But she was not the quarry in this particular pursuit. Two young damsels floundered into view, shrieking in mock terror before a pair of disheveled gallants. Heedlessly the quartet shoved past Eomond as he bristled, and vanished giggling around the curve.
“God save me, Eomond—I’ve never seen such unseemly goings-on in an honest keep.”
“Well come to court,” he muttered.
“I trust the walls are well guarded during this great carouse?”
“The walls are secure. Of that much, I made certain. It’s too late in the season for raiding, and the Scots don’t come so far south of the Roman wall.”
Suddenly, the thought stole upon her. She was alone with him, if briefly, for the first time since that night.
A subtle charge crackled in the air between them, an unspoken signal arcing from her to him. All at once he came up the stair, closing the distance between them. Tingling with desire, she pressed against the wall. “We must be wary—”
“Katrin.” His hands rose to brace the wall, holding them apart. “This is utter madness. I can protect you from any man alive except—”
Tramping feet rang on the stairs. He stepped back with a muttered oath and chivvied her downstairs as more guardsmen clattered into view.
They emerged into the smoky roar of the great hall. Although the day was well advanced—two hours after Terce—a horde of cheerful gluttons lingered at board. Eomond assaulted a solid wall of turned backs for something to break her fast.
He can protect me from any man, except his liege or my would-be husband. This was the worst kind of folly. As long as Ethelred considered her currency for the marriage bed, the night she’d spent in his theyn’s arms was a dangerous secret.
He emerged from the fray juggling bread and a wooden cup brimming with ale. “This table’s no place for you, lady. You should’ve dined with the king. He knows better than to inflict the hall on himself before midday.”
“I would rather have broken my fast with the arch-fiend himself,” she said wryly, then stopped, not wanting another quarrel regarding the honor and rectitude of his liege. She took a bite of bread smeared with pungent cheese. “Shall we go to the stable? I’ll stretch Arianrod’s legs with a morning gallop.”
He grunted assent, seeming relieved to avoid further discussion. Catching a running page, he sent the boy for her cloak with a friendly clout, but Katrin wouldn’t wait.
After the smoke and stench of the great hall, the crisp bite of winter air was welcome. Against the sky’s cobalt blaze, the dark-timbered palisade loomed over them. Guards patrolled the heights, steel pikes flashing in the sunlight. She inhaled deeply, letting the tingling air cleanse her of her troubles.
Yet she couldn’t forget her troubles for long. She hurried after Eomond into the low-raftered stable, where horses stamped and pigs rooted. Confused images swirled through her brain: her mother’s tormented countenance the day she said farewell, shadowed by the king’s complacent smile. Absently Katrin wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed them for comfort. Had her mother yielded?
“We should have waited for your cloak.” Unhitching his own, he threw it around her shoulders. The heavy folds enveloped her, warmed by his body. Gratefully she snuggled into it, and he fastened it beneath her chin. For a fleeting moment their eyes met.
Shaking his head, the theyn strode to the stall where his stallion waited. Thor snorted and tossed his raven mane. Eomond caught the great head with both hands and pressed his brow against the stallion’s, murmuring beneath his breath.
Curious, she watched, climbing up on the crossbeam and folding her arms across the door as he hoisted the saddle across Thor’s back.
“Where’s Eahlstan this day?” she said, to hear him talk.
“At the smithy, being fitted for a hauberk.” Eomond stooped beneath the stallion’s belly to capture the swinging girth. “He’s much agog at this place. I feared setting him to swordplay until he’s settled.”
“Why do you have no groom?”
“My lady forgets I’m no man of means. Poor men have no servants.”
There it was again, one more shining example among the legion of reasons why any affection between them was pure folly. She watched as he set his shoulder against Thor’s flank and strained to cinch the saddle.
“What happened in my lord’s privy chamber?” he asked as he labored. “When you left him you looked…ill at ease.”
“Ill at ease,” she repeated softly. “Indeed.”
He shot her one of his penetrating looks. His silence seemed a tacit invitation to keep speaking. Cautious, she glanced down the aisle, but saw nothing save a few pigs rooting in the straw. Still, somewhere in the warren of shadowy stalls, unfriendly ears might be straining to hear what passed between the king’s theyn and his niece.
At length she said, “You’ll suffer no words disparaging your liege, and I can say none to his benefit. Therefore there seems little point in speaking of him at all.”
Eomond scowled over the bridle. “I’d be a poor theyn if I suffered to hear my lord disparaged.”
“In that case you may stop up your ears, and continue to do the Devil’s work behind the shield of ignorance.”
In sudden wrath he flung the bridle down. “What would you have me do? I’m bound to his service by solemn oath. I’m no lawless butcher like others of my kind, roaming the land to pillage and slay at will. Always, I’ve found honor in doing my duty. When you ask for my aid, to which of you should I prove unfaithful?”
His quiet desperation struck her like a blow.
“’Tis a sore dilemma,” she said. “You’re sworn to serve God and the Devil both—”
He pushed out a breath between his teeth. “Odin’s pain, he is no Devil! Or at least, I never thought so. If he’s done you some evil, I’d like to hear it. Even if—” He paused and cleared his throat. “If he’s chosen some brute like the last for your husband, it’s none of my affair, but I would know it.”
Staring at his grim visage, braced to confront truths that could cleave him in twain, Katrin found she could say nothing at all. It was the opening she sought, to turn him from Ethelred to her service, but now she saw the truth as if a flaming hand had written it on the wall.
She couldn’t bear to see him undone, least of all for her sake. He was stubborn. He was intemperate. He had no subtlety or grace. He was as forthright and honor-bound as the sun was bright. Through some twist of fate, she’d made the fatal error of falling in love with him.
God alone knew what must be on her face. Her cheeks burned, but her hands were ice. Numb with the discovery, she jumped down from her perch. She would have fled with his cloak still around her, but he emerged from the stall to stay her, catching her hands in his.
“I would know it, Katrin…whatever he’s done.”
“Nay, ’tis nothing. Just a woman’s idle fancy.” For she dared not tell the truth. Urgently she tugged against him, but he tightened his hold.
“Oh, but I’d forgotten,” he said softly, a dangerous light kindling in his eyes. “My lady trusts no man, least of all myself. Didn’t I have it from your lips only last night?”
“’Tis not a question of trust.”
“Isn’t it?” His jaw was tight. “Do you trust me after all?”
“How can I? You’re his man. When he sends me to my doom, you’ll stand idly by and watch!”
Uttering a vicious oath, he drove his fist into the wall.
Anxious, she glanced down the aisle. Any moment, someone could emerge and discover them. He too saw their danger. With a grunt, he drew her into the stall, straw rustling beneath their feet.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Without reply, he put his shoulder to the door and swung it closed, his gaze meeting hers. For this fleeting moment, they were alone.
Shaking his head, he said roughly, “Odin’s pain, we’re lost in this,” and dragged her into his arms.
She loved him. Knowing it changed everything and nothing. She caught her breath as he gripped her waist and lifted her against his tensile strength. He held her suspended, then lowered her, an inch at a time against his body. Even through their clothing, she felt him intimately: the corded steel of his thighs, the flat plane of his belly, the searing blade of male arousal. The heat of his desire ignited her, and she leaned into him on tiptoe. He kissed her with the hunger of a man driven to desperation. She met him kiss for kiss, drank him in like water, her own gasp swallowed between them. His arms locked around her, hands spread against her hips, growling deep in his throat as he thrust against her.
“Aye, this,” he said, against her lips. “I can think of nothing else since that night. Tell me I’m not alone in this madness.”
Liquid heat pooled at the cradle of her thighs. Her womb throbbed with need. “Nay…you aren’t…alone.”
“Tell me where and when we meet.”
A dart of fear pierced her. “This is perilous, Eomond.”
“Tell me where and when—or I swear I’ll have you here and now.”
“Wait—not here.” She struggled against the pull of his drugging kisses. “I can’t think!”
“Make it tonight.” He nudged her thighs apart with his knee, then pulled her without shame against his rock-hard length. “Send them away, tell them anything—”
“Anything,” she said dimly. Anything to stop him before this rush of godless pleasure reached its peak and she came shuddering to pieces against him. “I…I’ll think of something—”
Thor split the air with a ringing neigh. A seam of daylight opened as the outside door swung wide and someone clumped into the stable. Hastily Eomond thrust her away.
Startled and alarmed, she clove to the wall. To be discovered grappling in the straw would destroy them both.
The intruder tromped past Thor’s stall, whistling as he went. Weak with relief, she released her breath.
Eomond captured her hands in his calloused grip. “Tonight,” he whispered. “After the bells ring Compline. Promise me.”
I love him to ruination, God save me. He’ll take me like a whore, and I’ll glory in it. She would have that at least, since she could have nothing more. Undone by her own heart, she turned her face against his shoulder.
“If my uncle finds out—”
“I’ll take care,” he said against her hair. “Trust me for that, if nothing else. But no bolted doors tonight, aye?”
She waged her own battle, a lifetime of caution and virtue set against the pull of temptation.
At last she whispered, “Aye.”
* * *
Her uncle was giving her nightmares. Even as she glided through the dance, palm to palm with Thorkell, Katrin couldn’t stop thinking of the king.
She’d spent an excruciating afternoon in his chamber, applying her dutiful needle to Emma’s tapestry while her uncle sat behind his writing table, putting his seneschal and reeves through Hell’s own torments. Why did he treat her so generously? Her private lodging in this keep stuffed to bursting, a new serving girl, the seamstress ordered to sew her new gowns. This inexplicable largesse unnerved her. Ethelred invested nothing without expecting some return.
Thorkell guided her through the stately dance, handling her as delicately as Italian glass. For a burgher’s son, he danced well—just as he’d danced attendance on her all night. Was it only for ambition?
Eomond stood nearby with a pair of laughing damsels. Over their heads, his eyes met hers and creased with secret warmth. Subtly he lifted his drinking horn, gaze never leaving hers as he drank. Heat swept from her toes to her hairline.
An hour ago, fat Elfwida had mused over Katrin’s hair. “Aye, yer uncle will marry ye off by Candlemas. To the lord of Bernicia, or was it Deira…?”
Placing his palms to hers, Thorkell leaned close. “You look fair to swooning. Dare I hope it’s on my account?”
She turned as the dance required. “Why, I dare not answer.”
His blue eyes strayed appreciatively over the king’s Yule gift: a kirtle of sapphire-blue that encased her like a glove, parting to expose the pale skin of back and shoulders. A glittering pomander filled with scented herbs—her aunt’s gift—swung from a silver chain. Although Katrin hadn’t enjoyed a new gown in three years, she could barely bring herself to wear this one.
“Then my hopes shall linger.” Thorkell smiled. “Until I win the favor of this court’s sparkling jewel.”
Elegantly he handed her along the line. Katrin wavered as her palms met Eomond’s hot touch.
I love him. But I’ll die rather than tell him.
“Fie, Eomond!” She managed a careless laugh. “You invade the line. Some displaced gallant is certain to cry insult.”
“Unlikely. It’s what comes of being the man at court all the others wish least to fight. Besides, I feared leaving you to Thorkell.” Drawing her close, he whispered into her hair, “I won’t hazard the chance you’ll change your mind.”
“Have a care.” Her eyes slid sideways toward the canopied throne. “He’s watching.”
His courtier’s mask fell into place, but his warm brown eyes were grave. “Perhaps he’s merely pleased to see you. He still grieves for the sons he’s lost.”
“Perhaps,” she said, skeptical.
“You can hardly complain of his behavior. He handles you as chaste as his own sister. With his wife growing a belly, I thought he’d be likely to stray.”
“Marry, he is straying.” Katrin glanced Ethelred’s massive chair, where he sprawled with his wife’s lady Cate perched upon his knee. When the king lifted one hand to wrap glittering fingers around the girl’s throat, Katrin shuddered and averted her gaze. “I thank God on my knees his interest lies elsewhere.”
“What of the old dowager—his guest? They say she’s an emissary for her son, the earl of Argent. They say Ethelred seeks alliance with that clan—the le Senays, who came to England from Anjou in France.”
Coyly, she turned away as the dance required. With the hint of a smile, he drew her back. “Last summer they lost their second son—Bannan, their war-captain—in battle with the Danes. I’ve heard there’s a third son away in France who’s being called home. But that son is studying for the priesthood, so how much aptitude for battle can he possibly show?”
Katrin shrugged, indifferent. With one son safely wedded and the other a priest, she was safe from that marriage.
After the music faded, she began to slip away. When Eomond followed, she felt a thrill of pleasure laced with danger. Concealed in the press, he brushed her nape beneath her heavy coil of hair. She bowed her neck into his touch, fine hairs lifted along her skin—oh, dangerous. She could barely govern her own response.
“When can I come to you?” he murmured. “By Thor’s bloody hammer, I’ll wait no longer.”
“We must tread carefully, for we are watched.” Like a cold draught against her nape, she sensed the weight of her uncle’s eyes. “Pray turn your regard elsewhere.”
“Are you ashamed to be seen with me?” Eomond growled. “I’m only a Viking’s bastard, after all. No one will think I aspire to more—”
In midsentence, he stopped.
Glancing up sharply, she followed his gaze to the dais, where a richly clad man and woman mounted to address the king. Eomond’s features hardened, transforming him to the stern warrior who terrified his foes in battle.
Skin prickling, she frowned at the portly man who was lumbering up from a bow. Beside him, a tall fair-haired woman dipped into a graceful curtsey. Her slender frame was encased in snow-white, trimmed with handspans of lush ermine; the queen herself was garbed no richer. Yet something in her features called V
iking blood to mind.
Eomond quivered like a drawn bow.
Softly Katrin said, “Who is she that stands before the king?”
“Edwynna,” he said, as though begrudging the name. “Lady of Crayke.”
“She is fair.”
“Aye, she’s fair,” he said harshly, then closed his mouth and said nothing. His taciturnity roused her suspicions to a tingling alert.
Ethelred leaned forward, spilling Cate from his lap, to raise Edwynna of Crayke with both hands. His saturnine features exuded charm as he bent close. The lady was ice—utterly unmoved by his predatory interest—as she gave him a brief reply.
Katrin lifted her pomander and spoke through its clove-sweet scent. “She has a face one isn’t likely to forget. Has she come lately to court?”
“Just arrived,” he said curtly, turning away, so he stood with his back to the dais. “She hasn’t come not at all in years. If I’d known—”
He cut himself short. The white-clad blonde gave the king her back, regal as a queen, and looked across the hall.
Katrin caught her breath at this arrogance and courage. The lady spurned Ethelred to his face in his own hall! Now her glacial blue eyes swept the crowd until—arrested—she found Eomond. The shock of recognition transformed her.
Katrin turned, but he’d vanished. What lay between him and Edwynna of Crayke? She mocked herself for caring. There could be nothing between him and that cold-faced lady, for the same chasm separated him from Edwynna as the gap that yawned between Eomond and herself.
When she turned back, the lady too had vanished. But the pressure of her uncle’s gaze was like a hand squeezing her throat. When he lifted two fingers to summon her, her heart lodged against her chest.
Unwillingly she wove through the wall of bodies toward the throne. There, she sank low and waited to learn the king’s pleasure. Perched again on her master’s knee, the girl Cate watched her with insolent eyes.
“Come up, kinswoman,” Ethelred murmured, barely audible above the roar. “I wish not to shout down from on high, like the Lord handing down commandments to Moses from the mountain.”
By Royal Command Page 12
