Captives by Emily Murdoch Page B

was no good: whatever she attempted to do, she could never completely forget her loneliness, and her longing to be home. As much as Catheryn was acclimatising to her new life, it was as if a flower had been planted in the shade when it loved the sun: it would live, but it would be but a half-life, and that life was worth very little.
    The clouds that were moving across the sky did so lazily. There was barely a breeze in the air.
    Catheryn raised a hand up, reaching for the white fluffy cloud that was currently wandering across the sky. Her hand moved higher than the grass that was surrounding her, and she chuckled slightly, imagining what a passer-by must think – an arm growing amongst the crops, grasping to catch the sky!
    No matter how far she stretched, Catheryn could not quite reach the clouds that looked as if they were just beyond her fingertips. Hand still in the air, Catheryn closed her eyes once more, and began to hum one of her favourite lullabies. She had sung it to quieten both of her children when they had been small, and the tune came to her easily.
    Images passed before her eyes quickly, as if they were really open, and she had found some way of returning to that favourite country – the past. Her husband, Selwyn, smiled at her, and Annis ran about her, still a toddler, shrieking with delight at the world. Whether memories or imaginings, they brought a smile to Catheryn’s face.
    “By God, woman, what are you doing?”
    Catheryn jumped up, eyes wide open in shock. Not far away stood one of the largest horses that she had ever seen – black, and huge, and panting wildly. It had obviously been on the move for a very long time; but Catheryn’s expert eye guessed that it had not been moving fast. She had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she had not heard its approach. There was a man atop the horse, disbelief and anger in his eyes. He had spoken Norman, a Norman that was harsh and clipped in tone.
    Catheryn bristled. “I am… at least, I was lying down on the ground,” she said defiantly, with as much dignity as she could muster at such short notice. “Not that it is any concern of yours,” she added.
    “Everything here is my concern,” he said curtly, casting a quick eye over the fields in all directions. “You are a fool, lying there with a hand in the air like an infant. What if I had ridden over you?”
    “Then you would have been the fool, not I!” Catheryn said angrily. “I am quite obvious in this green field.” She gestured to the red dress that she was wearing, and then turned a frustrated eye on the man who had so rudely addressed her. “If you cannot see me, then the fool is not the one in the dress.”
    The man snorted. “And what do you think you are doing here? I know everyone in this area, and you are not known to me. What right do you have to lounge in this field?”
    Catheryn almost spluttered with irritation. “This field is not a holy site, and I may lie in it if I choose! I am the lady Catheryn of the South, a lady of England, and… and a prisoner of the FitzOsbern family.”
    The man stared at her. The eyes that Catheryn had taken to be black and brooding seemed clear, like an evening sky. She could now see some blue in them where before all had been darkness.
    “The FitzOsbern family?”
    Catheryn nodded slowly. She had acted rashly – the same hot temper that she had tried to curb in her daughter had just been unleashed on this poor unsuspecting man, who had probably never spoken to a woman of her birth before. She cast a delicate eye over him, but could discern nothing except that he had travelled a long way. The dark beard covering his face was flecked with grey.
    He, in turn, was looking back. His eyes took in the ruffled hair, swept vaguely underneath a veil; an English custom. The dress she wore was of a fine colour, but seemed slightly torn and unkempt at the edges. She was nearing the peak of womanhood, but there was something hovering around the