She swallowed hard past a lump of apprehension. “Release me at once, or I’ll scream so loudly even the dowager won’t sleep through it.”
Crushing tender flesh, his hands clenched around her breasts. “Still singing that song, my fine lady? Do you forget I know your secret? I saw you with your Viking sword-theyn.”
Katrin went cold. Suddenly she realized it was Eomond’s appearance that had awakened Borovic’s malice. On the edge of that day, their relations had turned. What started as a light-hearted flirtation had become a matter of deadly offense.
Borovic might have accepted a rejection couched in the virtuous words of a married woman. What his arrogant hubris could never abide was evidence of her passion for another man, even one she’d renounced. She’d welcomed her common lover—or so he must believe—but rejected his own advances. At that moment, Borovic had transformed from tender lover to a spurned suitor seeking vengeance.
“My lord, you saw nothing that night. Or you misconstrued it. I was sending him away! I’m a faithful wife—”
“Will you still be singing that song when I have you flat on your back in that bed?”
As if echoing his words, thunder rumbled in the brooding heavens. White lightning sheeted over the landscape; outside, an ungodly scream split the darkness. At her feet the hound whined, pressing against her knees for comfort. Wildly, she searched the horizon.
In the moment of blinding fire before darkness fell like a hammerblow, the night disgorged a dark shadow. His steel-gray stallion reared before the gate, mane flying, silver hooves flashing as they churned the air. A black cloak swirled around the swordsman’s slender frame, sable flickering like lightning in a lifted hand. Seeing the fox’s crafty muzzle protrude from his hood, she trembled with relief and agitation.
Sweet Jesus, he came for me. He came! But what could he hope to achieve, with the gates barred against him?
Thunder crashed and clouds roiled, blotting out stars and moon. The rider’s voice rang clear, husky with the flavor of Anjou.
“I summon for Christian justice Borovic le Senay, the earl of Argent, the proud lord who wages war on women and servants.”
With one blow, the precarious armed truce between the brothers shattered.
The earl scraped out a disbelieving laugh. “Lo, see how well my brave brother protects you? Even for this, he sends the Black Fox!”
Oh, the blind fool—even now, Borovic refused to see the truth.
From the gatehouse, a helmed head emerged. “What’s this, then? If ye seek the earl, come back in the morn.”
The Black Fox flung back his hood. “I challenge to single combat the coward who calls himself the earl of Argent. Does he cower in his walls like a child who fears the dark?”
Katrin’s teeth cut into her lower lip. From this course, too, there would be no retreat.
Behind her, Borovic growled and thrust her away. “Now he wants combat, does he? I’ll teach the man to beg before I strike his head off.” He thrust his big shoulders outside and roared, “By Christ, I’ll meet you now and gladly!”
The Black Fox bowed with a flourish. “You’ll oblige me by bringing out Lady Belmaine, since she’s the prize we’re fighting for.”
Borovic was already striding toward the door, loosening his greatsword in its sheath. Heart fluttering, Katrin flew across the chamber after him. He heaved the door open and bellowed for his armor, thrusting her back with a careless arm. “The battlefield is no place for a woman.”
Heedless, she pushed after him, only to find a solid wall of guardsmen blocking her path.
Hissing with frustration, she whirled and ran to the casement, wrenching the flaming brand from its bracket. Desperate, she plunged head and shoulders into the night and brandished the torch. It flared and smoked, heat singeing her hair.
“I’m here!” she cried down to the blade-slim figure before the gates. Words of love, gratitude, warning tumbled to her lips—but she choked them all back. Rafael’s disguise was the only thin barrier that stood between them and a bloodbath. Tears stung her eyes, but she forced them back.
“Have a care, I pray you,” she called.
Delicately, he lifted a length of crimson silk—her scarf, which she’d gifted him long ago—to his muzzled helm. Her chest constricted, threatening to choke her breath. Oh, he must love her after all, even if he never said the words; surely he wouldn’t wage war against his powerful brother for anything less.
The trunnions rumbled as the drawbridge boomed down. Frantic, she fumbled the smoking torch into its bracket and tried the door—bolted again, damn them all.
“Hail!” she cried, pounding the solid oak with her fists. “I’m Lady Belmaine, not some common felon. Release me!”
She knew the earl’s command wouldn’t be countered, yet stubbornly she hammered the hilt of her belt-knife against the wood. “Release me—”
Without warning, the door swung open. Katrin stumbled back before the dowager, silver braid uncoiling down her back, a chamber robe of undyed wool swirling around her spare frame.
“God and St. Catherine guard us all from madness.” The old woman’s eyes glittered. “What is the meaning of this disturbance?”
One of the guards was foolish enough to stammer, “M-my lady—that is to say, my lord commanded—”
“Good-mother, we’ve no moment to spare.” Forcing coherence to her tongue, Katrin overrode him. “Borovic has imprisoned me, and Belmaine—his paladin, the Black Fox—has challenged the earl to single combat. Rafael can’t be far behind.”
The dowager’s cold eyes raked her disheveled frame. Comprehension flashed through Katrin; in that moment, she realized the old woman knew everything. With a mother’s keen eye, she’d seen from the start whom the Black Fox must be.
“Come,” the dowager said briefly.
The flustered guards fell back before her. Ignoring them, Katrin hurried after her unlikely rescuer, belt-knife gripped before her. She vowed she’d use it before they imprisoned her again.
Swirling wind buffeted her as she emerged into the courtyard; the storm’s fury was mounting, though no rain had fallen. Coughing as dust flew into her throat, she bent into the wind and struggled after the dowager toward the yawning tunnel. Torchlight lit its maw beneath the raised portcullis. From its depths, hooves clattered on stone. The earl had already ridden out to meet his nemesis.
“Too late!” she cried, despairing. The wind tore her skirts and hair, like hands that sought to hinder her. She plunged after the dowager into the tunnel, beneath the murder-holes, across the drawbridge and the moat. Into the gatehouse she flew, where armed men crowded together, muttering uneasily as they stared into the night.
Ramrod-straight, the dowager swept through them. Katrin snatched a quiver of arrows, but the bows in the weapons-rack were unstrung. Clenching her teeth over a sob, she pushed through the wall of mailed bodies and ran outside.
Torchlight cast a lurid glow over the ground, flames flaring wildly as the wind moaned around them. Stinging debris flew through the air to pelt her. When lightning flared, Rafael’s dappled gray reared and screamed. Already Borovic’s stallion thundered down on him, the earl’s armored frame towering in the saddle as the Black Fox struggled to control his horse. Almost too late, he straightened his terrified stallion and spurred his Bucephalus forward to meet the charge.
The dowager pitched her voice over the wailing wind. “Cease this madness!”
Borovic’s racketing war-cry split the air as he wheeled his sword in a killing arc. The Fox’s slender blade swept up, steel ringing as the two swords met. Driven by the earl’s superior strength, his massive sword exploded through the smaller man’s defense. Barely in time, Rafael twisted.
The greatsword struck his helm a glancing blow as it whistled past. Then the galloping horses carried them apart. Looking dazed, the Bl
ack Fox shook his head but pivoted for another run.
Already the vengeful earl was bearing down on him. In the darkness, Borovic had flung aside his helm with its obstructed vision. Teeth showed in a thicket of beard as he snarled and whirled the mighty sword.
Again Rafael’s saber flickered up, deflecting the stroke as he ducked inside the earl’s guard—too close for swordplay. Steel gleamed in Rafael’s left hand as his dagger darted in, stabbing the earl’s leather-trewed thigh. Borovic roared with pain and outrage as bright blood poured from the wound. His thick arms closed around his tormentor, pinning him in a bear hug that threatened to snap his spine.
Katrin and the dowager both screamed as the brothers struggled, locked together, horses sidestepping beneath them. She feared a chance-flown arrow from the gatehouse, but no guardsman would fire, for fear of striking Borovic.
Rafael’s dagger rose and fell, biting repeatedly into the earl’s meaty thigh. Growling, Borovic clubbed the muzzled head with his pommel—once, twice, thrice. The Black Fox went limp, sagging in his opponent’s arms.
Then the gray bucked, pitching his rider into the earl. Overbalanced, Borovic made a wild grab for the saddle but missed. The combatants toppled to the ground, swords flying from their grasp, then the men landed hard and rolled apart. The earl swung a mailed fist, but somehow Rafael twisted aside—sluggish, with none of his customary grace.
Bucephalus shied away from the combat, then veered toward Katrin. By instinct, she grabbed for the trailing reins as he swerved past. Barely in time, she snared them. As she struggled to calm the skittish animal, she caught blurred glimpses of the combat: Rafael groping to reseat his crushed helm, Borovic climbing to his feet and reaching for his sword. When Rafael dove for his saber, the earl blocked his path.
Suddenly the dowager appeared at her side, gripping the bridle and steadying the courser. Katrin scrambled astride in a flurry of skirts and wind.
“What do you mean to do?” the old woman demanded, white-faced.
“Save him,” she said.
Beneath her, the restive gray felt alarmingly strange, taller and wilder than her patient Arianrod. Mad plans flitted through her brain like frightened birds while the wind flung her hair around her, threatening to push her from the saddle. She could never manage to fire an arrow straight into the teeth of this storm, even if she contrived to snatch a bow.
Rafael scrambled to his feet, dagger gripped before him—a paltry weapon against the greatsword. Grimacing with effort, Borovic brought his weapon screaming around. But his rival ducked the blow, circling away, seeking a chink in the earl’s guard.
Limping badly, dark blood spattering the ground, still Borovic le Senay remained a formidable opponent. He rained blow after blow on the slender man, while Rafael twisted and leaped. Again the Fox dove for his saber; again Borovic foresaw the move. Finally, the earl’s sword crashed against his adversary’s helm, sending Rafael sprawling in the dirt.
“Ha!” The earl dropped to his knees and pressed his blade lengthwise against the Fox’s throat.
Lying flat on his back, Rafael settled into utter stillness, his muzzled helm staring mutely up. One hand lay flat in the dirt, fingers twitching against the fallen dagger.
“Now we’ll see who you are,” Borovic panted, “before I run you through.”
Holding his blade one-handed against the Fox’s throat, he reached for the helm.
Katrin clapped her heels against the stallion’s ribs. Bucephalus fired into motion beneath her and flew across the ground on wings, sweeping down on the fallen men. As the rumble of hooves shook the ground, the earl’s shaggy head turned toward her, hand gripping the fox helm as he prepared to wrench it off.
“Borovic of Argent!” she shouted, bearing down on him, knife clenched in her trembling fist.
The blade or the bed—well, now I have chosen.
Spitting out a curse, the big man rolled away and raised his sword to meet this new threat. Like a serpent, the Black Fox uncoiled and knifed forward, rolling past the earl to claim his fallen saber. As Katrin pounded alongside in a cloud of dust, he vaulted into the saddle before her. Borovic lunged to capture her reins—but his wounded leg buckled, spilling him to his knees with a yell. For a heartbeat, he crouched helpless before them.
A torrent of memories surged through her: the summer of crawling fear she’d spent beneath his roof, his threats, his lust, his malice, his lies. Then she recalled Rafael’s torment over the cousin he’d killed, the lifelong guilt that would never leave him.
Pressing her cheek against Rafael’s back, inhaling his familiar scent, she wrapped her arms around him and whispered, “Don’t kill him.”
“By the seventh angel,” he gritted, his musician’s voice husky with rage. “He wouldn’t flinch from doing it to me!”
“Perhaps not,” she admitted, her arms tightening protectively around him. “But would you be Cain to his Abel, and condemn your soul to torment? He didn’t harm me, not truly. I know he’ll offer us no danger now.”
“Katrin, have you gone mad? How can you possibly believe that?”
Part of her wondered the same thing. But the key to managing Borovic was salving his bruised pride. She knew the dowager would help her do it, to maintain peace between the brothers. And she knew Rafael would never know peace or comfort with his brother’s death weighing down his conscience.
“After he calms,” she told Rafael quietly, “we’ll negotiate a settlement with him, and offer him a concession he won’t wish to refuse. After tonight, he’ll want what you’re going to offer him, believe me.”
Concealed by the Fox’s armor, his lithe frame tensed as his bishop’s conscience warred against a fighting man’s fury. But unlike his arrogant brother, Rafael had always been ruled by guile rather than impulse.
“Very well, Katrin,” he sighed at last. “I trust you in this. I swear by St. Sebastian I’ll always trust you now.”
At his touch, the gray sprang into flight, swerving around the fallen man. They thundered toward the road while the earl clutched his bleeding leg and cursed. Through the storm they galloped, unopposed, while Caerwyne fell away behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Katrin sat in the garden of the dower house, yellow skirts spread around her, reading a volume of poetry to her ladies. Elspeth and Anne curled in the grass beneath boughs heavy with blushing peaches, dark heads bent together as they giggled over a game of tables. Elayne sat at Katrin’s feet, embroidery dangling from her fingers, and stared dreamily at the sunlit pond. Drowsy bumblebees hummed among the roses.
To behold them now, no one would believe they’d been locked in mortal combat a scant fortnight ago, while Rafael battled his brother for their lives. Together they’d protected Rafael’s secret, ensuring the Black Fox drew the lightning of Borovic’s wrath.
The following day, while the earl licked his wounds, Rafael had gone humbly before him to swear fealty, reporting that he’d dismissed the Black Fox and exiled him to Anjou. Mollified by his rival’s banishment and his brother’s submission—and probably the dowager’s counsel—Borovic uttered grudging words of forgiveness.
Of course, even a man with Rafael’s eloquence couldn’t smooth over such a crisis with a few elegant phrases. After all, Katrin was an aetheling, and the earl had done her a grievous wrong. But she’d graciously overlooked the “misunderstanding” since it had gone no further, and written to reassure her uncle.
Now peace reigned in their bower, with the Anjou knights returned to guard it, and her Courtenay lands regarrisoned. Ethelred had lain dormant all summer, contented with the results of their Devil’s bargain. Where once she’d hated and feared him, now she thought wryly she must someday thank him. Due to his efforts, she’d found Rafael.
She was reading another poem for the enraptured Elayne when Gwyneth came puffing to announce the do
wager. Katrin called for wine and sent for Rafael, who was taking the stallion through his paces outside the walls.
Curious, she waited for her good-mother to speak, for that venerable lady wasn’t given to idle chatter. Yet the dowager too seemed enervated by the summer sun. Sitting straight-backed in the shade, the woman sipped wine and fanned her face.
Rafael strode lightly into the garden and swept his mother an elegant bow. “Madame, you’re always welcome in our hall—or I should say, your hall. How does my brother?”
“Well enough,” the dowager said dryly. “He refuses to heed the physic and keep to his bed, so he’s hobbling about on that leg of his. I doubt he’ll ever be nimble, but your…Black Fox…seems to have done no lasting harm.”
“God and St. Sebastian be praised,” Rafael murmured. “You’ll have heard, no doubt, that I banished the man from my service. Nevermore shall the Black Fox appear in England.”
His mother eyed him. “It’s to our benefit that Borovic doesn’t wish to cross the king. Presenting Ethelred with the fait accompli of a consummated marriage would have been one thing, but Borovic has no desire to attract his prolonged attention. The two of you have managed to keep the peace—somehow.”
“With no small help from you,” Katrin said. Despite the tension between them, their shared love for Rafael had allied them during the crisis. Although their relations would never be cordial, they too had reached an armistice.
The dowager fanned her face. “Perhaps you haven’t heard. That worthless girl Aelfwydd is gone.”
“Gone?” Arching a brow, Belmaine slipped onto the bench beside Katrin.
“Aye, back to Cornwall. She goes with her dowry and a hefty settlement—which, God willing, will placate her greedy kin. Borovic put her aside for barrenness.”
The poor child! So that’s what he meant when he said Aelfwydd had greater troubles than mine to worry her.
Rafael steepled his fingers around his goblet and stared into its depths. “It was to be expected, I suppose.”
By Royal Command Page 33
