By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  “There is always a choice. One must simply be willing to accept the consequences.”

  “My lady,” he said, low and intent. “I’ll protect you on the journey. Be certain of that.”

  And who will protect me at court? Stubborn, she shook her head, fingers twining in her skirts.

  “Do you question my competence? ’Tis said I’ve passing skill with a sword.”

  “It’s not your skill I doubt.”

  “Can’t you trust me to keep you safe?” He took a step closer. “I’ve sworn to it.”

  Restive, she edged away. Even without his clashing armor and wolf-slaying sword, the man was too large—broad-shouldered but slim-hipped, long limbs rangy with strength, a human predator with unwavering eyes, his very presence in her household a menace.

  Knowing the wall stood behind her, she moved to brush past him. Casually he shifted to block her escape.

  Dear God, if I’d been fool enough to defy Maldred this way, I’d be fending off his fists.

  But the man could hardly strike her—an aetheling, daughter of the royal house of Wessex. Besides, Eomond was no Maldred. So far, the two seemed nothing alike.

  “I’m not in the habit of trusting strange men,” she murmured.

  Couldn’t he understand how she must view him: not as a theyn bound by elaborate oaths to serve the king, but as a frightening stranger who’d invaded her life and her privy chamber? How could he expect her to trust him?

  As she looked up at him, conflict furrowed his brow, as though some inner debate raged in him. In his eyes, she recognized something she’d seen in other eyes but never wished to encourage—an awareness of herself, kin to royalty, untouchable and all the more desirable for it. Instinct propelled her back, until she brushed the wall.

  “In that case,” he said, like a man in a dream, “I must ask how I can prove myself, so that I seem no stranger.”

  “You’re Ethelred’s man,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing you can say that will make me trust you.”

  He paused. “Tell me, do you still mourn your husband?”

  Caught unprepared, she recoiled and couldn’t hide it.

  Her occasional congress with her late husband had produced no memory she cared to revisit. Maldred had terrified her from the moment she saw him, swarthy and unsmiling, with a bull’s thick neck, face bristling with coarse black hair. When she shrank from him on their wedding night, he had—nay, she wouldn’t think of that. Say merely that she’d learned to lie passive while he brought the brutal act to a swift conclusion.

  Yet she recalled how her mother Goda would glow when Eric of Grayhaven returned home from campaign. Surely, not all men were burdened with Maldred’s undesirable qualities—

  “My lady?” Eomond’s brow furrowed. “Does it bother you to speak of him?”

  She blinked. “Maldred was…not an easy man to know. He didn’t encourage intimacy, even among his familiars.” And least of all had he encouraged it from his wife, whose beauty he seemed to loathe as much as he desired it. “Indeed, I—I hardly knew him to mourn him. ’Twas a political match that lasted barely two years. And then he…died.”

  His lids dropped over the dark smolder of his gaze; the intent she read there turned her knees to water. That keen awareness of her rank and inviolability was dissolving before her eyes. It suddenly occurred to her the man might become more malleable if she encouraged him instead of defying him.

  Perhaps she’d found a new strategy.

  Besides, something like a force of nature had been drawing them together from the moment they met. Perhaps Gwyneth was right. Even if her soul burned for it—

  “What ho!” a child piped.

  With a grunt of surprise, Eomond jerked away. Chagrined, Katrin peered past him to find Gwyneth’s girl Alix, clad in a nightgown, standing wide-eyed before them.

  “Thor’s teeth,” Eomond muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. Uncertain whether to feel relieved or dismayed, Katrin struggled to collect herself.

  “I say!” Alix exclaimed, eyes bright with curiosity to behold this disgruntled stranger. “What man are you?”

  “Rather I should ask what child are you,” he said under his breath. “Did you spring like a fairy from a crack in the floor?”

  Grasping a few shreds of composure, Katrin took command. “This is Mistress Alix, my waiting-woman’s daughter. She sleeps in her cubby behind the curtain there—or should. Belike we’ve disturbed her rest.”

  His wry humor appeared as he bowed to the child. “My apologies, Mistress Alix.”

  “I heard a strange voice,” Alix piped. “I’m not used to finding strange men in our bedchamber.”

  Katrin crossed to her writing table, where her guest couldn’t see her face. “Indeed, it’s not a common occurrence, love. But all’s well.”

  Eomond shifted. “The hour grows late. We should all seek our beds.”

  “An excellent notion.” Anxious to be rid of him, Katrin spread her skirts and curtseyed. “Your pallet in the hall is warmed and ready. A good night to you.”

  Yet she was not to be rid of him so easily. At the threshold, he cocked a glance over his shoulder. “We’ll take this up in the morning, for we’ve little time.”

  “Very well,” she murmured, striving for a dulcet tone. She could put him off tonight, but mere words would not banish the Devil’s minion.

  Nay, that required a bolder approach.

  Chapter Three

  Fueled by resolve, Katrin arose at sunrise. Her wits were always their sharpest in a crisis—honed by years of practice. Last night’s lapse into sinking dread had left her. Today, she felt alive and tingling with energy for the challenge before her.

  Grabbing a heel of bread smeared with honey, she issued instructions to her chamberlain regarding the day’s labors and strode outside. By now the sun had risen, banners of amber light slanting through the trees. The last leaves clung russet and gold to the boughs, and crunched underfoot as she marched toward the stable. Her breath puffed before her, making plumes in the crisp air.

  In the warm dark stable, her marshal Wat was mucking out stalls, muttering over the state of his back. But he sprang to help when she asked him to saddle Arianrod.

  As expected, she found the sword-theyn with his stallion, murmuring to the horse as he curried the burnished coat. Today Eomond seemed a different man, his sternness softened by affection for the animal—a look that made her heart turn over. The stallion stamped as his master labored, muzzle pointed toward the knight as though he understood every word. Briefly, she thought the two were sharing secrets and wondered what they spoke of.

  As she swung the door closed, awareness ignited his features, and he raked back his hair.

  A Christian lady she might be, but she knew the look of desire in a man’s eyes when she saw it. Still, this was no lord, with his muddied ring-mail and speech littered with pagan curses.

  And aye, he knew it. He was supremely aware, just as she was, of the chasm of rank that yawned between them. This too she would use against him.

  The king can’t marry me off if I fail to appear at court.

  Squaring her shoulders, she approached with a sprightly step. “Good morrow to you!”

  “Good morrow.” He inclined his head, not quite a bow, brows quirking as he looked up at her. “I trust my lady passed a restful night.”

  “Why, surpassing so,” she lied brightly. “Do you care to join me in the hunt? We’ve space in our pantry for a fat stag. ’Tis the right season for it, if we’re lucky.”

  Without suspicion he took the bait, tossing the brush aside. Soon they were cantering through the forest, cloaks unfurling in their wake, horses frisking and snorting in the autumn air. Burnished leaves tumbled lazily from the heights.

  Reluctantly she gathered her wits t
o beguile him to his downfall. She waded into the treacherous waters of deception, feeling her way as she would with her toes in a strong current.

  “I must compliment you on that magnificent steed. Did you train him yourself?”

  “Aye, he’s a good lad.” Eomond thumped the stallion’s burnished shoulder. “I purchased him as a colt with the spoils from my first siege. My comrades threw away their coin on wine and women, but I spent every penny on this fellow and called it a bargain. Aren’t you, Thor?”

  Feeling peculiar, she watched as he bent over the glossy neck, unguarded for a fleeting moment as he talked to the horse. For a dangerous moment, it made him too human—not a butcher in the Devil’s service, but a man she could allow herself to like.

  But liking him was a luxury she could not afford.

  “Have you a wife and a hearthful of children at home? I hadn’t thought to ask.”

  He shot her one of his penetrating looks. “I do not.”

  A spurt of elation quickened her breath. She wondered why a man of his years would keep his own hearth, but something in his tone warned her against asking. “Surely you have a sweetheart at least?”

  “My lady honors me with this attention to the state of my heart.” Head lowered, he spurred his horse over a protruding root. “Be you not careful, you’ll have me hoping you take a personal interest in the matter.”

  “Why, is it a secret? If so, you needn’t tell me.”

  The weight of his eyes probed her. Plaiting her reins, she strove to appear easy.

  “Would you hear me say where my heart lies, lady?”

  “I would. I’ll promise to keep it as well as my own secrets, if that will ease your mind.” And that is well indeed.

  “Then I’ll tell you. But you must grant me a boon in exchange.”

  A quiver of anticipation swept through her. “What is it then? I must hear your terms before I agree.”

  “A simple thing, merely a trifle.” Leaves rustled beneath their horses’ hooves as they rode side by side. “Leave off your hood.”

  “You ask no more than that?” Laughing in disbelief, she pushed back her hood. “I hope you demand more from your vanquished foes, else you’ll never grow wealthy from ransoming them.”

  “So easy you cast aside your advantage?” he countered, full at his ease in this game of flirtation. How often he must play it. His warm brown eyes held her gaze. “I asked for the pleasure of watching the heat wash up from your throat, all the way to your russet hair, when I confess what lady holds my regard.”

  Oh, aye, she had him—or he had her. Again she laughed, dizzy, flailing in water above her head, and she didn’t know how to swim. “Oh, that’s monstrous unfair! I’ve no great thicket of beard like you to hide my blushes—”

  Their commotion flushed a startled hare across their path. Though she’d been caught unprepared, and rabbit was not the creature she hunted that day—four-legged instead of two—years of lean eating had honed her reflexes. She smiled when her quick-flown arrow found its quarry.

  “A pretty shot.” Eomond swung down to retrieve her arrow, and trussed the game to his saddle.

  “I must leave the house well provisioned,” she said idly, “if I’m to make this journey.”

  He shot her a glance. “Ho, has reason prevailed? Am I to be spared the shame of dragging you bound and screaming from your hall?”

  “I can’t pretend it pleases me to set forth at this season.” But I’d fly into the very teeth of winter to escape another marriage. “However, it seems I’ve little choice. I’m naught but a woman, after all.” She slanted him a sidelong look. “You’ve sworn to see me safe, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve sworn to lay down my life between you and any danger,” he said, his voice low.

  She shivered with an odd frisson of excitement and regret.

  He cleared his throat. “Snow will fly any day now. I should go today to hire our escort. Can you be ready to ride in two days’ time?”

  “So soon?” Her dismay was unfeigned.

  But she’d won—he’d said he would leave. Still, she shuddered to think what must occur when he returned.

  “Lady, we dare not tarry. The king expects to see you by Midwinter, and the road is long.”

  Unwise to yield too easily, when last night she’d opposed him so vigorously. Nervously, Arianrod danced beneath her. Katrin scanned for game as they entered a small glade.

  Eomond leaned to capture her bridle. “All will be well—I swear it.”

  Conflict twisted her stomach. Aye, this was a decent man. How would it have been to know him in another time and place?

  She veiled regret behind her lashes. “God grant it.”

  Suddenly the mare snorted and threw back her head, rearing. Caught by surprise, Katrin clutched at her pommel. A snuffling snort across the glade announced the tusked boar as it crashed through the brush. Red eyes smoldered as its cloven hooves churned the ground.

  With a single sweeping motion, Eomond freed his longbow. Recovering her wits, Katrin fitted a shaft to her small bow and let fly. It struck the boar’s bristling shoulder. Squealing with rage, the monster lowered its head and charged her.

  Beside her, Eomond controlled his plunging steed as he stretched the mighty bow. She struggled to notch another arrow, her terrified mare threatening to bolt. The boar plunged across the clearing, hooves tearing up the soil.

  For a heartbeat, the man’s body locked into stillness. Then he loosed his arrow. It slammed home in the boar’s chest. Yelping, the beast buckled and fell, already dying, tusks carving the earth a scant length from Arianrod’s dancing hooves.

  Katrin struggled with her panicked mare until Eomond caught her bridle, murmuring to the horse. Trembling with aftershock, she slid from the saddle and clung to the stirrup.

  He swung a booted leg over his pommel and jumped down beside her. Here is your moment, she thought in confusion, heart hammering. Pivoting toward him, she placed her palms on his chest. Rough wool scratched her skin, but she barely felt it. He was a banked inferno blazing beneath her touch. Clutching his tunic in both hands, she rested her brow against his chest.

  For a few breaths, they stood still beneath the canopy of trees. A fickle zephyr played overhead, sending showers of crimson leaves spinning down around them. For one enchanted moment, time held its breath.

  Nerving herself, Katrin tilted far back to meet his gaze, heart rabbiting against her ribcage. His eyes met hers, dark and rich as the loam beneath her boots—not a Viking’s eyes, for certain. For a span of heartbeats they turned her thoughts inside out, scattering her secrets like spilled coin between them.

  “My lady,” he said hoarsely, gripping her shoulders. “You try my resolve.”

  Biting her lip, she spun away and busied herself with her saddle. She could not even say for certain why she’d done it, whether it was artifice or genuine need.

  Not daring to look at him, she gathered her reins. “It appears I stand again in your debt. ’Tis twice in two days. In future, I’ll scarcely dare venture forth without you at my side.”

  “My lady—”

  “Happily, your good devices will fill our larder. What think you? Can we quarter this monstrous beast between the two of us, or shall I ride to the hall for assistance?”

  * * *

  They returned to Foresthold in stilted silence, Eomond leading his stallion, trussed boar draped across his saddle. After unloading his burden, he readied to depart, asking Wat about nearby hamlets and smallholds where he might find men.

  Katrin busied herself in the hall, telling herself she was relieved to be rid of him. Somehow, on the edge of a moment, everything had changed between them—or perhaps only her resolve had wavered. Those flashes of warmth, his wry humor, her bewildering impulse to turn to him for comfort—he who was her herald of
disaster.

  But only a coward would change course now. He was leaving, and she would ensure he didn’t return.

  As the theyn buckled his hauberk around his rangy frame, she contrived a private moment with him. Autumn vines spilled down the stable beside them, a blazing curtain of scarlet and gold.

  She slipped up to him as he set his weight against Thor’s girth-strap to cinch it. “So you’re going.”

  He grunted assent, eyes fixed on his work.

  She lowered her lashes and laid a hand on his forearm. Beneath her touch he froze, staring down at her white fingers, small and delicate against his battered ring-mail. For no discernible reason, her knees went weak.

  “I trust you will mind your safety on the road, sword-theyn. We shall pray for your return.”

  “Is it so, lady? Somehow I thought my presence was unwelcome. I hardly dare leave, lest I find the door barred against me when I return.”

  Her pulse beat swiftly. “The tidings you bore were less than welcome, but I’d be churlish to resent the messenger.”

  “Would you?” He looked unconvinced.

  “You’ve sworn to defend me. I can think of no better champion.”

  Breathless, afraid to overplay her part, she dropped her hand. Her heart leaped into her throat when he seized her hands, mindful not to crush her fingers in his heavy gauntlets. Longing to pull free yet draw him closer, she bowed her head over their joined hands.

  “You’re no shy maid,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

  Nibbling her lower lip, she risked an upward glance. His keen eyes were a searching beam that would surely penetrate her deceptions. Still, she felt the tug of attraction like a hand pulling her toward him on tiptoe.

  “So then. I’ll make haste to return.” He released her and stepped back. But his brow furrowed as he settled the fearsome helm on his head. Gleaming steel guards closed against his tawny beard; the slim nasal came down over his nose.