By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  Heart hammering, she watched him wheel his fire-colored stallion and canter away, cloak billowing in his wake.

  At her side, Gwyneth muttered, “Ye’re up to no good with that one.”

  Katrin scowled after him. “The king means nothing good for me, Gwyneth. You know we must defy this summons.”

  “All I hope is ye know what ye’re aboot.”

  “So do I.” She watched the dark forest close around him, and shivered.

  * * *

  He was back the next day before she expected him—indeed, almost before her folk had braced against him. Her retainers had hardly brought the goats and chickens into the hall, barred the iron-bound portal and set the watch at the slitted squints when the cavalcade appeared.

  Katrin was reading near her tower window, staring down at her illustrated book of saints, praying for strength to hold her course. When she glimpsed the Devil’s minion, armored and helmed, leading a column of disreputable-looking men toward her domicile, her nerve nearly failed her.

  Sweet Jesus! A devil’s dozen of them now.

  Eomond swung down and frowned at the sealed portal. When he stepped back to survey her tower, she ducked out of sight.

  He thumped a mailed fist against the wood. “Hail, the house!”

  Silent and unseen, her retainers clustered downstairs, waiting anxiously for her command.

  Frozen with dread, she waited until he pounded again, sufficient to rattle the bolt. “Hail within!”

  Katrin nerved herself and stepped into view.

  “’Tis no use,” she called down, relieved that her voice didn’t waver.

  His gaze raked the heights to find her. His motley band of ruffians, bristling with blades and axes, swung back their shaggy heads to gape.

  “My lady,” he said. “Open the door.”

  “I shall not. Upon reflection, I’ve decided I don’t wish to venture forth after all. You must return to court without me.”

  It was impossible to read the expression beneath his helm, but she couldn’t mistake his steely tone. “I’ve sworn an oath to bring you. You had best open this door—at once.”

  “We’re prepared to withstand you, even if you besiege us.” She swept one hand outward in a banishing gesture. “Go away.”

  A brigand shifted unhappily. “Damn me. Ye never said no word of a siege, man.”

  Eomond stood ramrod straight, wind licking at his cloak. Ignoring the worried men clustered behind him, he gripped his sword.

  “I will say this only once,” he said harshly. “Reconsider.”

  Does he think me a weak-willed woman to be terrified by his frown?

  Well, she would show him an aetheling’s resolve. Righteous anger cascading down her spine, she fetched her hunting bow and quiver, but returned to find an alarming development: his ruffians were leading their ponies toward her stable. One man hunkered beneath the trees, chopping kindling.

  They’re settling in to camp. She went dizzy with dismay.

  But the sword-theyn—the source of all her problems—still stood within range, speaking quietly with two others as they assessed her walls.

  Unseen, she fitted an arrow to the bow and squinted down the shaft, anxious to ensure her aim. Calling to mind the man who’d taught her—how Cormac would bellow to see her now!—she thanked God and all the saints that Eomond stood unmoving, oblivious to his peril. She held her breath and released.

  The arrow hissed through the air and plunged quivering into the soil, a hand-span from his boot. She exhaled with shuddering relief. Despite their quarrel, she didn’t wish to injure him. That was a treachery he did not deserve, only for doing his duty.

  The lanky redhead beside him sprang back with a yell. His heavyset companion squinted at the shaft and grunted, “Ballocks.”

  Clutching her bow, Katrin called, “That was a warning to you. I fear my aim may improve if you continue to try me.”

  “Fall back,” Eomond ordered, with a gritted control that made her shiver. Dear God, what he must think of her—she who’d sent him away with a smile and a sweet entreaty to hasten his return.

  Yet she couldn’t pretend it was only for deception, the way her breath quickened to see him. Her angry heart softened with regret.

  He swung back his head, inscrutable, crackling with purpose as their gazes locked. She found herself holding her breath, the silence stretched tight between them.

  When he vaulted into his saddle, she closed her eyes. As he cantered toward the forest, she knew she hadn’t seen the last of him.

  Chapter Four

  Amid the shadowy tangle of dreams, a deafening crash shook the world. Katrin flew upright in bed, frantic eyes combing the darkness. She’d barely managed to sleep, knowing the wrathful theyn and his brigands were camped outside her walls. Had she dreamt that horrific blow, or—

  Again the ominous boom rolled through the night, making the walls shudder. With a cry of dismay, she scrambled to her feet.

  Gripping a candle, Gwyneth emerged from her cubby, gray hair streaming in disarray. “Now we’re in for it, lass. I disliked this scheme of yours from the first.”

  Katrin threw her chamber robe over her shift and hurried to the casement. Torches flared below, illuminating a scene straight from Hell: a double column of armored giants, swinging a massive timber against her door. A flame-colored stallion towered over them, vapor streaming from his nostrils, mane flying as he tore the ground. The sword-theyn rose like a siege tower in the saddle.

  “God save us,” she whispered, ill with apprehension.

  We’re prepared to withstand you, even if you besiege us. So blithely she’d said it, never dreaming the wretched man would do it!

  Alix sprang from her pallet. “Milady, is it the Judgment Day?”

  “Ye could say it.” Gwyneth bundled a cloak around the girl’s shoulders. “Mind me now, daughter, and bide here. There’ll be a tussle below.”

  The floor shuddered beneath their feet as the attackers swung their ram. Katrin forced her trembling legs into motion and tumbled down the stairs, with Gwyneth puffing at her heels.

  The great hall seethed with desperation. Fearful servants clustered in knots, butted by goats and fluttering chickens. Men strained to overturn the table and wedge it against the door. As frantic eyes swung toward her, guilt shafted through her.

  I brought this upon them with my willfulness, for daring to defy the king. They’d be lucky to weather this tempest without foundering on the shoals of disaster.

  She pitched her voice above the clamor. “Heed me, the house! Strike no blow against these men. We must call for a parley.”

  From his station, the graying housecarl who captained their defense threw her a harried glance. “They’ll not heed that now, milady! A man’s blood runs hot when steel is drawn. Get above with the lassies and wee ones. We’ll hold them as long as we can.”

  “Nay, you must heed me! If we raise arms against them, we’ll surely come to grief—”

  Again the ram slammed against her door. This time, the wood split. Women screamed and clutched their children as shouting men spilled into her hall.

  Desperate to prevent bloodshed, Katrin scrambled onto a bench and shouted. “Hold, you must hold! By St. Cuthbert’s chalice, hold—”

  Behind the overturned table, one of her defenders reared up and loosed an arrow into the struggling knot of men. The redheaded lad from the assaulting force howled as the bolt pierced his thigh. His comrades swung toward the table with raised swords and murder in their eyes.

  Battling the bubbling rise of panic, Katrin screamed.

  “Stop!” The word tore her throat.

  Breathing fire, a warhorse charged through the doorway. Within his helm, Eomond’s stern eyes raked the hall and found her, poised above a sea of chaos.
r />   As men surged toward the flimsy bastion of the table, he bellowed.

  “Hold!”

  To her utter disbelief, the menacing rush faltered. The attackers wavered in midstride, peering around uncertainly. Screaming women and squalling infants fell silent. Throughout the hall, men turned by instinct toward the commanding voice.

  Towering above the fray, Eomond scowled. “Put down your swords, all of you! The hall is taken.”

  The injured youth shattered the silence, fingers clasped around the bloody arrow. “What, will the wretch who did this make no amends?”

  “Be at ease, lad,” he replied. “The mistress of the hall will make amends.”

  Weak with relief, Katrin said faintly, “Egfrida, bring ale for these men. Gwyneth, help this wounded man to a pallet, so we may tend his hurts.”

  Trembling, she climbed down and collapsed on the bench while her limbs regained their strength. Shaking off the communal paralysis, her folk stirred up the fire and put the hall to rights. All gave a wide berth to the shaggy brutes who watched and the fearsome figure on horseback who commanded them.

  Eomond remained in the saddle until it was clear they obeyed him. Then he swung down and held out his reins to Wat. The white-haired gnome ducked a bow and led the stallion outside.

  Gathering her wits, Katrin hurried to the injured man. Sweet mercy, he’s little more than a lad. Gently, she examined the shaft sprouting from his thigh.

  “You’re in luck.” She managed a reassuring smile. “Something turned the bolt before it struck. We shall have it out in a trifle. Then our care must be to keep the wound clean until it mends, to prevent the black rot.”

  The youth was white with pain. “I don’t mind tellin’ ye I don’t feel so lucky, milady Katrin.”

  Cutting away the blood-soaked cloth, she glanced up in surprise. “Marry, do you know me?”

  “Aye, milady.” He grimaced as she pulled clotted cloth from the wound. “I seen ye at Mass. I’m Eahlstan, the smithy’s son. My da will have something to say when he sees what I’ve done, laying siege to your hoose. He’ll probably tan my hide for it.”

  “And well he should!” Grimly, Gwyneth thumped down a basket of healing herbs. “I’ve brought red clover, lass, to purify the blood.”

  Katrin thanked her and bent over the wound, deeply shaken by the near-disaster her defiance had brought down on them. If not for Eomond’s swift action, there would have been a massacre tonight.

  Why can’t I accept my lot in life, as the priest forever counsels?

  But why couldn’t Ethelred leave her in peace? She was no princess. Her father was bastard-born, only half brother to the king. She could serve no purpose for high alliance.

  Having cleansed the wound, she was bandaging the injury when her skin prickled. Without looking up, she sensed the sword-theyn filling the space behind her. The very air seemed to press against her skin, crowded by his larger-than-life presence.

  The smithy’s son looked woeful. “I’ll be no use to ye now, milord.”

  “Be at ease, lad,” Eomond said. “If no fever sets in during the night, you’ll sit a horse with the rest of us. Your sword-arm is hale, aye?”

  “It’s hale enough.” The lad looked hopeful. “If ye’ll have me.”

  “Aye, I’ll have you…and I am no lord.” Eomond bent his gaze on her kneeling form. “My lady, I’ll have a word with you.”

  Swallowing a lump of dread, she addressed her patient. “Gwyneth shall bring you some willow-bark tea. I pray you’ll drink it all, though it’s bitter. It will help keep the fever down.”

  Feeling his gaze bore into her, she slanted Eomond a cautious look. He towered over her in his ring-mail, long-sword sheathed at his hip in quiet menace. Grim control clenched his jaw beneath the tawny beard.

  Of course he was furious. No more than an unwise word would ignite him.

  And she stood before him defenseless in her chamber robe, curls tumbling down her back. “If you please, I…pray you’ll take a cup of ale. I shall attend you anon.”

  His hand closed beneath her elbow. “You’ll attend me now. I can no longer take you at your word.”

  Her face burned, for she’d given him ample reason to doubt her. “You must believe I never intended this wretched affair to come so far. I would never put any of my good people, or yours, at risk.”

  “Whatever you intended, you must deal with the consequences. That’s a lesson a woman in your position would do well to learn. It’s only by sheer chance no lives were lost tonight.”

  He spoke no more than the truth. Frustrated tears stung her eyes—but nay. She’d always deplored that weakness, she who never wept where others would see. “You wouldn’t heed my words, and I can’t wage war like a man to defend my interests. What else would you have me do?”

  “I’d have you obey your king,” he gritted. “I’d have you honor your given word. And I’d have you save your woman’s wiles for whatever poor fool holds your true fancy!”

  Ruddy color rose beneath his skin. His clenched jaw betrayed the stubborn pride of a man who possessed little else. Pride and honor were all he had, and she’d offended them both.

  Biting her lip, she looked down at his boots—rough-sewn and muddied in her uncle’s service.

  “You’d have me obey my king,” she said bitterly. “Can’t you understand? The king’s neglect killed my mother.”

  “What I understand is that we’ve lost precious time. You’d best prepare for your journey. We depart at first light.”

  Despair overwhelmed her. This was the end of all hope, for he wouldn’t stint to drag her bound and screaming from her hall now.

  In the face of her silence, he tightened his grip. “I trust we understand each other.”

  Blazing with hostility, she twisted free and whirled away. Before the curious brigands at her hearth, she fled up the stairs, as if to outrace the baying hounds of the past that hunted her.

  * * *

  Katrin huddled in her chair before the fire. Hearing the rumble of male voices below, she struggled with dreadful misgiving. By God, such a fighting force could murder us all in our beds! Such horrors had befallen women in their halls before.

  Gradually, pockets of silence opened as men sought their pallets. No one came to trouble her. She’d asked Gwyneth and Alix to remain with the wounded boy—and she hadn’t begun to pack. How could she, when the mere thought of court froze her blood?

  When a heavy tread sounded on the stair, her chest constricted. As the door opened, she gripped the arms of her high-backed chair.

  St. Wilfrid save her, he dominated his surroundings, even without his armor. Loose-jointed, deceptively quiet, still Eomond wore command like a mantle of kingship. Suddenly she knew she’d been waiting for him.

  “My lady makes no arrangements to depart. I wouldn’t want to think you misunderstood me.”

  “Oh, you’ve made yourself most clear. Gwyneth and I will accompany you, since you leave me no choice in the matter.”

  “Let me be clearer still.” He closed the door behind him, shutting them in. Alarm spiked through her. “If you’re not ready to ride at sunrise for any reason, I’ll put you across your saddle in whatever you happen to be wearing. Even if it’s only your shift.”

  A bracing flood of anger surged through her. How dare this common brute threaten her?

  She did nothing to hide her contempt. “No doubt that would please you.”

  “It would please me to be quit of a spoiled and scheming hellion,” he said bluntly. “But I’m sworn to bring you. That’s what honor means—to do your duty even when it’s a burden.”

  “Pray don’t lesson me about duty.” Her anger flared hotter. “What else have I ever done but my duty? You may question my judgment after…after what nearly happened, but you needn’t fear another in
cident.”

  Firelight blazed in his gold-bright hair and the bronze banding his wrists. “I’ll not chance having you endanger yourself and my men on the road.”

  Her grip on the chair tightened. “I’ve said I will not do so.”

  “Ah, but now I can’t trust your word. You place your own interests first. I think I must demonstrate, for your benefit, the consequences of deceit.” Quietly, he lowered the bolt across the door.

  Apprehension skittered through her. Still, he was no Maldred. What could he do beneath her own roof?

  Bravely Katrin stood. “I must protest your presence at this hour. My household will be scandalized—to say nothing of what your men will think.”

  “This won’t take long.” He strode forward.

  Before the warning glitter in his eyes, she barricaded herself behind the chair. She’d never seen a man look as dangerous as he did, long-sword swinging at his hip as he stalked her.

  Katrin swallowed against the fear that closed her throat. “I grant that I’ve behaved unwisely—”

  “I was a fool to trust you. And a fool twice over to dally with an aetheling. Tell me—is it good sport to trifle with a common man?”

  In his wake, the candles wavered. A stray parchment fluttered from her writing table to the floor. He gripped her chair and speared her with his gaze.

  “Well? I’m waiting to hear your answer. I asked you—do I make good sport?”

  Damn the man, she would not cower! “This inquisition is pointless. I fail to see what you hope to gain, when I’ve already admitted I was mistaken. Any man of breeding—”

  His face hardened, a storm gathering on his brow. “Ah, but I am no man of breeding. Any man will tell you I’m no more than a Viking’s bastard and a captain of butchers.”

  He caught the folds of her chamber robe and pulled her on tiptoe against the chair between them. Enraged by this rough handling, she struggled as her heels left the floor. “Let go of me, you swine—”

  He pulled her against him and brought his mouth down on hers. It shocked her to the core—she who’d never been kissed by any man, not even the one she’d married. Kissed by a man whose clear purpose was domination, laced with lacerated pride.