My Lady Imposter by Sara Bennett - My Lady Imposter Page A

with the cold and her emotions, dark hair spilling out of the hood like night. “I am,” she said, haughty as a queen, and heard him laugh as she spurred on.
    The castle yard was bare. The grim walls of the inner castle rose before them. An armored soldier came running, a pike in hand, and more followed from the gatehouse as Lord Ralf’s entourage poured in.
    “My lord,” the man came to attention. “You’ll forgive my caution, but the brigands become more daring with each day, and most of our number are out hunting them in the forest.”
    “We’ve made the acquaintance of your brigands already,” Ralf retorted coldly, and swung down to the ground. “Where is your master?”
    “In the main tower, my lord.”
    Lord Ralf turned, and held out his hands for Kathryn. She slid down as he steadied her, and stood a moment in the circle of his arms. And then he had stepped away and, retaining her cold hand in his, said, “Come, my lady. We go to meet your kinsman.”
    It was a fine moment, a grand show for the watching soldiers and servants, peeping from a dozen doorways. The guard stepped automatically aside, as they went bravely forward.
    Ralf pounded his fist against the heavy doors closed to them, and a grubby-faced servant swung them back. The hall was grubby too, old rushes and the stench of dogs and rotten food. A single candle wavered upon a sconce, and, under Lord Ralf’s curses, the man fetched it and hurried before them up narrow, twisting stairs.
    An arras, brightly colored, though raggedly cut to fit the space. The servant brushed it aside, and a dog whined from the direction of the hearth. Candles burned brightly here, and the heat of the fire made the air heavy and hot. Kathryn hung back as Lord Ralf strode forward, but his hand closed on her arm and she was pulled forward in no uncertain terms.
    A great bed stood in the middle of the room and, propped up against the bolster, beneath embroidered covers, was an incredibly old man. A yellow face in the shadows, scored with lines. White hair fine as flax, and a black-gummed mouth half agape, eyes open...
    Kathryn could see them glinting. Black eyes, like her own, shining with life, fixed upon her.
    “Sir Piers.” Ralf went down on his knees beside the bed. A claw-like hand stole sideways across the counterpane towards him, and he kissed the livid knuckles. “My lord, I bring good tidings.”
    “Who is this woman?”
    The voice was faint, crackled like hide in the sun. Lord Ralf turned, beckoning her forward. She came in a trance, graceful in the straight gown, the hood of her cloak thrown back to show her black hair and the smooth line of cheek and brow. In the candlelight she was beautiful, and Sir Piers stared as if the angel of death herself had come.
    “This, my lord, is the Lady Kathryn de Brusac.”
    A pause. The breathing seemed to pause too, and then went on, swifter than before. “You jest,” the crackling voice said. “I have no kin. I am the last of the great line of de Brusac.”
    “My lord, I jest not. I wrote you a message. Did you not receive it?”
    “I received no message,” he said shortly.
    “Then I will explain, my lord. You had a daughter. The Lady Alys?”
    “Alys?” The black eyes wandered, at last, to Ralf, and fixed there. “What of Alys? She is long dead; died as meekly as she lived.”
    “I met her once at Court, Sir Piers. I remembered her well. I was impressed by her sweetness, her goodness.”
    “Oh, she was good enough,” the old man sighed impatiently. “Too good for this world mayhap. But she had no substance. Come Ralf, women should have some substance, eh? Where would we be if they were all saints?”
    “She was indeed a saintly woman, my lord. But—” he bit his lip. “Did you see her before she retired to the Convent of St Ursula, Sir Piers?”
    A pause and the eyes narrowed. “You mean to tell me this is my daughter’s bastard?”
    “My lord...”he lifted his hands, let them fall.
    “The story