By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  “Dear God, he issued orders to slaughter every Dane in England, women and children included! And you refuse to question it?”

  “Katrin, we’re at war.” Impatient, he shifted. “You’ll play the game of politics yourself at court and turn ruthless as he is.”

  She gripped her knees and shuddered. “I’ve no desire to play games at court. I wish only to rule my own life, but I’m refused even that much. That’s what being an aetheling means for me.”

  “You do him no justice. He’s a brilliant ruler. Despite the damn Danish, England has never been so prosperous.”

  “Oh, I’m certain he pays you well enough.” But she wouldn’t win his trust with insults. Somehow, she forced a smile. “Have you never heard the tale of Goda of Grayhaven?”

  “Your mother?” His brows quirked. “I heard she was impossibly beautiful, and no man could look upon her without desiring her.”

  “So she was.” Her throat ached with unshed tears. “Not even Ethelred was immune, but she never sought his eye. She loved Eric of Grayhaven—the king’s bastard brother—with every particle of her being.”

  Wistfully she recalled the love that had wrapped them all around. Her childhood had done nothing to prepare her for her own terrifying marriage.

  Eomond studied his knife, then sheathed it carefully. “How’d your father die?”

  She swallowed hard. “He fell in battle fighting the Welsh. And the king nearly battered down our gates to woo my mother. She was terrified of Ethelred, just as I was.”

  He chuffed out an impatient breath. “How should you fear your own uncle?”

  “With good cause,” she whispered. “I was just a child, yet he showered me with trinkets and affection. I should’ve been grateful, but…there was something, an…intensity to his manner.” She shivered. “He frightened me, so I hid from him.”

  “He’s a powerful man, not yet past his prime. Most women find him difficult to resist.”

  “You may be certain my mother resisted! When I recall his wrath, I thank God on bended knee he could find me no worse husband than Maldred of Courtenay. Indeed, Maldred was bad enough.”

  “Maldred was a key vassal, warding the Danelaw road. Ethelred bought his fealty—”

  “You don’t know my uncle,” she said bitterly. “In one stroke, he gained a vassal and wreaked his vengeance. When my father died, I was my mother’s only comfort, along with the late babe she carried. It nearly killed me to leave her.” The words were ashes in her mouth. “Thanks to Ethelred’s neglect, the childbirth killed them both.”

  Eomond studied his scuffed boots. “The king isn’t known for his kindness, but he’s practical. I told you, he needs an aetheling for alliance.”

  “Then let him marry off the daughter he’s promised the Church! He has other options. I’d give anything to escape this—anything at all.” A fragile hope stirred. “If only…”

  If only you would ease your vigilance for one night, even one hour.

  “Let’s have no talk of escape, my lady,” he said flatly. “Do not hope for it.”

  Frustration rose to choke her. “You’ll deliver me to Ethelred like a horse he’s purchased.”

  When she sprang to her feet, he snared her wrist. “I don’t care for the sound of that. Most women would leap at the chance—an end to your exile.”

  “Is it so difficult to comprehend? I won’t be married against my will to another monster!” She twisted against his grip. “God’s mercy, I’ll tolerate no more of this tyranny.”

  “If you don’t care to be treated like my horse, girl, you’d best stop balking like one,” he muttered, pulling her toward him. “I’m no tyrant, but if you don’t leave off, you’ll drive me to behave like one. You wouldn’t care for it.”

  His threat fed the flames of her anger, and she strained against him. With a grunt of annoyance, he hauled her toward him. Inevitable as fate, she sat hard in his lap. The breath spilled from her lungs.

  Even now when she was furious, the length of his corded thighs, sheathed in muddy leather, seared her bottom.

  “For all your fine words, sword-theyn, you haul me across the land like a horse brought to market. Was that why you turned me over your knee, to remind me who holds the whip?”

  “By Odin’s lost eye.” He scowled. “Your antics put my men and yours at risk. You deserved to be chastised.”

  The reminder only made her angrier. “Did my uncle charge you with that too—not only to bring me, but to break me to the saddle?”

  Sparks flew when their eyes met. She felt it run through him like a vibration: the subtle shift of intent. Holding her effortlessly by the wrist, he cradled her head, so she couldn’t retreat. When his calloused fingers brushed her nape, a shiver chased across her skin.

  “If you dare…” she whispered.

  “I dare—the more fool I.”

  Once before he’d kissed her, an angry assault that left her reeling. This kiss was different, urging her to open, coaxing for something she didn’t know how to give. Blindly she clutched his steel-ringed hauberk, lips parting on a sigh. He groaned into her open mouth. The sweet spice of honey and mead flowed through her.

  God and Mary, this was wicked. Could she do no more than shiver and cling to him? He killed men in battle as easy as breathing. Yet he kissed her with all a man’s hunger for a woman’s heat, kissed her as though he’d consume her.

  This was what she’d dreamed of—what her mother must have felt when she glowed in her father’s arms. Shuddering, Katrin slid her arms around his neck, fingers twining in his hair.

  “I’ve burned for this, though we fly against all reason,” he muttered, hands slipping inside her cloak to span her waist, with only her shift between them. “Have you no sense at all, girl, to go half-clad among these men?”

  “Can’t such a great warrior protect my virtue?”

  “From all quarters, never doubt it.” He ducked his tawny head so she couldn’t see his face. “But who’ll protect you from me? I am but a man.”

  Before she could reply, his hands closed over the swell of her breasts, thumbs sweeping across her jutting nipples. A shock of response rolled through her, tendrils of sensation unfurling within, stirring an unfamiliar pulse at the juncture of her thighs. Her nipples hardened at the contact, rising against his palms.

  Jesus in Heaven, I’ll burn for this. She voiced a strangled sound, even as she arched into his touch.

  “Katrin…” Sinew tensed in his thighs as he swung her around to straddle him. The new placement opened her, shift riding up her thighs, baring her legs to the crisp night air. Her body stirring to tingling life, she clutched his mailed shoulders, head falling back, the cloud-streaked heavens swimming before her eyes.

  She’d forgotten they were sprawled practically in the mud, within hailing distance of his men, while wolves watched them embrace from the shadows. But she sensed Eomond fighting for control.

  “Odin’s pain, this is madness. How much restraint do you think I have?”

  “Tell me,” she whispered, “is it common to make love in this fashion? I swear my husband did none of this.”

  “It’s an act of sheer lunacy,” he muttered. “You’re the king’s niece. And pray don’t discuss your late husband at this of all moments.”

  His eyes smoked as they skimmed her body, shift scraping against hardened nipples, the pale skin of her thighs almost glowing in the moonlight. She swayed on the edge of the abyss. Damnation lay one way and salvation another, but for her very life she couldn’t judge which way to jump.

  Sighing, he shook his head. “You’re too fine for this, my lady. You’re meant for a bed hung in samite, an elegant chamber in an earl’s court. You’re no woman to be tumbled in the mud.”

  She cared nothing for samite and elegance, but discretion was a commodity she dared
not discard. High scandal would ensue if some man came stumbling out to relieve himself and blundered across them like this. Clearly, her tactics hadn’t yet persuaded him.

  Stung by the prod of danger, she scrambled to her feet.

  Glancing around, he raked back his hair. “I feel half-bewitched. I’m charged with the guard, but here I dally with you.”

  “’Tis not your fault. I shouldn’t have come out.”

  Even though it served my purpose. Her body still tingled with the ungodly sensations this heathen had stirred. If he felt half what she did, she should be well satisfied by this night’s work.

  Eomond stood with his back to her, staring at the road. A black wolf stood boldly in the open, looking back. Then the beast shook itself and trotted off into the darkness.

  “It’s not wise to tarry,” he said brusquely. “You’d best go inside.”

  “I’m sorry I came out at all,” she answered. “Since I’m likely to be married by Candlemas.”

  He swung toward her. “Katrin—”

  But she fled through the door to safety before he could stop her.

  Chapter Six

  I’m running out of time.

  Heart pounding, Katrin started from sleep, limbs tangled in her cloak. Around her, yawning men lumbered up from their furs. In the pallid light of morning, clouds of breath exploded from their lungs.

  So cold. Shivering, she struggled to sit.

  The lad Eahlstan limped inside and hurried toward her. “Good morrow, milady! Doon’t lie abed. Milord says we’ll make Jorvik-town by nightfall.”

  Fighting a surge of panic, she lowered her head to her knees. The king’s winter stronghold stood only a few days from Jorvik.

  The prospect of sleeping within city walls—and probably not alone—infused her escort with boisterous cheer. Even a biting wind and sullen skies didn’t blunt their spirits. Determined to avoid Eomond’s searching gaze, Katrin rode with her hood up. She burned to recall their latest encounter. Unchaste kiss and unchaste touch—this must be what the priests preached against. Such wanton pleasure could only be the Devil’s snare.

  Arianrod flung back her head and snorted. Scanning the landscape, Katrin glimpsed a ragged band of travelers ahead on the Roman road. They appeared fearful of her mounted party, and inclined to scatter. Her heart twisted to see a child among them—a thin girl riding a mule, bent double with coughing.

  Raising an arm to hail them, Eomond galloped toward the party.

  Gwyneth shifted her bulk in her saddle. “Mark me, lass, this bodes ill.”

  When he returned at a canter, they crowded close to hear his news.

  “It’s the smallpox.” Squinting against the wind, he met Katrin’s gaze. “Now it’s raging in Jorvik.”

  Her stomach dropped to her boots. Unsettling images flashed across her mind: an empty village after the pox swept through, doors swinging open into darkness, starving dogs snarling in the street. The pitted face of a scarred survivor, eyes empty of hope.

  She fought to contain her panic. “In that case, we must no longer make for Jorvik.”

  Uhtred spat and crossed himself. “We durst not go to any village. They’ll be dropping like flies in the street, if they ain’t already.”

  Their party stirred uneasily, the communal fear closing their throats. The mere whisper of smallpox was enough to send entire villages fleeing for their lives. It set neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. Wealthy and poor, wicked and devout, all fell to the scythe. The pox killed seven of every ten stricken. For the most virulent strain, the dreaded black pox, the disease was invariably fatal.

  Katrin struggled for a calm voice. “What course do you advise, sword-theyn?”

  Meeting her worried eyes, he frowned. “This road’s risky, with all men flocking north to pray at Durham. We should cut across country.”

  Nervously, she plaited her reins. Prospects for her own escape became trickier if they left the road. She cared not to flee one calamity only to blunder into another, wandering alone in the wild.

  Cautious, she circled the problem. “Will we be lost if we leave the road?”

  “Nay, we’ll make for the river called Derwent, and follow it south.”

  “Ye’ll mean to lead us through the fens.” One-eyed Wulfric scowled. “Many come to grief there.”

  “I know the way.” Eomond eyed him, unblinking.

  Young Eahlstan fidgeted. “I heard there’s raiders bidin’ in those lands, come down from the Danelaw.”

  “Mary and Jooseph preserve us.” Gwyneth huffed. “First the bloody pox and now the Vikings on this godless rood! We should never have left the hoose—that’s plain truth.”

  Indeed, Katrin had raised these very arguments against it. But no use saying so now.

  “There may be raiders,” Eomond said grimly. “But those I can fight with my sword and the stout hearts of these good men. Six men like you are worth an army—but we can’t fight the pox.”

  “Ah, milord has the right of it,” Uhtred grumbled, mollified by the praise. “Let’s belay the chatter and put some ground between us and those walking corpses, aye?”

  As they left the road, another band of travelers appeared in the distance, straggling north. One man seemed to be weaving in his steps. Even as she watched, he fell to his knees. Shivering, Katrin crossed herself and turned away.

  “We should have been blessed by the saint at Durham,” Gwyneth said stubbornly. “Mark my words. No good will come of this.”

  * * *

  They were being watched. Eomond had warned her of it, nudging Thor alongside to whisper as he bent to tighten her saddle girth.

  Katrin hadn’t been fool enough to believe they’d pass easily through the mazy wilderness between the Derwent and the Ouse. Yet somehow, canny as a fox, Eomond led them among the sucking sands. Somehow, he’d burrowed out solid earth. She’d begun to hope he might bring them all through this, like Moses leading his people to the Promised Land.

  But no prophet would deliver them from danger now.

  Howls rose around them as a horde of filthy bodies exploded from the tall grass, making their horses rear and scatter in panic. More like beasts then men, the raiders bayed like wolves, swinging axes around their heads in a foaming rage.

  For a dangerous moment, her retinue milled in disarray as the raiders closed in. Then Eomond galloped along the line, rallying them, blond hair flying as he shouted commands. Slowly his men formed a ragged defensive knot, the women in the center.

  “Outlaws—God love us.” Gwyneth armed herself with the meat-spit. “Keep behind me, lass.”

  White to the lips, Katrin nodded. She’d seen what outlaws did to women they captured.

  The horde closed in, hurtling against their defense. Around her, the wall of mounted men wavered but held, steel ringing against steel.

  Shaking, she unhooked her hunting bow and fumbled for an arrow. But she dared not loose into this seething chaos, or risk shooting her own defenders. A far cry from shooting a hare for the larder—to feather a man in cold blood. She prayed her nerve wouldn’t fail her.

  Astride his wrathful stallion, Eomond stormed along the attacking line, like the Viking giant Surt with his sword of fire—everywhere at once, surging back and forth through the battle like the sea. His broadsword flashed. His racketing war-cry split the air. Thor reared and plunged, hooves lashing out at the foe. The raiders fell over their own feet trying to scramble beyond his reach.

  Fired by their captain’s determination, his men hammered the superior force. Still, a few determined villains managed to break through. Fierce as a cornered badger, Gwyneth planted herself and wielded her weapon.

  Suddenly, a hulking mountain of a man with flowing blond whiskers loomed before Katrin. Heart pounding like a mallet, she raised her bow and let
fly. But Arianrod shied and jarred her aim. To her despair, the arrow sliced across his shoulder without dropping the man. Her assailant howled with outrage.

  Frantic, she fumbled for another arrow, but he lunged too swiftly. Fueled by rage and terror, she swung her booted foot and connected with his jaw.

  Grunting, he staggered back. With a shout, she clapped her heels against the mare. As they bolted past, the giant grasped a fistful of Katrin’s streaming cloak and pulled her backward. Bow falling, she grabbed wildly for the saddle, and missed. Then the ground rushed up to meet her.

  She landed on her back, air exploding from her lungs.

  Hooves churned the mud around her. Rolling to the side, she sucked in air and scrambled up. As her vision cleared, a fresh wave of terror broke over her.

  “Afoot now, are ye, wench?” The outlaw grinned, displaying a mouthful of rotting teeth—the man far too large for her to overcome. Whirling, she dashed across the road, between clumps of struggling men. As she fled, she searched for Eomond, but could not find him in the melee.

  I must save myself then—as usual. Grimly, she palmed her belt-knife.

  Close behind, her pursuer cursed, his breath hot on her neck. Encumbered by her skirts, she couldn’t outrun him. Heart sinking, she spun to face him. When he saw her brought to bay, he snarled—close enough to smell his reeking breath. Bloody spray painted his shoulder and his matted beard.

  As he closed in, she raised her dagger. Unlike most women, she knew how to use it. Seeing her blade, the giant slowed.

  She dropped into a defensive crouch, and he bared his teeth in a wolf’s smile.

  “Do ye be trying your pig-sticker on me, wench? I’ve a bigger blade to fill your sheath.”

  She should have been terrified, but fury churned within her. Glaring straight into his eyes, she bared her own teeth. “Why don’t you come closer and try?”

  Braying a laugh, he reached for her. Fiercely, she stabbed her blade toward his unprotected face, the dagger slicing across his cheek. Howling, he batted her knife aside like a man swatting a fly and lunged at her. Barely in time, she darted beyond reach. A sick sense of terror roiled her stomach.