By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  “I couldn’t forego this golden opportunity, and thus…the small deception of the Black Fox, which I pray you’ll forgive.” Self-deprecating, he gestured toward the helm. “From time to time, this fine fellow has served me well.”

  His rueful smile tugged at her like a confiding hand. For a breath his reserve slipped, revealing a flash of the dangerous charm he could wield when he chose. For this, too, she was poorly prepared.

  “But why, monseigneur? Why not take the field openly as Belmaine? Surely you must know it would work wonders for your reputation.”

  His smile vanished like a blown-out candle. An errant breeze slipped beneath the straining tent and slid across her nape, making her shiver.

  “If you walk blindfolded among strangers bearing naked blades, wouldn’t you rather slip past undetected if you could?” He twisted his serpent ring. “I intend to leave your secrets undisturbed—nay, I’ll even help you guard them.”

  Glancing up, his eyes widened. “Does that surprise you? Well, my offer of protection comes at a price. If I leave undisturbed all your precious secrets, if I promise to ask nothing about your lover, you must guard my secrets, as well. That is the price of my silence.”

  Nay, this is no choir boy.

  Rising, she paced to the tapestry—a painted curtain to deceive the eye, where a lady combed russet locks above a mossy pool and a dryad beckoned. Blindly Katrin stared at it, the weight of her secrets bowing her shoulders. It tormented her that he should know them.

  She drew breath. “It seems we shall each keep our secrets. But where does that leave us? Do we go forward with this marriage, which it seems neither of us desires?”

  She braced for his rejection. The prospect brought no comfort, no sense of liberation, when she knew the cost of failure.

  “Always I was the unregarded youngest son, easily packed off in infancy to foreign relations and forgotten, which suited me very well. I’ve little taste for power or politics, but I couldn’t avoid them even there. Nay, I learned to be quiet and cunning, to wait coiled for my moment to strike. I found no safety in Anjou and none in my monastery cell.”

  His words poured forth in a slow torrent. “I hoped a bishop’s miter would mean an end to it—all the rivalry and family intrigue. Then Bannan died fighting in the Danelaw, and I was summoned home. So I resigned myself to many things…to the death of my dreams.

  “Still, I will not lie to you this once. This marriage comes not easily to me. My own parents, may God assoil their souls, barely tolerated each other through twenty years of a hellish marriage based on politics rather than affinity. Borovic’s arranged marriage to his Cornish heiress has also been…shall we say, less than successful.

  “I’ve resigned myself to marry, Lady Katrin. But I refuse to marry a woman compelled to the bridal bed by an ambitious kinsman. So tell me the truth—do you come willing to this marriage? If not, you may rely upon me to ensure you’re released without penalty.”

  Katrin bowed her head, the jeweled tapestry blurring before her. She dared not tell Belmaine the truth, or Eomond’s well-being—secured at so dear a price—was forfeit. For him and for the realm’s defense, she would marry this strange and frightening man. But she must be clever indeed, if she didn’t want her close-guarded secrets spilled out for Belmaine’s perusal.

  “What of the alliance, monseigneur? My northern holdings require a castellan and a garrison from Argent, if the border’s to be secured.”

  Softly he laughed, but it held nothing of humor. “Why do you imagine I should concern myself with that? This is not my homeland. I care precisely as well for England as she has cared for me.”

  “But the terms of the alliance—”

  “Do not fear,” he said wearily. “If we agree to marry, I’ll discharge my obligations well enough. Your uncle shall have no cause for complaint. You haven’t answered my question—do you come willing to this marriage?”

  She spoke in a low voice. “I’ll marry you. Those good souls who rushed to pour poison about me into your ears were misinformed. My uncle and I share the closest possible friendship. And the sword-theyn you heard of? He meant nothing to me.”

  Even from behind, his gaze burned her. “Is it so?”

  “I assure you it is.” Stung by the bee of vanity, she spun to face him. “Does that disappoint you?”

  He was leaning forward, chin propped on one hand, green-gold eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Now he smiled, an odd blend of wistfulness and appreciation chasing across his features.

  As she faced him proudly, his gaze slid down her slender frame to her crimson skirts sweeping the grass. A tingling warmth swept through her, kindled by his eyes—warmth that had no business in the eyes of a would-be bishop.

  “Madame,” he murmured, “I begin to believe I would have been disappointed by the opposite answer.”

  “Oh,” she whispered, on fire to her toes.

  Gracefully, Rafael le Senay uncoiled to his feet. “There’s still a little time left if you change your mind. Lent is all but upon us, and we cannot marry during the fasting season. But if we’re resolved on this course—if neither of us falters—ma mère will see us married without fail at Easter.”

  He circled the table, eyes riveted upon her. “Forty days, Katrin of Courtenay, to decide if we can make this unlikely alliance succeed. Think well upon this—I may not suit your taste. I am not…an easy man to know. But once the contracts are signed, no force under Heaven can separate our two lives. Be very certain, madame, of what you desire.”

  He closed in on her, features unreadable behind his elegant beard. Absolutely nothing about him was as she’d expected. His mere presence set her nerves jangling.

  “You must also be certain what you desire,” she whispered. “I’m not an easy woman, and I may not suit you.”

  He lifted a hand toward her. Her breath quickened, but she stood her ground. Meeting her gaze, he smiled—a secret smile, meant only for her.

  Deliberately he reached past to draw aside the tapestry. The blaze of daylight flooded into the pavilion, shrinking his pupils to pinpricks.

  “To the contrary, madame. I begin to suspect you may suit me far better than I dared to hope.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Returned to her retinue by Belmaine’s silent squire, Katrin deflected her ladies’ excited queries. Even shy Elayne viewed this romantic adventure with shining eyes. Katrin might have shared the tale with her, but she was too little accustomed to sharing her secrets. She liked even less the speculative glances from the viewing stand.

  Had she deliberately sought to create a sensation, she could hardly have contrived a better one.

  Rafael le Senay was utterly beyond her experience. How on earth would she manage the man? Merciful God, she’d lied to him already. Now she must weave layer upon layer of deception, vary her pattern like the warp and woof of her loom, until he couldn’t see which thread to pull to unravel her falsehoods.

  Her first moves were clear enough. She must wed him and bed him for England, though the prospect flustered her beyond reason. This conjugal act was unlikely to involve the patient coaxing of a pious ascetic she’d expected.

  Those eyes of his, how he looked at her, the way her heart lodged in her throat at his secret smile… Her first task must be to unravel his secrets, just as he’d unraveled hers, with one discerning glance over the rim of his goblet.

  As she waited astride Arianrod, plaiting her reins nervously, Thorkell cantered down the line shouting commands. When he’d hectored her retinue into order, Borovic le Senay materialized to take command.

  The crawling procession of men, horses and baggage wains lurched into motion. They twisted through the village, along narrow alleys, between ranks of curious bystanders and bright-bannered stalls doing a brisk business. As they passed the church and its veiled cross, Katrin realized sud
denly that today was Shrove Tuesday.

  Sweet Jesus, Belmaine was right. She had forty days to chart her course.

  Now they wound up a grassy hill, where clumps of white sheep grazed. The castle loomed above them. Her breath snared in her throat.

  It was a creation straight out of legend, a grand castle in the Angevin style, hewn from blocks of dazzling white ashlar. It rose like a puzzle, crowned and crenelled, towers capped with witch’s hat roofs. Beneath lay the donjon, layer upon layer of angle-spurs and turrets. Banners of azure and argent unfurled overhead. Its sheer magnificence made her dizzy.

  Borovic dropped back to ride beside her, inspiring a feminine flutter from her ladies. Abandoning decorum, they’d all craned their necks to gape at the heights. Even Cate, she noted dryly, looked impressed.

  Nor was the earl above a masculine perusal of her ladies, his eyes lingering on Cate. The wench eyed him boldly with a sensual smile. Now Katrin recalled what Belmaine had said, that his brother was unhappy in his marriage.

  The earl cocked a complacent eye toward Katrin. “Behold my stronghold of Caerwyne. I trust you’ll find it a proper setting for the jewel of your beauty.”

  “I’ve read of such marvels, but never thought to see them on this isle.”

  “Nor would you, if you came not here. My sire, God assoil him, designed and built it with an Anjou architect. Even the king praises it, and sleeps here when he passes through.”

  When his eyes lingered upon her, she kept her face forward. She supposed he meant to be discreet, but he lacked his brother’s subtlety. Suddenly she wondered if he too had heard the rumors of her lover. It was impossible to discern anything from his courteous demeanor.

  Seeing his stronghold, she understood why Ethelred was so eager to ally with this bluff and cordial bear of a man. With Argent’s wealth to buttress the realm, these two would hold northern England cupped in the palm of their hand.

  “So you’ve met my brother’s champion—this self-styled Black Fox,” Borovic said. “He’s stirred some interest in these parts. He appears at tourneys, defeats all comers, but never unmasks, so no one knows who he is. I’ve challenged him myself, but the fellow declined.”

  “Perhaps your Black Fox is reluctant to spoil his record by suffering defeat,” she said, to flatter him.

  He laughed. “Perhaps.”

  “Does the baron never take the field?” She’d better learn swiftly the lay of the land, here in this exotic place where nothing was as expected.

  Borovic scowled. “My brother cares not for tourneys. He’d rather read Scripture and puzzle over his account books.”

  Recalling the dangerous menace of the Black Fox as he swept across the tourney field like a dark flame, Katrin lifted her brows and said nothing.

  Borovic shrugged his broad shoulders. “Rafael fills his days with the administrative and judicial affairs of this shire, for which I’m duly grateful. I’ve small patience for reckoning rents and administering peasant justice, so I don’t mock him for relieving me of those chores! He has queer ways, but a head for commerce and the law. He studied at Rheims under the pope himself.”

  “Pope Sylvester?” She turned to stare. “Why, Belmaine must be a great scholar! Did you know ’twas the pope who introduced the new system of Arabic numerals?”

  Borovic cast her a good-humored look. “I can see the two of you will get on well. For my part, algorism gives me the headache.”

  Concealing her chagrin, Katrin laughed and subsided. She’d been too incautious; she shouldn’t have revealed her unwomanly inclinations.

  “You’ll find plenty to do in my household, lady. I’m certain we’ll all benefit from your efforts. My Aelfwydd has little liking for household affairs. But she’s forever abed with breeding, though she has yet to carry to term. She’s with child again this season. By God’s grace, all will go well this time.”

  “God grant it.” She glanced at him, disconcerted to find his eyes upon her, frankly appraising her.

  She was accustomed to masculine attention—indeed, Maldred had accused her of inviting it—but the intensity of Borovic’s regard made her uneasy. Sensing her discomfort, Arianrod danced beneath her. The earl grasped her bridle, steadying her—bringing him much closer than she liked, his armored leg brushing hers.

  He towered over her, cross-guarded sword jutting over his shoulder, wind stirring his shaggy hair, his sheer mass and might overwhelming her. Like the bear that growled from his shield, he could be good-natured—even playful. But like that fearsome beast, he could cleave her in half with a single blow. She must be careful never to anger him.

  “When we looked to England for alliance, lady, Ethelred proposed I put Aelfwydd aside and take you instead. But my mother wished not to break the Cornish alliance, and so stood against it. Now I’ve seen you, I wish I’d argued the matter.”

  She slapped his wrist lightly with her plaited reins. “Fie, my lord, would you play at love-talk with your own good-sister? Has Belmaine set you to test my virtue?”

  Smiling down at her, he murmured, “Not Belmaine.”

  Curse the man! Coolly she lifted her brows and stared at his hand until, unwillingly, he released her.

  Above, the portcullis clattered open, followed by the rolling thunder of hooves. The gatehouse disgorged an ebony courser that skimmed down the road toward them like oncoming night.

  Although he’d abandoned the guise of the Black Fox, Katrin instantly recognized Rafael’s lithe form.

  Borovic must be blind! But men saw what they expected to see.

  The baron drew rein, sparing them spatters of flying mud from the stallion’s hooves. Soberly garbed in black wool, the silver brooch with crossed spears glinting at his shoulder, he waited with unnerving stillness. Yet she sensed a vast reservoir of energy like a banked fire, perfectly contained in him.

  “My lady, I give you my vassal—Rafael le Senay, the baron of Belmaine.” Borovic bared his teeth in a smile. “Brother, it seems fortune has dropped another windfall in your lap. I begin to believe all those years wearing out your knees before the altar must have had some purpose after all. God rewards you first with the barony, and now with the fairest of ladies.”

  “I trust with God’s grace I prove worthy of both,” Rafael said blandly. “My lady, welcome to Argent.”

  His smooth countenance betrayed no anxiety that she might reveal his secret, but his green eyes were watchful. Subtly he arched a brow in challenge. Katrin looked straight at him and lifted her chin, prolonging the moment. Then her lips curved in a slow smile.

  “I’m pleased to come here, my lord.”

  Inscrutable, the baron wheeled his black neatly and fell in beside her.

  “Your foxy paladin has been at it again,” Borovic said curtly. “He paid much attention to your lady here, then went to ground as usual. Come, man, surely you must know the fellow. He rides the gray you brought from Anjou.” The earl eyed his brother. “If I knew him, I’d reward him for his prowess.”

  “If he wishes to remain secret,” Rafael murmured, “it would be poor reward to unmask him.”

  “Ah, you make a well-matched pair. You’re as twisty as he is.”

  “Very likely.” Courteous, the baron turned toward Katrin. “How does my lady? You ride with a goodly retinue.”

  She glanced back at the trundling wains: her linen and plate, dismantled bed and bathtub, her small cache of illuminated manuscripts carefully wrapped and crated against the weather.

  “The wains tend to mire on the road, monseigneur, but I bring spices and furs for Argent as tokens of the king’s regard.”

  “Your uncle is too generous.” Rafael cast her a playful glance. “Surely losing you was sacrifice enough.”

  “Oh, he was devastated,” she said dryly, hoping neither of them could read her face. “For Argent, he was able to bri
ng himself to part with me.”

  “To Argent’s great gain,” Borovic said gallantly.

  Overhead, the clarion call of trumpets unrolled like silver scarves across the sky. From bright light into shadow they rode, wheels rumbling across the drawbridge that spanned the moat, where spring lilies floated on the mossy surface. Between the great links of slanting chains they passed, between the massive trunnions that winched the bridge, beneath the portcullis and through a tunnel, under the dark mouths of murder holes gaping in the stone.

  They emerged into the courtyard’s brilliant light. At last Katrin had come to Caerwyne.

  She absorbed a jumbled impression of her surroundings: the mezzanine crowned by graceful arches, the jeweled glow of sunlight through stained glass, the sonorous toll of a bell sounding Nonce. Everywhere she looked, she saw bustling prosperity.

  Pleasantly overwhelmed, she released her breath. Any moment, she expected the miracle to evaporate into smoke, like something she’d dreamed.

  Yet she need only glance at Rafael le Senay, a dark flame that hovered at the edge of her vision, to feel the certain knowledge of danger rushing back.

  For all Borovic’s good-natured condescension, for all the forbearance of Rafael’s response, powerful currents moved beneath the surface of their exchanges that made her uneasy. Nor had she forgotten Rafael’s talk of rivalry and intrigue.

  If this is Camelot, she thought with dark humor, I’m no Guinevere.

  Rafael leaped down and grasped Arianrod’s bridle. But it was Borovic who lifted her, with huge hands that could crush her if he chose.

  Looking down at her, the earl said softly, “You’re welcome indeed to my castle.”

  * * *

  They’d made secure arrangements to keep her in the south tower during the brief span of days until she married Belmaine. The chamber beneath housed her retinue, through which anyone seeking her must pass.