A stair curved down to the allure—the curtain wall—where guards patrolled with wicked pikes. From there an exposed stair plunged to the mezzanine, where more guards stood stationed.
She wondered if these close-warded lodgings had been chosen to keep intruders out, or to keep her in. Already on edge from the day’s unsettling events, the placement made her nervous—and her nerves were well justified.
She was far from court, but not beyond reach of Ethelred’s long arm. She could feel his gaze upon her from afar. And unfriendly eyes watched closer still. Since her retinue lodged directly below, the tower must be honeycombed with the king’s spies.
She stood in a spill of sunlight near the window, hugging her elbows, while Gwyneth directed the seething hive of activity. Questions and complaints flew through the air like flocks of birds.
Pushing into the chamber, Thorkell angled his mailed shoulders to edge between two servants fighting for precedence and stood marooned on the threshold, scratching his head. When he glimpsed her, he waded through the chaos to reach her.
Katrin pitched her voice above the tumult. “Have arrangements been made for your comfort? You must remain a few days at least. Your men deserve a respite.”
“Nay, my lady.” He squeezed against the wall as two servants staggered past, straining beneath a heavy chest. Eyeing its progress warily, he said, “We depart tomorrow.”
“So soon?” She was dismayed, but tried to make light of it. “How will you woo Elayne from afar?”
“The lady doesn’t welcome it,” he muttered, reaching to pinch the plump bottom of a passing serving-girl.
“Perhaps she doesn’t wish to join the ranks of your casual conquests,” Katrin said tartly. “Stay a few days and woo her gently, and see what comes of it.”
“I don’t like to linger here.” His gaze roamed the chamber, looking anywhere but at her face. “With warm weather come the Danes. The churls will be sowing seed and can’t be called away to fight, or we’ll all go hungry come winter. Ethelred’s fighting men are spread thin. Until I return with these men, Eomond stands alone.”
“Well then, you must go to him,” she said softly, with a stab of pain.
When Thorkell bowed, another servant stumbled into him. The theyn leaped back, dragging Katrin to safety, as the load crashed down scant inches from their toes.
“God’s wounds.” He scowled at the terrified villein. “This is anarchy.”
Grasping Katrin’s arm, he propelled her through the door and closed it firmly. On the curving stair, blessed silence descended.
“Before I go, lady, will you write a few lines to Ethelred? He’ll be anxious for news.”
“No doubt he will.” She leveled her eyes on his, but he avoided her perusal. “I’ll entrust you with a letter and wish you Godspeed. And…one more boon would I ask.”
A pair of retainers trudged into view, glumly hoisting a trunk between them. Impatient, she waited until they shouldered into the melee above. The door thudded shut behind them.
“Thorkell.” She hesitated, then finished in a rush. “Pray bear my blessing and good wishes to Eomond. I—I hope his affairs may prosper.”
He glanced at her furtively. “My lady…I’m not one to entrust with such a message.”
“Marry, whom else should I entrust? Are you not his comrade? The message is harmless, but I don’t wish it shouted from the rooftop.”
“Aye, but…” Thorkell looked at his boots. His brows drew together with sudden resolve. “I’ve done you no kindness, nor him. I shouldn’t be trusted to carry another message between you.”
“Another message?” Her heart stuttered. “We aren’t in the habit of passing any prior message, that I am aware.”
“Nay.” He looked unhappy. “And that’s my fault. I was to deliver it to you myself, but I failed you.”
Katrin felt as though she were falling. “When was this?”
“The night Eomond left court. He asked me to apologize for what your woman saw between him and Lady Crayke. It’s true he fancied her, but he intended to spurn her that night. Then Ethelred sent him away from court, and he couldn’t explain to you—”
“But I never received any message.” Her head was spinning. She recalled the turbulent events of that night—the night the king had threatened her and stripped Cate to the waist, the night Gwyneth had found Edwynna in Eomond’s lodging.
“I never delivered it…to you.”
Somehow she sensed what was coming. Ducking his head, he said in muffled tones, “You’re an aetheling, my lady. Ethelred would never throw you away to a theyn whose loyalty he already holds. I thought if I told the king, he’d reward me—and now I head his household guard. I waited four years for such a chance!”
“You brought Eomond’s message to Ethelred?” She couldn’t seem to absorb the magnitude of his betrayal, though at least it explained how the king had become so privy to her affairs. “How—how could you betray your own friend?”
“It was poorly done, but I thought it nothing more than dalliance! God’s wounds, how could it be more? The entire household knew you were destined for this marriage. I thought no harm would come of it, that it might avoid heartache later. Now I realize how I wronged you. It would take a blind man not to see your reluctance for this marriage.”
Her brain was still fumbling to catch up, moving far too slowly. “What did you tell Eomond, when he asked?”
He grimaced. “To make the lie as brief as I could, I told him you sent no reply. And I would rather have faced Sweyn Forkbeard’s howling hordes than see the look of him when I said it. Christ, what a curse is ambition!”
She absorbed this in silence. At last she understood what had happened that dreadful night, but what difference did it make? The plan she and Ethelred had propelled into motion, like a battering ram, could no longer be turned aside. What did it matter that Eomond had intended to end his dalliance? Too little and far too late. He’d still refused to save her, though she’d begged him to help.
She’d made the Devil’s bargain for England. Now she must live with it. But God alone knew what must be on her face.
“Lady, is there some final service I can render? If you wish to pass a message—”
“What good would it do now?” she said shortly. Below a door opened, and the high-pitched chatter of Elspeth and Elayne drifted up. “Matters are best left as they lie. For a hundred reasons I won’t belabor, I will not cry off this betrothal. Nay, Thorkell—say nothing.”
Grim with resolve, she turned away. Below her on the stair stood Belmaine.
The remaining strength ran from her limbs like water. Sweet Jesus, how long had the man lurked unseen while she exchanged devastating personal revelations with the theyn?
“God’s mercy, monseigneur, you walk like a cat!”
Rafael le Senay inclined in a bow, features inscrutable beneath his elegant beard. His watchful eyes glittered as they found the aghast and mortified theyn. Fleetingly she wondered if Rafael thought he’d interrupted some passionate interlude between her and Thorkell on the stair.
“I’m told you require provisions for the road, monsieur,” Belmaine said coolly, with his soft Anjou accent. “You should address your needs to my seneschal. He’ll ensure you’re given whatever you require.”
Thorkell muttered his thanks and clumped hastily downstairs—abandoning Katrin to the tender mercies of her intended husband. Beneath Rafael’s discerning eye, she struggled to master herself.
“Monseigneur? I await your convenience.”
Belmaine arched an ironic brow. “Somehow I doubt that, madame. I’ve come to inform you my brother has arranged a feast to celebrate the happy event of our nuptials.”
* * *
The castle by night was an enchanted dream, tempting Katrin to let caution slip from her fingers. But vigil
ance gripped her in a clenched fist.
She smiled at the acrobats tumbling through the air, exclaimed and applauded as kingly dishes were borne past. The last course was a pastry broader than a wagon wheel that released a chattering cloud of blackbirds when its crust was punctured. Yet she was uneasy. She disliked her placement at the high table, stranded midway along its groaning length, back exposed to the hall where Ethelred’s spies lurked. She was stifling in her seat, too near the roaring fire. And Borovic le Senay set her nerves jangling.
The earl lounged in his great chair, a pair of hunting mastiffs sprawled at his feet. When she glanced up again to find his eyes upon her, he lifted his drinking horn in salute, white teeth showing in his beard. She inclined her head without returning the gesture.
Directly across the table, Rafael le Senay watched as well, though with greater subtlety, while Argent’s half-deaf chancellor bawled in her ear some tale of long-ago glory involving a papal dispensation.
Amid the Roman circus of distractions that filled the hall to bursting, Rafael riveted her attention like a lodestone. When she’d expected to find him austere in black, instead he wore white: a full-sleeved tunic of cream wool that made him look no older than an altar boy, black curls tumbling around his shoulders. Yet his dark beauty blazed forth, slim brows winging up when he saw her watching.
Swiftly she looked away, heat rising beneath her skin, and wondered how many of her heart’s precious secrets he’d overheard on the stair.
An uproar drew her eye. Someone had brought in a dancing bear on a leash. Prodded by its keeper, the bruin hoisted itself on its hind legs, jaws gaping to reveal a toothless maw. Shuddering with distaste, she turned away.
How did I come here, bare of back among strangers, dancing as tamely as that poor leashed bear to my uncle’s bidding? Abruptly, she thrust to her feet.
She knew not where to go, except away from the abyss that yawned before her. Ignoring the chancellor’s baffled query, she hurried from the hall, almost running, trailing indigo skirts and desperation into the night.
She burst onto the covered mezzanine and sprinted past a row of flaming torches into the cold darkness. Glittering stars frowned down on her as she fled across the bailey, instinctively seeking the subdued glow of candles behind arched windows. Down the portico she sped, straight into the echoing church.
God be praised, I’m alone. Before the apse, where the golden monstrance blazed, she slipped into a pew and fell to her knees, forehead bowed against clasped hands.
St. Cuthbert give me strength, I can’t do this! She’d sinned for what she thought was love, giving lie upon lie to Eomond not merely for his sake and England’s, but for her own conceit. She’d thought she could carry off this sham marriage to a would-be bishop who sought her bed from duty and nothing more.
Then she’d encountered the dark and perilous reality of Rafael le Senay, and her world turned upside down. By instinct, she sensed the threat he posed to her tender, guarded heart. Whatever took place between her and this man in the marriage bed, she knew with a certainty beyond words that cold duty would have no place in it, for either of them.
The scuff of a footfall brought her head up, and she dashed a hand across tear-clouded eyes. The subject of her tortured thoughts had followed her scent to ground.
Rafael slipped into the pew beside her. As he knelt and crossed himself, candlelight winked on the gold serpent around his finger. For some time he was still, head bowed, lashes dark crescents against his skin.
He entered the house of God and prayed, while she shed tears over her shattered heart. Covertly she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve.
“Why do you weep?” he whispered.
Katrin choked back a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “In truth, I hardly know.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Is marriage to me so horrible a fate? If so, I’ll take it as God’s lesson against the sin of pride. For I too have my share of it.”
“Nay,” she said swiftly. He was proud enough to refuse a reluctant bride, and where would they all be if he sent her back?
Skeptical, his brow arched.
She searched her soul for something that wasn’t a lie—here before the very altar at least, she must speak truth. “I’m only a little…fearful. You may believe the admission doesn’t come easily. When I was a maid, pretending to be the son my father never sired, I would have swallowed my own tongue before I confessed to fear. ’Tis no easier for the woman than the child.”
“I’m told that is not uncommon among brides, although I confess I haven’t the benefit of personal knowledge. Still, madame, you are no maid. You were married before…and survived the experience, did you not?”
She revived beneath the spur of his words, the subtle irony directed at both of them, and glared fiercely at the altar. “Aye, I survived! But that union brought me little pleasure or peace. In two years of marriage, my sainted husband never once kissed my lips. Between his wars and his religion, he’d no time for tenderness, though I was a terrified child who longed for it.
“Even the conjugal act was undertaken with prayer so I would conceive, rather than kindness or affection. Can you understand why I’m less than eager to marry a man who’s all but ordained a bishop?”
Her face was on fire, to speak of such intimate matters, and in church of all places. But a demon possessed her tongue, a spirit crushed beneath the weight of decorum and duty for far too long. The words howled to be said.
Pressing her brow against steepled fingers, she whispered, “Religion is a cold bedfellow, monseigneur.”
She squeezed her eyes closed and waited to hear him denounce her. When instead she heard muffled laughter, her eyes flew open. Losing his composure, he’d covered his face with both hands.
“Are you laughing at me, Belmaine?” she demanded, indignant.
“Nay—not at you.” Shaking his head, he dropped his hands and stared at the monstrance. “Do I comprehend you correctly, madame? You fear that by marrying me, you acquire a husband who’ll bring his religious devotions to your bed?”
Without waiting for her response, he pressed laced fingers against his lips and laughed again.
Katrin lifted her brows coolly. “It’s not beyond reason.”
“Madame, that’s the very last thing you need fear from me.” Slowly he turned toward her, eyes wide but not innocent as he searched her features. “Nay, Katrin of Courtenay. I dare say we shall deal well enough together, you and I, when that time comes.”
As realization of his meaning swept through her, she tingled to her fingertips.
He studied her profile. “So innocent you are…I fear for you in this court. But I’ll keep you safe if I can.”
To his charge of innocence, she said nothing. If he wished to think so, that was to her benefit. Yet she whispered, soft as breath, “Perhaps I don’t deserve to be saved.”
His features tightened. “You know what’s said in Scripture. We may all hope for salvation—all of us, no matter what our sins.”
What sins could weigh upon the soul of a would-be bishop? But she’d sworn never to ask. Let him keep his secrets, as she kept hers.
“Come along, madame,” he murmured. “The church is no fitting place for such confidences as you and I exchange.”
Keenly conscious of his light touch, she let him guide her away. Together they emerged under the watchful eyes of night.
Chapter Sixteen
Forlorn, Katrin stood on the stair and waved farewell as Thorkell’s stallion cantered beneath the portcullis to the open road beyond. At his heels streamed a double row of mounted men—the last of the king’s crimson guard.
She stood beneath the open sky, a solitary figure bathed in chilly light, feeling the walls close around her. The wind pressed leaf-green skirts against her legs and unraveled her hair to blo
w in burnished ribbons around her head. At last, chafing her arms to ward off the cold, she turned away.
When a frenzy of barking erupted, she spun back. Framed in the kennel door, Borovic le Senay stood watching her. A torrent of russet hounds surged around his legs into the bailey, tails waving like battle flags. Hounds seething around his feet, the earl forged toward her.
He cut a striking figure: barrel-chested beneath a studded hauberk, radiating vitality and strength, cross-guarded sword jutting over his shoulder. He paused to scrub furry ruffs and praise his dogs by name, with obvious affection. He’d nearly reached her when a rust-colored hound reared up to plant giant paws on his shoulders, slathering on devotion with a pink tongue. Borovic threw back his head and laughed, embracing the huge beast, pushing the massive jaws carelessly away from his exposed throat.
“Down now, Sweyn, you brute! You’ll bring me down like a deer with the weight of you.”
The earl of Argent was clearly in his element, teeth flashing in his sandy whiskers, hazel eyes creased with good humor. No longer young, still he was a man in the prime of life and enjoying it. In that moment she liked him, and believed beneath his roof all would be well for her.
Smiling, she called, “You named your great beast after the Danish king?”
“Aye.” He disentangled himself from the muddy paws. “May our own king call Sweyn Forkbeard to heel as easily.”
That seemed unlikely, but she knew better than to say it. Bracing one foot on the stair, Borovic squinted into the sun and studied her.
“I trust you enjoyed your feast? I fear my small amusements weren’t worthy of you.”
Of course he was waiting to hear her deny it and pour forth fulsome praise for the spectacle he’d arranged.
“’Twas a marvel,” she murmured. “Indeed, I was well pleased.”
“I was sorry you left us so early.” Warmth kindled in his eyes. “I would have made the sun shine at midnight for your pleasure.”
Katrin laughed as if he jested, though she almost believed he could arrange even that in this fairytale court. He was exerting all his charm to impress her, and ruefully she knew herself not immune to it: the dizzying sense of her own power, to have one of England’s premier magnates at her feet. Still, he wasn’t seemly to admire her so openly—his brother’s promised wife.
By Royal Command Page 19
