By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  “You have a strange notion of peace,” he said wryly. “I must apologize. I shouldn’t have…finished.”

  Heartbeats passed before she grasped his meaning. He meant that he should have withdrawn and spilled his seed elsewhere, as he would with a whore. Pain clawed inward, shredding her brief contentment.

  Rolling away, she stared fiercely at the bedcurtains. Aye, he’d wounded her, but she would never let him know it.

  “Freyja’s mercy,” he groaned. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

  He regretted her, even before the sticky dampness of shared desire had dried on her thighs. That residue of passion branded her as his, like the private burn that lingered inside from their joining.

  But she knew he would never claim her. He’d spent his passion, made his highborn conquest. So far as he was concerned, she belonged to Ethelred now.

  She shivered and hugged herself against the chill.

  “My lady—”

  “Enough! What’s done is done. I require no further expression of your regrets.”

  Tensely they lay side by side, the distance widening between them.

  At last, regretting her sharp words, she stirred. “’Tis odd sharing a bed with a stranger. Why do you never speak of your life before you joined the king’s service?”

  Behind her, he shifted, wrapped in the archbishop’s brocade. “There’s nothing to tell. I already told you most of it. My sire was a Viking whose name I never knew. He chanced on a farm girl during a season of pillage.”

  A surge of compassion rolled through her. “That must have been difficult for her.”

  “She survived the ordeal and married a freeman—a breeder of horses. He never held my birth against me.”

  Now curiosity had her in its grip. “Your father—is he still alive?”

  “When I was nine, the pestilence came,” he said flatly. “It took my father and siblings—all five of them. Only my mother and I survived.”

  Ah, she too had endured that, watched the plague slaughter those around her, while she waited to die herself. “You weren’t able to hold your lands?”

  “We couldn’t pay our tithes. So we faced the same choice as others before us—either place our heads in our lord’s hands and swear away our freedom, or make our own way and starve.” He paused. “I found a place for my mother in a convent. Myself, I wandered until I met Olaf.”

  “A Viking?” She rolled toward him and propped her head up to listen.

  Slanting her a glance, he laced his hands behind his head. “An old soldier with time on his hands. I suppose he pitied me—a half-starved boy with only the ragged tunic on my back and a rusted sword I could barely lift. Olaf taught me the sword, and more. He taught me to hold up my head, bastard or no, and make no apology for what I am.”

  There it was again. A memory that softened his stern countenance and made him human. Perhaps there was hope for her after all.

  She hesitated. “When did you meet my uncle?”

  Wariness stirred in his features. “When I was fifteen. A king always needs fighting men. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “Oh, there must be more—some great deed for which he raised you, at least?”

  Humor flickered in his gaze. “I’m no bard to tell you bedtime tales.”

  “You might as well tell me. I don’t imagine ’tis any great secret.”

  “It isn’t.” He grunted. “I broke a siege for Ethelred, after we’d spent the winter waiting for a fortress to fall. I crafted the ruse that took it—an escalade, a night assault that drew the defenders to one place, then overwhelmed a weak point someplace else. Ethelred rewarded me handsomely for it.”

  “Was it the greatest day of your life?”

  “So I thought,” he said dryly. “Since then, I’ve seen enough slaughter to grow weary of war. It’s what I do best, I suppose. And a man must earn his bread somehow.”

  She clothed her words in idle interest. “No doubt you will marry?”

  He shifted beneath the rich brocade. “Perhaps, if ever the day comes when I can keep a wife and children. For now, there’s little I could offer beyond a rude cot and anxiety, while I’m off making war in the king’s name. A soldier’s life is not for a woman.”

  “Still, it seems a simple life, and there’s a certain appeal to that—to be free of court intrigue.”

  “For a full belly and a roof over his head, a man can tolerate a bit of intrigue. You’re fortunate not to know the griping of an empty belly.”

  She pushed herself upright. “Don’t think I’ve known only ease and comfort. It’s no gentle life guarding the Danelaw, though I was thankful to the Danes for relieving me of my husband’s attentions—”

  Abruptly she choked off the words. Those were secrets she’d sworn never to tell, confessing only to the priest her dread and hatred. That worthy man had said Maldred was given by God as her master, and she must bend her sinful pride to accept him.

  “And so?” Eomond eyed her struggling face. “I gather Courtenay was no easy man.”

  “He wasn’t,” she whispered, far away. Slowly her gaze cleared. In the dying light, the sword-theyn was sprawled in tangled bedclothes, splendid cloth twisted around his hips. Her eyes followed the taut column of muscle that plunged down his abdomen.

  He was a conundrum—strength and beauty without artifice, harsh and tender by turns. She knew him as a woman knew a man, yet she could hardly bear to look at him. Now he pierced her with one of his direct stares.

  “Thor’s hammer,” he muttered. “You’re a perplexity, Katrin of Courtenay.”

  He levered his tall body to sit, exposing his lean back, scored with the imprint of her nails, and stared straight ahead. “I mustn’t tarry. If I’m found here, it would ruin us both. When the bells sound Prime, we must ride.”

  Her stomach dropped, but she resolved to make one last attempt. “Eomond—will you not reconsider? He’ll marry me to a monster. He’ll condemn me to a life of Hell on earth for naught but malice!”

  Grimly, he stared at the fire. “What would you have me do?”

  Wild hope leaped within her. “You could let me escape! Merely turn a blind eye while I slip away, then tell the king you lost me. What honor is there in dragging a frightened woman to her doom? Especially after…”

  Tension clenched his shoulders as his fists crushed the coverlet. “So now we come to it, my lady. The true reason for my presence in your bed—and your sudden interest in my past, no doubt. But it’s all been for naught.”

  With words alone he struck her, wielding suspicion and mockery like weapons.

  Wrapping arms around her knees, she said in a small voice, “Will you do nothing to aid me?”

  “How can you think I’d support an act of treason?” He flung back the bedclothes and pushed to his feet. “All that I have, I owe to the king. Hear me, Katrin. I will never betray him.”

  “Then there’s nothing more to be said,” she replied softly.

  So that hope too was lost. Gwyneth would have given up on her by now, and returned to her bed with relief. But Katrin would keep her dignity at least, and forego begging.

  As Eomond shrugged into his garments, he hesitated once and glanced at her. Seeing the doubt that hardened his features, she lifted her chin and stared proudly back.

  His jaw tightened. “We ride at dawn. See to it you don’t delay us.”

  Without waiting for the defiant reply that hovered on her lips, he strode to the door. When he raised the heavy bolt and swung the door open, talons of icy air clawed through the room.

  As he left her, Katrin told herself she was grateful for it. Grateful to be spared the weapons of scorn and disbelief he would have hurled when he glimpsed her tears.

  Chapter Eight

  Now their party thundered across white
hills beneath a dazzling blue sky, snow flying from churning hooves, a formidable column thirty men strong. Eomond pushed their pace, rousting them shivering from their blankets at dawn, covering the road at a ground-eating canter until twilight descended.

  Katrin felt the jaws of the trap tightening around her. She would face the thing straight-on, since God gave her no other choice. Yet her thoughts spun in frightened circles like trapped birds as the miles flowed beneath Arianrod’s hooves.

  During this forced gallop, she exchanged only strained courtesies with Eomond. Impossible to believe this grim figure had been her secret lover, passion flaring in the pitch of anger and broken trust. A frenzy of desire had flung them together, breaking through his oath, her virtue and the gaping divide of class. Yet it was all for naught. She was more alone now than when their journey began.

  Even Gwyneth she must hold at arm’s length. To her waiting woman’s baffled query about their aborted flight, Katrin said she’d thought better of her plan.

  “God and St. Cuthbert be praised for it, milady,” Gwyneth tutted. “’Twas a foolhardy notion.”

  At least Eomond possessed the good sense to hold his tongue and did not brag of his conquest. As for Thorkell, whatever had passed between him and Eomond, the dark-haired theyn was all business these days—brisk and efficient—while his men showed her the most careful deference. Yet that didn’t comfort her when she wept with despair by night.

  Far sooner than she wished, they were winding up the steep hill toward the king’s stronghold: a motte-and-bailey keep in the old style, fearsome heights defended by a deep ditch and a timber barricade, crawling with guardsmen and bristling with spears. Above, banners lashed against a leaden sky, the golden wyvern of Wessex snarling and clawing at the clouds.

  Katrin felt ill with apprehension. She yearned to flee, crouched low and swiftly, from this threatening palisade and her uncle’s malice, all the way back to the sheltering arms of home. But she could only await the king’s pleasure.

  As they crested the hill, Thorkell winded his war-horn, a strident call that sent shivers down her arms. Answering blasts clanged down from the walls. Their party thundered across the drawbridge. With a shuddering impact like the knell of doom, the iron-bound gates swung wide.

  Into this gaping mouth they cantered, from white winter light to shadow. They drew rein in the bailey, restless hooves thudding against hard-packed earth.

  Around them rose the clamor of a great keep: soldiers drilling at arms, smoke billowing from the smithy and the kitchens, pigs rooting and chickens fluttering underfoot. Functionaries streamed from the outbuildings and donjon. Of the keep’s formidable master, she beheld no sign.

  Arianrod threw back her head and snorted a greeting. When Katrin’s eyes lowered from the formidable heights, Eomond stood at her stirrup. She stared down at him, too frightened to pretend, and met his gaze for the first time in three days.

  Beneath his wind-chafed skin, something stirred in his face—a yielding in his hard Viking features. Gently, his mailed hands closed around her waist and lifted her down. Staring up at him, she waged a desperate rearguard action against the impulse to burrow into his arms and hide her face against his chest.

  Abruptly, he released her and fell back.

  A regal blonde was approaching, elegant in a jewel-green gown, waist thickening beneath a girdle that spilled gold and jet down her skirts.

  Eomond dropped to one knee, mail rattling. Taking her cue from the lady’s rich garb, Katrin spread her travel-stained skirts and curtseyed. Childish hands raised her up.

  “You need not bow to me, kinswoman.” The girl smiled. “My lord bid me say you are welcome to his keep, my lady Katrin. I am Ethelred’s queen, Emma of Normandy—your aunt, if it please you.”

  That seemed incongruous, but Katrin murmured the correct response to this sweet-faced child. The queen—a duke’s sister and now royalty—could be no more than fifteen, and already carrying her third child. Of course, Katrin herself had been no older when the king married her off. With a second son dead and his realm in peril, Ethelred must sire more heirs without delay.

  The queen smiled at Eomond. “You have our thanks for delivering our dear niece. You may leave her in our good hands.”

  Eomond bowed, hair falling forward to conceal his features. Impossible to know what he was feeling. Was it relief—to be rid of his troublesome duty? Her heart splintering, Katrin forced a smile to her lips.

  “You have my thanks also, sword-theyn, for your…care of me on the road.”

  “I’m your devoted servant, my lady.” It was the correct thing to say, and no more. But his keen eyes met hers as he captured her hand. Clumsy with steel and leather, his fingers closed carefully around hers. “You may command my poor talents at any time.”

  A charade for the English queen, and we both play our parts.

  She swallowed a lump of regret. “I—pray we see more of you at court.”

  Abruptly, she was terrified he would be sent away on some perilous mission, so that she never saw him again. She had a sudden confused sense of things unsaid between them. But the queen was waiting, her gaze level, and Katrin dared reveal nothing.

  Formally, she said, “God keep you and fare you well, Eomond.”

  As she followed the queen, he began shouting orders for the disposition of men and baggage. She fought the urge to look back at him, knowing her feelings were written plain as God’s holy writ on her face.

  Inside the donjon, the great hall heaved with activity. Villeins scurried this way and that beneath the smoke-blackened rafters, hung with evergreen for the Yule season. The fire roared as red-faced servants strained to swing a heavy cauldron away from the flames. Hounds that had slipped their leashes, feral cats with hungry eyes, and threadbare scullions darted and squabbled underfoot. Elegant ladies sank into curtsies for the queen, but their hands swept up to cover seething whispers as Katrin passed—conspicuous in her mud-stained kirtle.

  Leaving the great hall with relief, she followed Emma of Normandy up a curving stair. Briefly, they emerged into the outside air of the pentice, the covered external passage.

  As they squeezed past a knot of giggling maids, Emma said, “You must excuse our crowded conditions. Last summer the Vikings put two of our keeps to the torch, and many fled here for shelter. Our quarters are filled to bursting. But Ethelred wished you to be given a private chamber, and so I’ve done, though it meant shifting three of my own ladies to lesser quarters.”

  “Then I’m sorry for it. ’Tis not necessary to show me such honor.” Anxiety spiked through Katrin. Why should it matter to her uncle how she was lodged, since she awaited his pleasure?

  It could only mean he wished to show her status before some would-be husband. Perhaps her unknown suitor lodged beneath this very roof. St. Cuthbert’s chalice, how much time do I have?

  “Tell me, aunt, is the king away from home?”

  “Nay, he is here. You shall see him at the high table tonight. Do you have a clean gown in your baggage? If not, I shall loan you one. I was your size, I think…before I swelled like a melon with this babe.”

  “I have a fresh gown,” Katrin whispered. She would be their sacrificial lamb, bathed and perfumed for the slaughter.

  Despite the snug quarters, her chamber was appointed with surprising luxury. Rich fabrics spilled down the walls. A bright carpet covered the bed. Sweet herbs perfumed the air, and beeswax candles crowned the mantle. Set in the wall, a cross-shaped squint offered a peek at the bustling hall.

  Gwyneth appeared, shepherding a queue of servants with Katrin’s baggage. The waiting woman had been raised at court. Even years later, she hadn’t lost her assurance among these folk. They followed her lead, unquestioning as chicks after a hen.

  The queen nodded her satisfaction. “See that hot water is brought so Lady Katrin may wash off the road-
dust, and ask Elfwida to dress her hair. Her fingers are clever—and she is sister to your own woman. We dine after Vespers, in an hour’s time, where my lord will await you.”

  White-faced, Katrin curtseyed.

  At least I shall look my best when I’m tried and sentenced.

  * * *

  When Katrin descended for supper, her mouth was bone-dry with apprehension.

  At least she suffered no qualms about her appearance, thanks to Gwyneth and the capable Elfwida—an enormously fat and rosy-cheeked version of her elder sister, wont to chatter a stream of gossip about this one and that until Katrin’s nerves jangled. Yet, garrulous though she was, the woman knew nothing useful about any betrothal.

  That night Katrin blazed in the saffron gown that opened across her shoulders, an amber pendant flashing fire at her throat, bright hair piled beneath her copper fillet. The redoubtable Elfwida would have painted her, to bring color to her pale cheeks—but Katrin had put her foot down. Her uncle might hold the advantage, but she wouldn’t paint her face like a bawd to help him marry her off.

  Now she quailed as a clamor rose from the smoke-wreathed hall: long tables packed with diners, overworked villeins swarming everywhere, the clash of voices and laughter sounding savage in her ears. Down the hall, beneath a spill of blood-colored hangings, the high table stood in solitary splendor.

  The crowd closed around her as she threaded toward the dais. Her scalp prickled as heads turned to mark her, eyes sliding sideways, curious whispers hissing. She made herself walk slowly, head lifted, and pretended her soul did not shrivel inside her.

  As if someone called her name, she turned toward a knot of giggling damsels, clustered around a tall blond gallant. Over their heads, Eomond was watching her. For a heartbeat she saw everything in his flashing gaze: his alertness, his caution, his unwillingness to approach her, all set against the dizzying pull of desire. A look to make any woman blush.

  Those eyes of his! Can’t he hide his thoughts better than that? If he couldn’t, they were both undone.

  Offering his companions a jocular remark, Eomond angled his big shoulders to slide through the crowd and strode toward her.