By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  Thorkell’s craggy features reddened. He’d developed an affection for her fair-haired lady Elayne. Modest as a nun, the delicate Elayne with her dreamy beauty could not resemble less the buxom wenches Thorkell usually favored. Yet the maid would have naught to do with him.

  Glancing at the curtained litter, he muttered, “There is that.”

  Katrin plaited her reins and smiled. “Call a halt so we may attend the tourney.”

  As her entourage wound toward the viewing stand, fluttering with bright pennants beneath a chill blue sky, she resolved to make her peace with the fate that thrust her into the arms of another overly devout husband. She’d left her heart behind with a man who’d chosen duty over love. But she was no longer the terrified child who’d gone defenseless to her first marriage.

  Nay, she’d wealth and holdings of her own now, and cunning that the innocent bride of fourteen had lacked. At least Belmaine, a lifelong scholar, was unlikely to be a brute or a drunkard. Perhaps he’d be grateful to be left to his books and prayers.

  At the viewing stand, she dismounted and waited impatiently for her ladies. Reaching her side, her uncle’s discarded harlot cast her a sullen look. “I don’t know why we must all sit shivering in this ill wind when the castle lies yonder. I can see it on the hill.”

  “Come now, Cate. ’Tis a fine treat after these weary weeks of crawling along the road.” Katrin assaulted the wooden stairs. Her standard-bearer climbed before her with the golden wyvern, crying for all to make way to an aetheling from the House of Wessex. Self-consciousness fluttered in her belly as a tide of heads turned toward her.

  Face warming, she sank gratefully to her seat. At least she looked well: burnished hair coiled at her nape, copper fillet banding her brow and a gown of cherry-red wool that stood in striking contrast to her white skin.

  I’m like the fatted calf led to slaughter. My uncle should be pleased. Lifting her chin, she studied the trampled ground as two contenders strode onto the field. A proud device blazed on one round shield: a black bear growling under crossed spears—the standard of Argent. With a surge of trepidation, she wondered if the bearer could be Rafael, her promised husband.

  But he’d carry the crossed spears of Belmaine. The bear could be borne by only one man: Borovic, the earl of Argent. The crowd’s enthusiastic response confirmed her surmise as the spectators surged to their feet and hailed him.

  From her vantage, she could see only a towering broad-chested frame, silver mail blazing white in the sunlight. A conical helm obscured his features. Despite the encumbrance of heavy armor and a muddy field, he dominated the contest: whelming his opponent with blow after blow and blocking the flailing ripostes on his shield. Unhurried but relentless, he advanced across the field. She was not surprised when he won his match.

  As his defeated opponent slogged from the field, shaking his head as though his ears rang, Borovic le Senay hoisted his sword to acknowledge his accolades. He pulled off his helm, exposing a shaggy head of sand-brown hair and strong features framed by a well-barbered beard.

  “He’s comely enough.” Her lady Elspeth’s eyes were avid with interest. “I hope the baron favors his brother.”

  Katrin glanced indifferently toward the earl and found him on a splendid white charger, clearly making in her direction. On close view she was forced to concede his looks were indeed good: square-featured, with laugh lines bracketing his eyes and a few threads of silver in his beard. He appeared in high good humor as he grinned at the cheering crowd.

  Reining in below, the earl called up, “Good morrow! Do I have the pleasure to greet the good and beauteous Lady Katrin?”

  All her ladies were well attired, and he couldn’t know which was she—much less whether she was indeed good and beauteous. But his gaze was riveted upon her, as if he knew her beyond doubt.

  Summoning a smile, she called down, “You do indeed, my lord, for I am she.”

  “Then I hope I’m the first to welcome you to your new home.” Couching his spear, he bowed from the saddle, teeth flashing. “You should have sent ahead! Had I known we’d be graced with your presence, I would have begged the honor of your favor.”

  “I would have been honored to grant it, my lord, for you fought excellent fair.”

  Discomfited to shout her first conversation with her new liege into the open ears of his neighbors, she hoped the pleasantries were now discharged. Yet he continued to sit his horse below, hazel eyes intent upon her.

  Blandly she smiled down at him, concealing her unease, and toyed with her jeweled pomander.

  “Would that I might join you,” he said. “Alas, I’m called to other duties in the lists. Grant me the privilege to escort you to the castle later. Will that suit you, my lady?”

  “It suits me well, my lord.” She hesitated, turning the pomander between her fingers. “Tell me—does your brother the baron fight today?”

  The trace of a frown appeared beneath his beard. Kneeing his horse away, he said gruffly, “Nay, the baron doesn’t fight today.”

  When he’d left them, Elspeth leaned close. “He’s a very Hercules! Pity it’s not he whom you’ll marry.”

  Katrin thought she was grateful to be spared him. Whether he had the monumental proportions of a hero from the ancient world or no, his regard made her nervous. But she was reluctantly curious to behold her mysterious betrothed. She wondered if he was so unworldly or ascetic he didn’t know the fighting arts. If that were the case, the man could hardly succeed in his new duties as Argent’s war-captain.

  At least he’d be no swaggering bully like Maldred. Belike she’d find the baron a frail young man, more little brother than mate, who required her protection rather than the reverse.

  Men came and went from the field. Thorkell won his contest decisively, wading across the muddy ground, battleaxe cleaving the air until his opponent’s shield shattered. Beside her, a hint of color stained Elayne’s pale cheeks. Perhaps his cause is not entirely hopeless.

  Some begged favors from her ladies—even from Cate, who put aside her sulks quickly enough when a man beckoned. The girl bore herself now with the languid sensuality that had likely drawn Ethelred in the first place.

  Yet none of Katrin’s retainers begged her own favor. Of course, these were men who’d ridden and fought with Eomond. Perhaps they believed she’d thrown over their worthy captain for wealth and a title. Still, the snub hurt. Her cheeks burned every time one of her escort bypassed her for another.

  Thorkell rode over with a cup of spiced wine and inquired dutifully after her comfort. From his saddle he gazed at Elayne, the girl’s hair falling in pale curtains beside her face as she pored over a book.

  Looking into his wistful face, Katrin missed their first easy friendship. After her betrothal, he’d grown uncomfortable in her presence. At times he seemed almost furtive, like a man with a guilty conscience.

  A small commotion in the lists captured her attention. A stirring of interest rippled through the crowd as a knight swept onto the field astride a dappled gray stallion, flaxen mane and tail floating in his wake.

  Unlike the others, this newcomer wore black fighting leathers, sewn with plates of steel. His features were concealed behind an unusual black helm, shaped into a fox’s crafty visage. He wore no insignia and carried no device, but a slate-colored cloak unfurled from his shoulders like a storm cloud as he flowed across the field.

  “I say.” Cate sounded interested despite herself. “Who is that strange fellow?”

  A fat merchant obliged her. “It’s one of the French knights what accompanied the baron from Anjou. He enters the lists as the Black Fox, and won’t give no other name.”

  Katrin, startled, found the black knight making unerringly for her. His right arm extended straight from the shoulder, bearing a slender saber. In his fighting leathers, his lean frame moved fluid as ink in his saddle. />
  As the gray juddered to a halt before her, the rider controlled his mount with tiny touches from one heel. Beneath this subtle guidance, the courser pranced, silver-painted hooves lifted high, neck bowed in a proud arch. Then the gray curled one front leg and extended the other, genuflecting gracefully to the ladies.

  “Oh, well done!” She clapped for the pretty gesture.

  The fox’s helm muffled his voice, but didn’t conceal the Anjou accent that softened his words. “I beg the privilege of a favor from Lady Katrin.”

  Her lashes swept down as a smile curved her lips. At least there’s one man on the field who doesn’t spurn my favor. Unwinding a cherry-colored scarf, she leaned forward and let it spill from her fingers.

  The dappled gray pranced forward, knees lifted high. Delicately the knight snared the scarf with his saber’s gleaming tip. The fabric unfurled like a flame along the sword until his fingers closed around it. Silently he inclined his head. Then his stallion pivoted and galloped toward the lists, where its master leaped down and strode to his place. Intrigued, Katrin looked after him.

  He fought like no man she’d ever seen, without shield or buckler, fighting two-handed with dagger and saber. While his opponent stood squarely with feet planted, the Black Fox fought light-footed, twisting away from the blows rather than bracing to absorb the assault. He was slender, not tall, but his unusual armor allowed a speed and mobility that left his opponent shaking his head in confusion when the knight evaporated from beneath his sword.

  With impressive dispatch the Fox disarmed his foe, sending the other’s broadsword flying, then lifted his saber to touch the other’s exposed throat. Katrin joined the spectators’ applause.

  Deftly the Black Fox sprang into his saddle. She caught her breath as the dappled gray galloped toward her, his rider’s storm-colored cloak unrolling in his wake. Before her, the gray rose to his hocks, front legs lifting, and held the pose for a breathtaking moment—then lowered his hooves lightly to the earth.

  “Skillfully done,” she called, delighted. “What reward will you claim?”

  In response, he edged his horse forward and extended a gloved hand. The invitation was unexpected, but unmistakable.

  Katrin drew back laughing in startled disbelief. Her ladies giggled. Speculative murmurs ran through the crowd. Still he said nothing, the dark muzzle of his helm turned toward her.

  Well, he was Belmaine’s man. Perhaps her promised husband had ordered his champion to impress her. A reckless impulse seized her—one of her sudden urges, the kind that invariably left Gwyneth in despair. She would be bound again by the chains of decorum soon enough, when she went to the altar.

  Her chin lifted. “You’re bold, my lord. But I’m told fortune favors that.”

  Decisively, she stood. One of her ladies squealed—Elspeth or Emma, she was forever confusing them. “My lady!”

  Fixed on her course, Katrin stepped onto the stair. The gray curveted closer, sunlight flashing on silver hooves. Deftly, the Black Fox caught her waist and swung her into the saddle before him, with a strength that belied his slender frame. They cantered from the field with scattered applause in their wake.

  They rode away from the encampment where men and horses milled, the combatants’ pavilions scattered in bright swaths of color across the field. Now she felt the first twinge of alarm. As if he sensed her unease, the stranger’s gloved hand tightened at her waist.

  He held her with perfect decorum, but the stallion’s gait spilled them together, her gown deepest red against his darkness. She slanted a look at the crafty helm and caught the watchful glitter of eyes upon her. Swiftly she looked away, breath quickening for no reason she could name.

  Perhaps this fairytale champion would spirit her away from Argent and her unwanted marriage, away from unhappy England to the shores of his distant land.

  But that was folly. No man could bear her far enough to escape the king’s wrath.

  The gray shifted his gait to ascend a green knoll. A pavilion of ebony silk rose before them, straining at its cords as if it might sail away, slate and silver pennants streaming.

  Reining in, the Black Fox leaped down, then lowered her. The brief press of his fingers burned her waist. An austere old man emerged from the pavilion to take the horse. As she waited in growing unease, berating her own rashness, the stranger removed his helm.

  Whatever she’d expected of a French knight, he surprised her: black hair falling in tangled curls to his shoulders, blade-fine features, elegant whiskers bracketing his mouth, watchful green eyes with amber depths. If he were a woman, she’d call him beautiful.

  But pair those fine features with his lithe and deadly prowess, and he was anything but delicate. Young though, no older than she. His wide-eyed countenance suggested innocence—surely a dangerous illusion. Intelligence glittered in his gaze, and a wary regard that brought her to full alert.

  “You have not a fearful nature, madame.” He spoke in a flawless tenor the king’s troubadour would have wept to hear.

  “My life hasn’t allowed me that luxury,” she said with a trace of irony. Collecting her wits, she dipped into a little curtsey. “I take it you’re Belmaine’s champion?”

  “Indeed, you might say I’m the only one he has,” he said dryly. “Madame, I am Belmaine.”

  “Belmaine?” For a moment she didn’t comprehend. “But you’re no bishop!”

  Then she could have bitten off her tongue.

  “Unfortunately, my brother Bannan died six months too soon for that.” Arching a slim brow, he gestured to the tent. “Perhaps you’ll oblige me, Lady Katrin.”

  Biting her lip, she preceded him into the pavilion, her thoughts in a rare ferment. The ebony walls rippled and heaved around her, lances of sunlight spearing across the interior. Painted hangings divided the space: a white unicorn dipping its head before a blushing maiden, a wicked dragon coiled over a glittering horde. Nearby, a brazier glowed red like the mouth of a dragon’s lair.

  Numbly she sank into a chair and struggled to regain her poise. He shattered her with no more than a few well-chosen words. Madame, I am Belmaine…

  Silently he placed a cup of wine before her, the silver goblet etched with crossed spears.

  Sweet mercy, my uncle was utterly misled—or else he lied to me. This was no bookish monk, to be ruled through a clever wife. How on earth had Ethelred been so wildly inaccurate? For weeks she’d been preparing to marry an unworldly scholar who’d have little appetite for her bed, not this urbane and beautiful young lord with his watchful eyes. Close to panic, she wondered if it was too late to change her mind.

  Rafael le Senay folded himself into the opposite chair. Damp ringlets fell around his face; sweet cloves scented the air. As she eyed him cautiously, he lifted his goblet in a wry salute.

  “Forgive me for saying so, monseigneur,” she murmured. “But you’re not exactly what I was expecting.”

  One brow arched, framing a wary green eye. “What were you expecting?”

  “I heard you were raised in a monastery. But I doubt that’s where you learned to wield a blade.”

  He looked into his goblet, dark lashes falling. “I have not lived all my life with the monks, Lady Katrin. If you expected a sandaled scholar with his head hidden in the clouds, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  Indeed, his description fit so perfectly with her expectations that a hot blush betrayed her.

  “Madame, I know I’m not what most expect. Shall I take pity upon you for making the same assumptions as all the rest?”

  Prodded by hubris, she flared, “No man in all of England need pity me! How should he, when I go to this glorious marriage?”

  His eyes narrowed—not a man’s admiration for a fair face, but viewing her as an adversary. His fingers tightened around the goblet, light flashing on his ring: a golden serpent with
tiny scales.

  The baron of Belmaine laughed softly. “I suppose I deserved that, madame.”

  The rueful charm of his smile caught her like a net, drawing her in.

  More like a charming demon than a priest, God save me. And far too canny for my peace of mind.

  “Perhaps we should both be wary of gossip,” he said. “It may comfort you to know I’ve done the same for you, despite the rumors that swirl around my intended bride.”

  Katrin’s heart jumped. “What rumors, my lord?”

  “Pray do not trouble yourself.”

  “What rumors?” So her lack of decorum had caused tongues to wag—but not enough to save her. Now she must disarm the slander she herself had encouraged.

  “You look so fierce,” he murmured, “that I quail to gainsay you. If you must hear it, you’re said to be sick with love for some baseborn theyn, but too frightened of your fearsome kinsman to defy him. The theyn in question is said to be besotted in turn, but bought off by a hefty bribe. And you’re said to be reluctant to marry a would-be bishop.

  “Also, you’re rumored to be impossibly beautiful, and perilous for any man to behold. I would not deny it,” he whispered. “You’re not precisely what I was expecting either.”

  “As you say, monseigneur, one shouldn’t believe everything one hears.”

  Face flaming, she sipped her wine. An imported burgundy, a rare luxury, but in her foment she barely tasted it—torn between unwilling fascination and chagrin that her intimate affairs were now fodder for marketplace chatter.

  Proudly, she lifted her chin. If he was going to accuse her, let him say it straight out.

  “Is that why you spirited me away, monseigneur? So you could interrogate me, or break off our betrothal entirely?”

  Rafael le Senay turned one hand upward—a musician’s hand, long-fingered and supple. But his delicacy was deceptive, like the man himself.

  “I’m not your confessor, madame, to interrogate you regarding the state of your immortal soul. Indeed, I’ve given that up beyond all recall. But I won’t deny I desired an opportunity to speak in private before ma mère or my sainted brother could have at you.