By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  Suddenly, a rhythmic thunder shook the ground beneath her. Materializing over the giant’s shoulder like an apparition, Thor hammered toward them, his rider leaning from the saddle, tawny hair flying. St. Wilfrid guard her, Eomond had never looked so large, so dangerous, so utterly reassuring as he did at that moment.

  Too late, the giant sensed his peril.

  As Eomond’s blade sheared down, Katrin squeezed her eyes closed. An instant later, a heavy body crashed against her feet and sent her stumbling back. Seeing what remained of the giant she turned away, fighting a surge of nausea.

  When her vision cleared, Eomond was frowning down at her from horseback. “Are you injured?”

  “Nay, I’m well enough,” she said faintly.

  He shot her a keen look. “You don’t lack courage, do you, girl?”

  He would hardly say so if he could feel the belated shivers that shook her like autumn leaves. She locked her knees against them and watched the fight peter out around them.

  “Marry, Eomond, those brigands are escaping. Aren’t you going to pursue them?”

  “I’m no sheriff to impose the king’s law. But aye, we’ll rout these vermin.” Pointedly, he eyed the knife. “You’ll stay here.”

  Annoyance flooded through her. “Why, I’d planned to ride to London for the fair.”

  He snorted. “Try to stay out of trouble, my lady—if that’s possible.”

  God’s mercy, she hadn’t gone looking for trouble! Indeed, she’d held off her assailant nicely until Eomond could get around to the business of rescuing her. Cormac would have been proud of her.

  When Gwyneth bustled toward them, a reluctant grin tugged her lips.

  “Mary and Jooseph!” the woman panted. “I’ve had enough of this unhooly commotion. Between my lass squirming like a sack of eels and you running down the rood like a rabbit, I’m fair winded.”

  “Calm yourself, Gwyneth. Our defenders have vanquished this rabble.”

  “Lord love us.” Gwyneth brushed vigorously at the mud clinging to Katrin’s cloak. “When do we come to a civilized place? Ye’ll be dirty as a rag picker’s girl by the time we reach court.”

  Katrin’s smile faded.

  Soon the sword-theyn cantered back to them, Arianrod trailing meekly at his heels.

  “Take heart,” Eomond told them. “Tomorrow we’ll rejoin the road—if we can avoid any more adventures. They seem to follow you, lady, like puppies at your heels.”

  Heat rising in her cheeks, Katrin elevated her chin. “We managed well enough until you dragged us into the wild—against my advice, I might add.”

  “No doubt you sat on your Scottish borders placid as ducks on a millpond,” he said dryly, swinging down. Arianrod lowered her head to nuzzle his shoulder. “Thor’s bloody hammer, girl, where did you learn knife-work?”

  Discomfited, she glanced away. “My father’s armsmaster taught me. I was but a child. Nothing was thought of it.”

  To her despair, Gwyneth took up the old grievance. “Aye, ye’ll know how a willful lass wheedles her way. Milord saw no wrong in it, ’til Lady Goda put down her foot—”

  “Enough!” Katrin snapped. Why is it that whenever I stand before this man, I feel like a thwarted child? “You say we’ll rejoin the road tomorrow?”

  Eomond quirked his brows at her change of subject. “Weather and the road allowing, we’ll see court in five days.”

  Five days, dear Heaven. The prediction iced her blood.

  Her time was running out.

  * * *

  The Roman road stretched before her like the trail to Golgotha. Although Katrin prayed for foul weather, winter held its breath as they rode south. She longed to seize the sun as it rolled across the heavens, and stay its course.

  Her thoughts were spinning in anxious circles when their mounted column clattered into the next village. The fire-gutted farmsteads announced that here, too, the raiders had passed. In this place, they’d paid dearly for their pillage.

  Perched on sharpened spikes before the gates, the rotting heads proclaimed a warning to all their kind. These would never again pass through Courtenay’s sundered border. Shuddering, she averted her gaze.

  But within the walls was a fair-day. Rickety stalls lined the muddy road. Determined peddlers hawked their wares to the meager crowd. Knots of villagers huddled around the stage where a threadbare band of morris-dancers capered to a ragged melody. The ripe odors of manure and unwashed bodies mingled with the savory aroma of meat-pies.

  The unexpected appearance of a lady and her retinue raised a gratifying hue and cry, and Katrin took heart. Surely someone here would have sympathy for her dilemma.

  “A moment, sword-theyn,” she called. “It’s been a woeful long time since I’ve seen a fair.”

  From Thor’s impressive height, he glanced around. Beneath his frowning scrutiny, vendors faltered into silence.

  “It’s a poor selection of wares. You’ll find better at court.”

  Her heart turned to stone. “I’d like to purchase some items now. I don’t wish to arrive at court looking like a beggar-girl.”

  She cast him an imploring look, and his mouth twitched. “Somehow, I don’t believe you have anything to fear. Midwinter is nearly upon us—”

  “Aye, but we’ll reach the king in time. Look there, a monastery! Can’t we shelter beneath a roof for one night? I’d dearly love a bath before we arrive.” She paused. “Indeed, you yourself require one.”

  Chagrin and amusement mingled in his face as he glanced down at his muddy armor. She laid a hand on his mailed forearm. “Will you do it to please me? ’Tis such a trifling thing.”

  Beneath her fingers, currents of energy surged between them. The world narrowed to the span of his arm beneath her hand. Fearful that he’d read the deception in her eyes, she lowered her lashes.

  “You plead very prettily,” he said at last. “Would be a pity to see it wasted. Besides, we can’t have my lady offended by my road-stink.”

  Pitching his voice above the clamor, he called orders down the column. Concealing her jubilation, she dropped back, stomach fluttering with nerves.

  * * *

  As it happened, the monks possessed a private chamber suitable for an aetheling—the archbishop’s chamber when he was in residence, though currently he wasn’t. The chamber was grand indeed: an enormous bed, roofed and curtained in crimson, painted cloth blazing with religious scenes, a long table with beeswax candles burning in silver sconces.

  Alone at last, with only Gwyneth in attendance, Katrin felt her worries recede as she sank to her chin in hot water, fragrant with rosemary and lavender.

  “Oh, this is Heaven,” she murmured, eyes closed, as the aches of the road dissolved.

  “Ye’d best wash yer hair, lass, or yer apt to catch a chill. Ye’ll have no other chance before we reach court.”

  Trepidation knotted Katrin’s belly. Tonight was her only chance. Come what may, she must make use of it.

  Gwyneth cast her a suspicious glance. “What ails ye? Do ye have the stomach-ache?”

  “Nay, I’m well.” To Katrin’s alarm, a betraying blush warmed her cheeks. “This water grows cold. Where is my chamber robe?”

  Gwyneth held her peace until Katrin was settled before the fire.

  “I don’t doubt you’re worried aboot seeing the king, lass, but I say ’tis high time. Disgraceful, his neglect these many years! Why didn’t he call ye home when Maldred died?”

  “I wouldn’t have gone.” Restless, Katrin stirred. “But I don’t wish to discuss my uncle. I wish to venture out. Where is my purse of coin?”

  “Ye have no purse of coin. Ye seem a trifle flustered.”

  “I’m anxious to see the fair.” Katrin snatched the brush and drew it vigorously through her burnished curls.
<
br />   “That sad display?” Gwyneth snorted. “I’d say ye’re anxious for something, but I’ll not say what. Ye’ve some scheme brewing, and no use denying it. I know ye like the back of my own hand.”

  “For pity’s sake, be silent! The very walls have ears.”

  The older woman eyed her. “What of the sword-theyn?”

  “What of him? He can barely wait to dump me in Ethelred’s lap.”

  “Mary and Jooseph, are ye blind? Don’t ye see the eyes of him? He’s no man to hide what’s in his head. For all yer tricks and his prickly pride, ye’ve only to beckon and ye’d have him in yer bed.”

  Katrin fought down another hot blush. “You know I’m to be married.”

  “Aye, so seize yer moment! Ye’ll have little chance at court, with three to a bed and prying eyes in every corner. Before ye wed another high and mighty Christian lord, ye should know a man’s pleasure.”

  “St. Cuthbert’s chalice! I’m a virtuous woman.”

  “Aye, and much joy has that brought. If it’s a babe that troubles ye, there are ways—”

  “Nay! Say nothing—”

  Hearing Alix’s quick step in the passage, she beckoned for her green kirtle. Gwyneth had helped her into it and was draping the russet cloak over her shoulders when a knock sounded. Alix skipped to fling the door open. Heart leaping into her throat, Katrin glimpsed Eomond filling her doorway, still encumbered by his mail. He would take no rest until he’d ensured her comfort, if only for duty’s sake. His dark eyes smoldered as he bent his tall frame in a bow.

  “I came to ensure your comfort, lady,” he said to his boots. “I’d give the men a few hours free, if you’ve no need of them.”

  “Indeed, we want for nothing.” She fiddled with her cloak-pin. “By all means, the men have earned their holiday. I merely thought to visit the fair.”

  He shot her a keen look from beneath his brows. “Then you need an escort. I suppose I’ll take you myself.”

  Must the man sound so unwilling? She suffered the sting of pride. “Gwyneth and I are well able to manage.”

  He pushed out a harsh breath. “And leave you at the mercy of every thief or scoundrel in his cups? I can’t allow it.”

  “Indeed, you overwhelm me with such solicitude—” Katrin gasped as she pricked her finger.

  With an oath, he strode toward her. She stood her ground as he pinned the cloak impatiently beneath her chin. His size overwhelmed her, rough and uncouth in his armor, restless heat licking her skin like flames.

  “I can manage without you,” she said, breathless.

  “I doubt that,” he said brusquely, swinging toward the door without waiting to see if she followed. “Come along.”

  He orders me hither and yon like a housecarl. Simmering, she hurried in his wake.

  * * *

  Eomond marched down the thoroughfare, chivvying her briskly before him, his big-shouldered frame between her and the crowd. Cowed by his alarming height and the length of steel at his hip, the shabby villagers gave them a wide berth.

  A few snowflakes drifted from leaden skies, and the biting wind whipped her cheeks. Her attempts at conversation met gruff monosyllables or silence.

  Annoyed, she fell silent and quickened her stride. Gwyneth is wrong to think he fancies me. Clearly he wants nothing to do with me, beyond his precious duty!

  As she strode along, lost in thought, an armored figure loomed before them.

  “God’s wounds, Eomond!” the man bellowed, laughing.

  Eomond clapped him roughly in a soldier’s embrace. “Well met, Thorkell! What are you doing so far from the king, you scurvy dog?”

  “Seeking news of you, among other matters.” Frankly curious, the stranger studied Katrin.

  Beneath lowered lashes, she took him in. Not handsome, but confident enough to overcome his defects: square-jawed face marred by a broken nose, a thatch of unruly black hair tumbling over his brow, good-natured grin splitting his craggy features.

  Not nobly born, but my watchdog here doesn’t daunt him. Will he be the one who aids me?

  Unwillingly, Eomond tugged her forward. “I’m bringing Ethelred his niece from the Scottish border. Make your bow to Lady Katrin, man.”

  No stranger to court manners, Thorkell kissed her hand. She dipped a pretty curtsey.

  “I’m Thorkell of Leighton, theyn of the royal guard.” A spark of appreciation lit the newcomer’s gaze. “Ethelred will be pleased to see you safe. He’s been anxious for your arrival.”

  “No more anxious than I.” She forced a smile.

  Eomond snorted. He still gripped her arm, which she found notable, since he’d avoided her like a plague victim on the road.

  “’Tis your first visit to court? I’d be pleased to show you the place.” Solicitous, Thorkell placed himself between her and a persistent vendor.

  Squeezed between the two theyns, she glanced between them. “Why, that is most kind.”

  “This is no place for chatter.” Eomond frowned at a ragged urchin. The lad grimaced and ducked away. “Let’s find a pitcher of ale, and mulled wine for my lady.”

  As the two ushered her along, she tucked a hand around Thorkell’s arm as if for help with the uneven footing. Obligingly, he shortened his stride.

  In the wine-tent, she settled at a trestle table. A brief scuffle ensued as the two theyns angled to find places beside her on the crowded bench. Finally, grim-faced, Eomond elbowed his way in. A fat monk occupied her other flank, face buried devoutly in his cup.

  Disgruntled, Thorkell lowered his armored frame into the opposite place.

  An amorous man, God save me. But he knows these lands, and I’ll wager he knows that axe he’s carrying. He’s exactly the man I need.

  Eomond propped his elbows on the table. “Truly, man, why are you here? Is there some lass in town you fancy?”

  “I see I can’t deceive you.” Thorkell laughed. “She’s the baker’s daughter, and a sweeter maid you never saw. Blond ringlets and big—ah, well, I’ll say no more in the lady’s presence.” He winked at Katrin.

  “Maybe you’ll marry this one.” Eomond hitched his brows.

  “I’ll hear it from my sainted mother and my five sweet sisters, but not from you! I’ll not marry a baker’s daughter.”

  “You’re a baker’s son,” Eomond pointed out.

  “But meant for more.” Thorkell grinned at Katrin. Over her goblet she smiled back. It had been long since she could enjoy a simple dalliance. Beside her, Eomond scowled.

  Content to listen, she sipped her wine. Tidings from the king’s court would not go amiss. Left to themselves, the pair would surely arrive at that topic without prompting.

  “So, man, what news from home?” Eomond urged. Katrin smiled down at her cup.

  “All grim. Viking longboats have harried the coast all season as usual. They torched half of Wessex the last time they raided.”

  Eomond’s fist clenched around his cup. “Odin’s pain, that sounds not good.”

  Thorkell’s blue eyes fired. “Some good came of it. In your absence, I was given my own command. It’s the chance I’ve been hoping for! You should’ve seen my brother’s face when I told him—him who always said I’d be a tradesman like our father. It’s the start of my rise, wait and see.”

  So he’s ambitious, as well as proud.

  “Gods grant it,” Eomond said, noncommittal. “How stands my cavalry?”

  “Barely effective, without you to lead them. Ethelred will be right glad to have you back. Likely he’ll send you out to secure his borders straight on.”

  Her stomach knotted. At odds though they were, God knew she didn’t wish Eomond to fall in battle to a Viking axe.

  Thorkell laughed at her expression. “Lo! See how the tidings distress the lady. What have you
been doing on the road with her, you scoundrel?”

  “Mind your tongue, man. She’s the king’s own niece.”

  “Aye, he’s ever mindful of it,” Katrin murmured. “My watchdog is the very soul of propriety.”

  “For shame, Eomond! You’ve bored the lady.” Holding her gaze, Thorkell hoisted his cup. “You should hear the king sing your praises. He longs to have you near him.”

  Disconcerted, she stared. “You must be mistaken. He’s barely seen my face.”

  “I thought he must exaggerate, for no woman could be that lovely. But now that I’ve seen you, I think he hasn’t praised you highly enough.”

  Although she knew this was courtly love-talk, nothing more, a pleasant glow warmed her. It was agreeable, after her harrowing journey, to sit in the company of a charming young man spouting compliments to her beauty.

  “La, you put me to the blush with such fulsome praises.”

  “Have I that power?” Thorkell covered his heart.

  “Have a care, Katrin.” Eomond scowled. “Thorkell has the smoothest tongue at court. Many a maid’s lost her heart to this rogue.”

  “Eomond, you’ll spoil my chances with the lady!”

  Better and better. He’s already half-beguiled.

  “I must apologize for Eomond,” she said lightly. “He’s been ill-tempered as a boar all week. He’s so unwilling to share my company I can’t imagine why my uncle chose him.”

  “It’s because I can’t be bribed, my lady.” Beneath the table, Eomond’s warm hand closed over her knee—and nearly set her witless. The breath snared in her lungs. “Once a man buys my loyalty, I stay bought.”

  Thorkell was laughing, oblivious. “God’s truth, he’s a contrary fellow. Does his own share of wooing—never let him tell you otherwise.”

  Stomach fluttering, she tried to wiggle away from the calloused hand that seared her knee. Yet she could not escape Eomond on the crowded bench, and she dared not cause a scene. Clearly, he sought to warn her.