Page 34 of Katherine the Vixen

“Thank you. I am so relieved.”

“I can imagine.” He nodded at the letter. “Would you like to answer and congratulate your mother on the birth of your little brother?”

“Yes…” She hesitated.

He gave her a smile. A tender smile, she thought. He had understood that she could not write and oddly, he managed not to make her feel inferior for it.

“Then come. I have ink and parchment in the solar. I shall be your personal scribe. At no extra charge,” he added with a wink. “Make the most of it.”

The glint dancing in his eyes wrenched a smile out of Katherine. How was it that he could contrive to make her do what a scullion should never dare do without making her feel embarrassed?

“I would be grateful, my lord, if you are sure you don’t⁠—”

“I am.” Another smile. “Come.”

She followed him to the small room above the great hall. Katherine had only ever been there once, the night she had been asked to replace Lady Malpas in bed. It had been dark then and despair had crushed her at the thought of what she had to accomplish. Today her chest was light and the room was drenched in sunlight, allowing her to appreciate its perfect proportions and tasteful decoration. Everything, from the sheep skins to the wooden stools, was of the highest quality and had been chosen for beauty as well as comfort.

Siaspar sat down at his table and set about sharpening a quill with a small blade. Fascinated, she watched his every gesture, which betrayed his ease with the process. Then she saw how he was handling the knife and remembered him saying he was left-handed. The wrist that had been cut was the left one.

“Are you sure you will be able to write? Your wrist is not too painful?”

“You are not asking me to use my sword, only my quill. It should be fine.” He flexed his wrist to prove that he was not in pain, then gave a smile, as if he thought she was only looking for excuses to put off the moment—which, of course, she was. The exercise was not as easy as she had imagined and she felt intimidated beyond measure.

This powerful man was taking some of his precious time to write to a poor blacksmith back in England. It seemed incredible.

Finally, he dipped the quill in the pot of ink and looked up at her. “Katherine, I await your pleasure.”

Pleasure.

The word made her insides flutter. She ruthlessly ignored the unwanted sensation and instead started to dictate a few sentences. When she saw the beautiful script flowering under Siaspar’s quill, she knew that when her father received the letter, he would assume she had found a scribe at a fair, like he had done. Never would he imagine that the master of the castle himself had written the missive.

Once she had finished talking, Siaspar got up without a word and walked over to the fireplace. Before Katherine had time to wonder what he was doing, he threw the piece of parchment into the flames.

Shock pinned her in place. “You⁠—”

“Forgive me,” he said, though there was nothing apologetic in the stare he gave her. “But I cannot believe that after receiving happy news from your family, and considering how you procured their salvation, you would want to respond with such a bland message.” He walked back to the table and took up his quill again. “Now. What did you really want to tell them? If you feel too uncomfortable dictating to me, I will summon my clerk.”

Tears welled up in her eyes at his patience and thoughtfulness.

“No. I’m sorry… You’re right. Only, I do not want to waste your time.”

“If you force me to write uninspiring letters that end up in the fire, you certainly are wasting my time, so you had better start dictating the real one,” he said roundly. “Not to mention that I have now selected a good piece of parchment, which I would hate to spoil. The one I used before had been scratched many times over and was almost transparent. I had a feeling it would end up in the fire.”

Faced with this whimsical, generous, smiling man, Katherine wondered how his wife could think him forbidding and sullen. Then she reflected that, on the few occasions she had seen the two of them together, he had indeed seemed cold and unyielding. But he was different with her, he indulged her when she was certain anyone else would have sent her back to the kitchen once the letter had been read—or more to the point, berated her for daring to shirk her work.

She owed it to him to at least try to do what she had been brought up here to do.

“I will do my best.”

“Good. Don’t look at me,” he suggested. “Go to the window, I think it will be easier. Look at the landscape and imagine what you would tell your family if they were here with you.”

This was a good idea. With her gaze on the sea in the distance and the cool spring breeze caressing her face, Katherine started to speak. When she imagined her family huddled around the hearth to talk about her, her heart filled with both love and despair. When would she see them again? Were they thinking of her? What did little James look like? Was everyone well? Who was repairing Harry’s shirts?

After a while, she stopped and turned to Siaspar. How long had she been talking? Too long, probably.

“I’m sorry,” she said, mortified to have taken so much of his time. “I fear I got a bit carried away.”

“Don’t be sorry. I forced you to write another letter, so I only have myself to blame. At least this one will not end up in the flames.”