Love Letters, Page 3

  Catheryn recognised it, of course. She was not unlettered enough to believe that whoever had sent such a note had created these beautiful words out of nothing, had pulled them out of their imagination themselves to place on this parchment. It was the beginning of a poem that was called, “The Husband’s Message”. It was sent by a man far from his love, and it entreated her to join him. It was a poem of passion, of love between two people that could not speak but could write of their devotion to each other. To receive it in this way, from an anonymous man, was almost scandalous.

  Catheryn sighed, and pulled at the grass absent-mindedly. She scattered the small leaves around her without noticing what she was doing. At the end of the day, there were only so many people that could have written it. There were five thanes currently living at her father’s table, and two of those were already married. One was younger than her, and Catheryn screwed up her nose at the thought of Harold, who had not yet earned his sword, writing something like that to her. That left Cuthbert and Deorwine.

  Catheryn’s heart sank, and her arms fell listlessly at her sides as she considered whether Deorwine could be the man that wrote such an elusive and tantalising note. Her father respected Deorwine’s skill with a blade, and the second son of an ealdorman, a high status nobleman, he was actually unusually highborn for her father to secure him as a thane. But Catheryn could not help but be disgusted by the irregularity of his bathing rituals, or the way that he seemed to gain such pleasure from the autumn slaughter of their pigs. She could not respect such a man, could not even like him – and as for love! Despite never having felt that sweep of emotion, Catheryn was sure that it could not be inspired by a man such as Deorwine.

  But as the week progressed, she could not help accidently gazing at Deorwine. Catheryn watched him as he slopped ale down his front that evening, and she saw with disgust the way that he picked his teeth whilst talking to her mother. And so the more she watched him, the quieter and more withdrawn she became.

  Selwyn was not entirely sure what he had expected Catheryn to do once she had received the note, but it was certainly not this. Glancing over to Catheryn one evening, Selwyn was astonished to see that once again, she was silent. This change in demeanour was startling. She was usually one of the loudest ones at the evening meal, gossiping with the servants and casting angelic eyes to her parents who usually sat on the other side of the room. But tonight…tonight was different, just like the last few evenings.

  She seemed almost distraught. No, that was not the right word: off-balance. Selwyn saw that the poise Catheryn usually demonstrated every day was shaken. My, but she was barely speaking! Selwyn thought. Not a word has passed out of her lips for almost an hour.

  And then, as he paid close attention to her, Selwyn began to realise what it was that she was looking at. While he so carefully examined her face for hints of her intrigue over the sender of the note, she was staring across him – at Deorwine. She was looking at him with such intensity; it was as if she was attempting to see through him, to see inside his very soul.

  Selwyn laughed. She thought it was Deorwine! She thought that the writer of such a delicate riddle that spoke of love and of passion could have been written by the man currently using a knife to fight a dog for the last piece of chicken on his plate.

  It was time, he thought, for another note. A note that would rid her of that ridiculous idea that Deorwine could have written anything that spoke so deeply into a person’s heart. Would she turn her attentions to Cuthbert…or would she work out the joke?

  Gesturing to the same servant who had been the unwilling messenger of the first, Selwyn passed to him another piece of folded parchment with the same whispered instructions. It was odd, Selwyn thought. Being a steward in a house such as this means not being a servant, but not being part of the family. The isolation never usually bothered him, but seeing the way that the servant greeted him – unsure as whether or not to bow – a pang crossed his heart. Such an outsider, even more so than when he was a child.

  The servant looked passively at Selwyn, as if asking whether he really thought it wise to pander to the idiot that their master was caring for. As far as the servant was concerned, it was another instruction from one of the thanes. They shared a glance. But Selwyn nodded him away, and watched as the second love note was delivered to its unknowing recipient.

  Catheryn started as she was handed wordlessly another note by the stony-faced servant. Before she could turn and question the man who had brought it, he had left her, swallowed into the crowd of people milling about the Great Hall. Instead, she opened up the parchment that had been folded so hastily.

  No keener joy could come to his heart,

  No greater happiness gladden his soul,

  Than if God who wieldeth the world, should grant

  That ye together should yet give rings.

  I cannot bear to be without you.

  Catheryn gasped aloud, and many seated near her turned to face her, concern across their faces.

  “Is my lady injured?” Eorwine asked her, leaning forward anxiously. “Have you cut yourself with your knife?”

  Catheryn was embarrassed to see that many of her father’s thanes, and even Selwyn, were watching her. She tried to control the blush that was sweeping across her face, but as usual it was to no avail.

  “I am not injured,” she said, self-conscious in the knowledge that many were listening to her, “I was merely thinking of our king, and… and how pleasing it was for us to see him yesterday.”

  Her father nodded approvingly. “Your thoughts do you much credit, Catheryn,” Ælfgard said. “It is my great hope that soon it will not be an infrequent occasion when we are so blessed as to see our king and his court in their royal splendour.”

  Catheryn rolled her eyes, and then chastised herself silently, knowing that many people may still be watching her. It beggared belief at times, the lengths that her parents were willing to go to become part of the royal court, and to gain favours from the king and queen. Why could they not be satisfied with the riches that they had gained? Was not the household that they had created around them enough?

  Selwyn had not missed the rolling of Catheryn’s eyes, but neither had he missed the gasp as she had read the note that he had written. He watched as the blush that spread across her face was exacerbated by the attention that she drew to herself, and he smiled as she attempted, successfully, to draw her parents’ attention to their favourite topic. Selwyn could not help but admit that Catheryn was clever.

  But Catheryn did not feel clever. Try as she might, the only conclusion that she could draw was that it was Deorwine that was sending her the increasingly intimate notes. Cuthbert didn’t have the brains, or the intellect, to even know what poetry was – how on earth could he have written these notes? But if not Deorwine, then who? Who else could it be? But this second one had been given to her but moments ago – and she had been looking at Deorwine before that. Had she seen him write anything? No, Catheryn thought, playing with her knife, but then he could have written it before that evening’s meal, and given it to the servant to deliver. True, she had not noticed him give any sort of signal, but that did not mean that he had not given one… or that he had not organised the timing beforehand.

  But Deorwine? Catheryn looked over at him again, and shook her head. He did not strike her as one that had the brains to think of anything like this. He was now arguing vehemently with Harold about the best way to fire arrows into an opposing army, and was mainly doing so by pushing Harold off his bench into the floor rushes. Catheryn sighed. She hoped beyond hope that the notes were not from him.

  Catheryn looked down at the note lying in her lap. This second note contained more of the same poem, but the last line that had been written with a strong hand was not from the poem that Catheryn knew so well. That was different, and had come from the heart attached to the hand that wrote it.

  As the evening was drawing to a close, Catheryn knew that she would be able to leave the Great
Hall without much comment. She stood up and began to walk towards the door.

  “My lady,” Eorwine struggled to hastily extricate herself from the bench. “I shall accompany you – ”

  “My thanks,” Catheryn said quickly, “but I need no accompaniment. I am merely going outside for some cooling air, and then I shall retire to bed.”

  “If you are sure,” Eorwine tried to regain her composure, one leg still trapped behind the bench. “Sleep well, my lady.”

  Catheryn smiled, and then continued on her way. She needed to get away from everyone, to get away from that ridiculous display of idiocy that Deorwine was currently showing, so that she could think. She desperately needed to think.

  The cool evening air did not chill her, but it did calm her. The sun was just about to set, and the light and heat of the day was lazily disappearing. Catheryn unfolded the piece of parchment, and read those inflaming words once more.

  I cannot bear to be without you.

  Catheryn sighed. Whoever wrote those words did seem to be in love with her, although it seemed ridiculous really. Deorwine – or whoever they were, she reminded herself hastily – did not really know her at all. None of the men of the household did, and even her father was under the impression that she really didn’t do anything but wait until the next time she could catch a glimpse of King Edward. What she needed really was a man that bothered to get to know her, and understand her, not send her anonymous notes referring to a passion that she couldn’t see or understand.

  She leaned against the cool stone, and shut her eyes. Someone preferably handsome, she thought, and brave enough that instead of sending her amusing scraps of parchment, would actually speak to her.

  “What do you have there, Catheryn?” a voice said from the shadows.

  Chapter Five

  Catheryn almost screamed, but managed to stop herself before she brought the entire household to her aid.

  The man lurking in the dark shadow of the doorway moved forward, and a pool of candlelight from one of the torches attached to the wall lit up his face to reveal him as her father’s steward.

  “Selwyn!” She tried not to gasp at the shock. She had, in those few seconds, managed to convince herself that it would be Deorwine, about to claim her as his prize. “What are you doing out here? What do you want?”

  Selwyn smiled to see Catheryn’s calm shattered, although the hint of disappointment that crossed her face did confuse him. Did she want that oaf Deorwine to be the one writing her those love notes? Why did she seem so surprised to see him?

  “I merely wanted to check that you are feeling well, my lady” he said, formally, lowering his gaze as was befitting his lower station. Unfortunately, this meant staring at Catheryn’s waist, which did not help him regain any sort of semblance close to calm. Selwyn was deeply unsettled; he had not imagined the first time he spoke to Catheryn as an adult to be this awkward and strange.

  Catheryn looked at the man, and relaxed. There was nothing to fear from him. If she closed her eyes slightly, she could still see the child that had been her closest friend.

  “I am feeling quite well, thank you,” she said coldly. “I would just rather have some time to…”

  Her voice trailed away as she realised that the steward was now pointedly looking at the piece of parchment that was neatly folded in her left hand.

  “It is good to see you after so long.”

  Catheryn blushed. It was difficult to tell after so long exactly what Selwyn meant by that – if indeed, there were any other meanings to his words.

  “And you,” she said awkwardly. “It has been many years since you were here, but I know my father is glad to have you back in his service.”

  Selwyn almost recoiled. Her words did exactly what he thought they would: put him back in his place as a servant. He said nothing, but looked pointedly at the note.

  “It is nothing,” Catheryn said, moving her hand behind her back, hiding the offending parchment from view. “Just a note that I made for myself. For me. To remind myself of something.”

  Selwyn had to hide his smile when faced with this blatant lie. “That you wrote yourself, my lady?”

  Catheryn hesitated. She had no reason not to trust this man – he was, after all, immensely trusted by her father to do much of his business. Just because she did not know him as an adult did not mean that the trust she had had for him as a child was no longer valid. There was no harm in showing him the note, because it was not as if she had written so personally to a man! That indeed would have been reprehensible.

  “Here,” she said, self-consciously, and hoping beyond hope that the darkness would cover her red cheeks. “You may read it, if you wish. I have been given it – and another too, of a similar ilk.”

  Her graceful arm now reached out, bridging the space between him and her. Selwyn was suddenly terribly aware of the coarseness of his hands – working men’s hands – and the rough material that made up his cloak. Catheryn was all silk and elegance and softness. As he took his own note from her, he was careful not to touch her fingers.

  He unfolded the note, and read the words of his favourite poem.

  “No keener joy could come to his heart – ”

  “Oh, please do not read it aloud,” Catheryn interrupted, turning away to look up at the stars that were starting to become visible. The sun had disappeared now, and the evening drew in its blackness. “It is bad enough reading it to oneself than having it read again.”

  Her arm had fallen back to her side, and she shivered in the cold. A breeze danced around her veil.

  “You do not like it?”

  Catheryn shrugged. “It is not a question of like or dislike.”

  Selwyn was surprised, and slightly irritated that she did not appear to be impressed with the poem. “Why does the poem displease you?”

  “Do not misunderstand me…” Catheryn paused, trying to remind the tall man in front of her that she was a member of the house, and he was merely a steward. A servant. Despite their childhood, there was nothing to tie them together.

  Selwyn smiled as he watched her struggle to forget their shared past. Why was she bothering? he wondered. There was nothing shameful in it. And now that she had grown into such a beautiful woman, it was almost a shame that she did not want to remember how they had swam together in the lake. His smile broadened.

  Catheryn did not return the smile. “Do not misunderstand me, Selwyn; it is not that the love note does not please me. It is more that I do not understand the poem’s intentions…it is just so difficult to comprehend.”

  Catheryn fluttered her eyelashes at him, breathing a sigh of pain as if it were the worst thing in the world not to understand such a marvellous love note. She saw the confusion in his eyes, and laughed inwardly. What a typical man – so quick to assume that she was a fool, and desperate to think her one as well. Catheryn raised her eyes to the note and stared piteously at it. If he wanted to see a stupid girl, then she may as well give him one.

  And saw it he did. Selwyn couldn’t believe the outrageous display that she was exhibiting; but then, he hadn’t known her for many years. For all he knew, Catheryn was now an insipid and boring girl – she was, after all, the daughter of a man whose sole ambition was to know before anyone else what the king was going to wear that season. As Selwyn looked at her, he saw Catheryn’s beauty, but all he could imagine was that she used it just as a master swordsman would use his knife, or a master farrier would string a bow: to bring in prey.

  “Selwyn?”

  “I am sorry, my lady,” he almost stammered. Catheryn had asked him something, but he had been so lost in his thoughts, he had no idea what it was. “Could you repeat the question?”

  Catheryn sighed. Another man that took one look at her, and thought she was an idiot when she opened her mouth for two seconds together.

  “It matters not,” she said, waving a hand in front of her as if she could physically push away the words that she had spoken. “I shall retire to bed. You hav
e clearly reached your own conclusions about me, and have decided that I am a fool. This bores me: it is not an unusual response, and I have met it before. It does not surprise me, but there we are. I bid you good night.”

  “No!” Selwyn moved to prevent her from re-entering the house, but immediately realised that he should have said something further, should have explained himself better – for now Catheryn’s eyes were narrowing.

  “No?” Catheryn said, scathingly. “You attempt to prevent my entering my father’s house?”

  “No, no,” Selwyn tried to speak calmly. “I must apologise for what…I do not want you to think that – ”

  “It matters not what you thought,” Catheryn said dismissively. “I had…I thought slightly better of you. But there it is.”

  “I wished,” Selwyn said quickly, “to enquire as to the identity of your romancer?”

  Catheryn snorted, and the unladylike action made Selwyn smile also.

  “Romancer?” She said, with an almost bored voice. She would clearly have to spell it out to Selwyn – he was not as clever as she had supposed. “You clearly haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying. I do not know the identity of the man – if we assume it to be a man, and not a joke from my ladies – that has written me these notes.”

  “And you do not wish to know?”

  “Of course I do!” Catheryn said with a smile. “But what can I do to discover them? I refuse to make a spectacle out of myself by begging them to come forward and announce themselves, and I cannot imagine that they are brave enough to contact me or my parents directly. I suppose I shall continue receiving them,” she said nonchalantly, “and eventually the person sending them will get bored.”

  Selwyn smiled. “I do not think so, my lady.”

  Chapter Six