time itself, but the marks were softer than they might otherwise have been if Arlette had not used witchcraft to gloss her hair, keep her lips full,