The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series Read Free

as I? Will we not all benefit from a knight's strong arm raised in our defense?" Gathering Marie's chill hands in hers, Cathryn said, "Tis past time for me to marry, and the king is within his rights in selecting a mate for me."
    "But the man he has chosen will be one of his men," Marie protested.
    "Can King Henry be worse for England than King Stephen has been?" Cathryn countered. "Can this man, this William le Brouillard, be worse for Greneforde than no husband has been?"
    Marie had no answer for her mistress, at least none that she dared voice. It was true. Times had not been good, but it was not Greneforde that she thought of; it was Cathryn herself.
    "And when you are this knight's wife and he is lord of Greneforde, what then, Lady Cathryn?" Marie whispered, her heart in her eyes.
    Cathryn turned again to the yarrow plants, the flowers still amazingly white and delicate, though soon to turn brown, the leaves lacy and green, long and slender. Alive and taking nourishment from the soil in one moment, and the next plucked to serve the needs of those who inhabited Greneforde, for yarrow served those who bled and those who could not draw air into their lungs, even those who shivered with fever. But yarrow had first to die to heal the people of Greneforde. And Cathryn, pushing all memories to the bottom of her thoughts, lived to serve Greneforde. Running her hands over the leaves, letting them slide through her loosely closed hand, Cathryn answered her young servant without raising her dark eyes.
    "Then Greneforde will be safe, Marie, for as long as he can lift a sword and mount a warhorse."
    Yea, Greneforde would be safe, Marie thought as she watched her mistress leave the herbs and proceed to the kitchen, but what of Cathryn?
    What could be done to dignify the castle in its present state was being done. None wanted it said that Greneforde did not greet its new lord with head held high. John the Steward was supervising the preparation of six hens, two ducks, and half a pig; the herbs used in cooking were becoming scarce, but there was still enough parsley and primrose to be respectable, and when Lady Cathryn arrived with a small bag of cloves she had hidden away, there were smiles all around.
    The bustle of activity, from the beating of the tapestries to the replacing of the rushes, from the sharpening of the plows to the mucking out of the stables, all infused Cathryn with a ripple of energy. Greneforde was coming alive again, coming alive in anticipation of a new master, and the sight gladdened her.
    Finding that John had the meal well in hand, she rushed across the yard and up the stairs to her chamber. Cathryn walked quickly and quietly across the room to the massive polished chest that contained her worldly possessions and carefully opened it. The small knife that had always rested on the top, the knife that her father had given her as a parting gift, had been absent for three months, and she surprised herself by thoughtlessly reaching for it. Pushing aside the memory, she worked through the trunk, considering first one bliaut and then another. The absurdity of her behavior suddenly struck her, and she rocked back on her heels in silent laughter; to choose the worn cendre which made her look as appealing as a cold hearth or the faded castor gray? How did it happen that all her clothing was of a grayish cast? Shaking her head ruefully, her plaited hair brushing the floor with the movement, Cathryn decided that the least odious was the undyed wool. Shaking it out, she checked it for damage. Happily, it was in good repair and did not look too plebeian; the black cord edging gave the soft white of the wool a crisp look. It did not add much to her appearance, the lack of strong color seeming to draw the warmth from her complexion, but it was clean and did not look to be the sort of thing a servant would wear. It was the best she could do. She did want to look pleasing to the man who even now approached to marry her, though she