by Secret Vows
Eduard stopped within a few paces of both the king and Gray, so that the three of them formed a sort of triangle as they faced one to the other.
“Montford…” the king said, tight with rage. “What have you to say about this forbidden fray?”
“I can say little, other than to confess to receiving a well-deserved drubbing.”
Gray looked askance at him, doubting him more with every word that fell from his lips.
“And ’tis Your Highness’s humble apology I wish to beg before this assembly, as well as that of my noble brother by marriage, for goading him into battle. ’Twas in sport that I approached him on the field, hoping to collect ransom as a jest so soon after his wedding to my sister.”
The king looked ready to explode, but whatever he was feeling, it was only half of what Gray himself experienced. “What mean you by this?” Gray growled under his breath. “If you play another mockery with me, Montford, I warn you, ’twill be answered in blood.”
Eduard turned full to face him, his expression so contrite as to make the very angels of heaven welcome him with an embrace. Gray’s eyes narrowed, and he saw the king’s gaze shifting back and forth between them.
“Nay, brother, ’tis no jest.” Eduard bowed his head. “I must needs beg your pardon for the injuries I did to you, and hence to my sweet sister,” his gaze swept over Elise, “when I pursued you on the field. I fear I was overzealous. And when you threw down your sword and walked away after besting me, ’twas to my dishonor that I leapt up and used my dagger against you.”
The king turned, incredulous, to Gray. “You threw down your blade and walked away?”
“Aye,” Gray answered, never breaking his gaze from Eduard’s face, “though I can assure you that it will never happen again.”
Silence settled thick over the crowd. The king stared and scowled, while Gray fought against renewed rage bubbling hot in his blood. That Eduard worked another travesty here was clear, but why? What could he gain by admitting his guilt before the king?
Finally King Henry made a scoffing sound and spun to face the assembly. His cloak billowed around him in regal folds. “We will rest here for the remainder of the day,” he called, his voice echoing tight off the great chamber’s stonework. “Seek you a place and prepare for the banquet. We leave on the morrow, at sunrise!”
Then turning back again, he muttered, “Camville, Montford—come with Us.” He stalked away toward Gray’s private solar off of the great hall, leaving the men to make their way after him.
Gray glanced at Elise, whose face was ashen, her eyes trained on the floor. But Alban met his gaze, his brows raised in an expression that echoed his own uneasiness. ’Twas a time for diplomacy, his friend seemed to say, not for the settling of scores. Nodding agreement, Gray strode forward, his jaw clenched, and his steps stiff but purposeful. Anger at Eduard still gnawed his gut, but he forced himself to suppress it.
Alban was right. More important matters than a desire for vengeance needed to be addressed right now. The signs were all there, God help them, and Gray knew as well as any that the next minutes might well determine certain key aspects of his future and the achievement of his goals.
As much as he despised the political games required on occasions such as these, ’twas the harsh truth that the Royal Lion of England needed soothing. Unless reparation was made, some kind of concession given, Gray knew that his Sovereign’s razor-sharp claws were extended at the ready—and prepared to scratch their measure of blood from his already battered flesh.
A quarter of an hour later the solar door remained firmly shut. Catherine had been sitting at her place on the dais, hands clenched in her lap, as she waited. She’d struggled unsuccessfully to quell the fears that kept assaulting her. Meeting the king had terrified her beyond reason, and the dread still encircled her chest like a band of steel.
She nodded to one of the ladies who caught her glance, forcing a smile to her lips. Grasping her goblet with trembling fingers, she took a sip of its potent brew to calm herself. It didn’t work.
Sweet Mother Mary, the king had noticed her appearance enough to comment on it in front of the entire assembly. She’d felt, at that moment, that she might not possess strength to take another breath of air into her lungs. When she’d found voice to answer, ’twas with the first response that sprang to mind. She only hoped she’d remembered Elise’s age correctly. That she hadn’t exposed herself to more scrutiny, more noticeable discrepancy.
Curse Eduard for leaving her out to dry again. In those weeks before the wedding, he’d tutored her and fed her details that he thought might be useful concerning Elise’s life and experiences. But she couldn’t learn everything about his dead sister or her habits in so short a time. Now he was closeted in the solar with the king, her husband and Alban.
What if Henry remembered something more about Eduard’s knighting ceremony, recalled some detail and questioned him about it, and he unknowingly gave the true facts, glaringly different from those she’d blurted but a few moments ago? His Highness might become suspicious about her, as she sensed her husband already was.
By the Saints, if the lie she lived was exposed, all was lost. Aye, the discovery of Eduard’s plots might save her from having to assist in a foul murder, but what then? Her children would surely perish at the hands of Eduard’s men. At the very least the king would have her imprisoned for her part in the plot to kill his most powerful, favored champion. Then there’d be no one left to protect her babes, no one to shield them from brutality and avarice.
Sickness clenched her belly, and she forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. Panic would gain nothing here, she reminded herself. She’d not survived men’s cruelty this long by falling to pieces every time she felt threatened. She would be strong. She’d wait and watch, as she always had. And then she’d find a way out of this nightmare, or any other that might come her way to torment her.
The solar door opened. Catherine’s gaze flew to the faces of the men emerging from behind its polished panels. The king came out first, his expression inscrutable. She felt a tiny flare of hope. He didn’t seem angry.
Then her husband walked through the portal, and her hopes withered. He looked like a thundercloud ready to burst. Lord of the Storm, they call him…William de Bergh’s comment echoed its warning in Catherine’s mind as she stood and forced her legs to carry her toward the men. For once she was glad of the many eyes that watched her as lady of Ravenslock; several servants fell into step behind her, awaiting her command for attention to the king.
But her husband spoke first. He motioned for his steward to lead Henry to the large bedchamber. For this night at least, he and Catherine would move to a room down the hall. Henry said something about a rest before the feast, then swung his arm in command of his own servants, before following the steward to the door.
Catherine’s fingers twisted in her skirts as she caught Gray’s intense expression.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” she murmured, trying without success to pull her gaze from the mesmerizing force of his stare.
“Aye, lady. Much is amiss.”
She felt as if she were going to be sick. She looked desperately to Eduard, sure, now, that something dangerous had been said in chambers with the king. But he failed to notice her, having moved stiffly to the table to gulp down a cup of ale even as he gestured for another.
Gray’s next comment dragged her attention back.
“King Henry leaves on the morrow for a journey to London, to preside over an ordeal by battle. I was to be his champion in the fight against the traitor who’s been charged.” A muscle in Gray’s jaw twitched. “But the king has elected to use another instead, due to the severity of my wounds.”
Clenching his fists, he shifted to give the man responsible for his injuries a look that was half scowl, half wolfish glare. A shudder slipped down Catherine’s back as she felt the leashed power in every muscled inch of Gray’s warrior-hard body. Even wounded, he was a force to be recko
ned with, and it vividly reminded her of the violence that her husband was capable of committing. Of his unsurpassed ability to kill, and how it had earned him his title as the king’s High Champion.
“’Tis most unwelcome news,” he said, sliding his gaze to her again. “Yet I cannot but choose to obey.” She thought that he might say more, but then he simply nodded brusquely and stalked from the hall.
Where he was going, Catherine couldn’t tell. He needed time to cool his temper, no doubt. Her guess was that he’d saddle his huge silver stallion and ride. Such jarring would pain his injuries, she knew, but somehow mere physical discomfort suddenly seemed unlikely to affect this man who had transformed before her eyes from flesh and blood to hardened steel.
Alban stepped up from behind her. “Fear not, lady. Your husband will take care not to pull his stitches or strain his wounds overhard. But he’ll not be fit for the feast this night until he’s burned away some of the demons that sting him.”
She turned to face her husband’s friend. “Is it that keen of a disappointment to him, then, to be kept from a court battle?”
“Aye, though ’tis not just that. The king also fined him for hosting this day’s mélée and issued new sanctions against both him and Eduard for their fighting. He declared that if they ever disobey him in this—if they ever come to blows again—’twill be at risk of all that they have, including their rank as his personal champions.”
“I’d have thought that being denied the privilege to engage in constant battle would be a relief, not a punishment.”
Alban shook his head. “I cannot speak for your brother, but I know Gray. His purpose in life is to fight and fight well. For King Henry especially, but whenever and wherever he finds opportunity and cause. The king’s decision to leave him behind tomorrow is bound to be a sore distress to him.”
“But why? It seems so reckless for a man of his wealth and status. ’Tis why there are knights, hundreds of them, to serve in place of a great lord such as he!” Catherine struggled to quell the shrill quality of her voice. If she wasn’t careful, she’d lose all composure and go hysterical on him. After the events of the day, her nerves felt tight enough to play like a harp. Mastering her overwrought emotions, she added quietly, “Why does he continue to risk himself time and again if not for the petty sake of more acclaim, more glory?”
Alban seemed to consider how to answer. He gazed long into her eyes, as if reading her ability to hear the truth. Finally he glanced away. “The reasons are deep that drive him, lady, and ’tis for him to tell you the full of it. But know that he burns to see justice done. ’Tis why he craves the position as Sheriff of Cheltenham. ’Tis what keeps him breathing.”
With that, Alban nodded his leave and followed Gray’s route from the hall. She was left to stand bewildered, trying to make sense out of that which seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason.
None, at least, worthy to explain the commanding, formidable enigma embodied in the man who was her lord husband.
Chapter 6
The feasting was well under way that evening by the time Catherine received a call to the kitchens. A waifish page had darted up to her at table, begging her aid to test the roasted duckling sauce she’d ordered specially prepared, according to her recipe. The cook had fallen ill just the day before, unable to rise from his bed, and his assistant was a young lad, terrified to make a mistake lest he disappoint not only the master and mistress, but also His Royal Highness, the King of England.
Gray had given his consent, and she’d been glad to rise from the formality of the feasting table to attend the duty. Never had she faced an occasion such as this. Her very breath came shallow from the anxiety. Yet Gray’s ride of the afternoon seemed to have done him some good, even if his stiff movements belied that he’d strained his injuries. She’d insisted on checking his shoulder and rib dressings before the feasting began, and he’d reluctantly complied. She’d been relieved to see that the stitching and bandages had held.
But with the physical examination had flooded back heated memories of how she’d tended to him right after the mélée and of how he’d encouraged her touch in a much more intimate way. Her cheeks still burned with the thought. Yet she knew that the strange warmth of her feelings for this man she’d married, the man she’d pledged to help destroy, were far too dangerous to indulge.
Now she sighed as she made her way back to the hall. The sauce had needed nothing more than a few more sprinkles of ginger to make it perfect. Catherine smiled as she remembered the look of gratitude that her praise had brought to the boy’s face. He’d probably sweated full as much as the casks of chilled sweet wine she’d seen the brewers carry in from the cold cellar. Ravenslock was truly a castle of wonders, she thought, with the most current amenities, including a cooling chamber. She’d never imagined such luxury would exist in all of her life.
Catherine reached the empty, narrow hallway that would lead to the grand opening into the great hall, but a hissing sound drew her back. Eduard stepped into the light of the anteroom, his ruddy, bruised face sharp with contempt. He moved forward like an evil tide, forcing her back until the hard surface of wall stopped her retreat. Then he stroked his finger down the curve of her cheekbone in silent mockery.
“My dear Catherine,” he muttered. “’Tis near impossible to find you alone these past hours.”
Catherine tried to stand tall, struggled not to cower before him as every inch of her flesh longed to do. She’d faced Eduard’s abuse so often in the past months that it seemed second nature to tremble as she awaited the punishing blow that should come next. But she reminded herself that she needn’t fear that kind of danger from him any longer…only the greater threat of his harming her children if she failed to do his will.
“I believed you to be abed already,” she managed to say. “You’re usually full into your cups by this time of feasting.”
“I cannot drink overmuch this night, thanks to King Henry.”
“Why? Does he disapprove of foul-mouthed drunkards?”
Eduard’s face tightened, and his hand clenched to a fist. “Your tongue is getting rather sharp these days, Catherine. Would that I could quiet it into pleas of mercy as I have in the past.” He glared at her a moment more before adding, “Yet you’re still as ignorant as ever. I cannot imbibe too heartily because I leave with the Royal Caravan at sunrise. The king has commanded that I join him on his expedition to observe the ordeal by battle in London. He hopes that separating his two best champions will cool the animosity between us.”
“You’re leaving?” Catherine echoed quietly.
“Aye.” Eduard placed his palm on the wall beside her head, making her cringe. He leaned his weight into it, pressing closer, his sheer size and sour stench intimidating her as it always had. “’Tis an unforeseen event. I’ll not be here to guide you in the next weeks of your task with Camville. The king may decide to keep me for a month or more, but I expect you to continue our course. Work your way into your husband’s trust. Into the deepest chambers of his heart.” A wolfish smile creased his cheeks. “Prepare him well for the kill, sweeting.”
She felt herself blanch, and he laughed, his breath riffling the hair at her temple. Hot pricking jabbed behind her eyes. The bastard was devoid of feeling. Of even the most basic human emotion. But as she stared at his chest, gazing at the immovable slab of muscle and bone that protected his heart of stone, she couldn’t stop herself from uttering what she’d vowed never to let him hear again.
“I beg of you, Eduard, by all that’s holy, release me from this nightmare. I will give you whatever I have, I will humiliate myself in any way that you wish, but please don’t ask me to help you kill this man. ’Tis cold-blooded murder. An abomination to God and mankind and…”
Her words faded to silence as he touched her again, sliding his finger along her bodice to stroke a path up her neck, so gently that it seemed a profane reminder of the pain he’d so often inflicted on her. His finger ceased its journey below her chin
, digging into the tender flesh there. He jerked hard to make her meet his gaze.
“Did I neglect to mention that I’ve had your children brought home from fostering at Denton?”
Catherine arched back, feeling as if he’d buried a dagger in her belly. “Oh God, why? You promised not to harm them!”
He grinned wider, the look mocking the Arch-fiend himself. “They were none too pleased, I’m afraid, to see their dear Uncle Eduard. Little Isabel even wept a bit.” The corner of his lip curled. “Rather reminded me of you.”
Tears flooded her eyes and she began to struggle against him. “You bastard! What have you done to them?”
“Calm yourself, Catherine.” He looked down at her, gripping her wrists to prevent her from striking him. “The twins are safe enough in their old chambers at Faegerliegh Keep for now. But ’tis right that you remember what will happen to them if you thwart me in any way. Several of my people lie in wait here for the sole purpose of watching you in my absence. I’ll be kept informed if you’re stupid enough to try anything.”
She gazed at him uncomprehending for a moment. When realization began to dawn, Eduard smiled and nodded. “Aye, Catherine, sweet. Spies. Neither you nor anyone at Ravenslock knows who they are. It might be the baker’s apprentice, or the lady’s maid who draws your bath. Mayhap even the squire that serves you at table. This is a huge and prosperous estate. My spies are many, and they are everywhere. Falter in any way, Catherine, attempt to tell Camville of our plans, and I’ll learn about it swiftly. And then, my dear, your children will suffer the consequences.” He stopped talking and drew his finger quickly across his throat with a slicing sound.
Suffocation squeezed her and welling tears spilled hot onto her cheeks. “How can you do this? You’re their uncle, for God’s sake. Their blood…”
Eduard’s expression hardened, and he leaned closer. “No one is sacred, Catherine, remember that. It doesn’t take much to snuff the life from children. Their necks are delicate, like baby birds fallen from their mother’s nest. All it takes is a flick of the wrist—”
