Smoothing her face to smiling indifference, she gathered her skirts and ascended, though she disliked to be so exposed. Even less did she like his closeness.
Ethelred gave her a hooded glance. “We must commend your taste in fashion. That gown becomes you. It seems you have spent our coin to good effect.”
Beholden to him, she uttered the words of gratitude he expected.
“We will say you know how to repay an investment, my dear. You comport yourself with seeming decorum…for the most part.”
She dared not respond. The king was half-concealed behind Cate’s voluptuous body, engrossed in some endeavor of which she strove to remain ignorant.
“Indeed, all praise your charms, which I have sung so faithfully—your cleverness and frugality, your education, your beauty.” He smiled without humor. “Your virtue. It would be a pity to spoil the hunt, just when the hawk is stooping to the bait. Do you comprehend me, my dear?”
Her heart dropped like a stone in her belly. He’s speaking of Eomond. Sweet mercy, he knows everything.
To sour the interest of her would-be husband, she’d flaunted Eomond as boldly as she dared. She had been too indiscreet, or the king simply too observant. He was warning her now that he’d suffer no misalliance between an aetheling and a common theyn.
In her distress, she barely marked that Cate’s gown sagged loose around her shoulders as the king unlaced her. Katrin was riveted to his words, each one shaped with his customary precision and dropped gently into her ear.
“It is your good name and virtue, my dear, which comprise your value in the game I play,” he said, benevolent as a deacon. “You are knight and bishop, pawn and rook. And the prize for which we play is one of the wealthiest shires in England—and a magnate whose friendship I must retain. Should you falter in the game, should you…waver, I would be—discommoded. Of course…” His gaze crawled over her. “I am a practical man who abhors wasting any commodity. So I would still find a use for you.”
Eyes never wavering, he pushed Cate’s gown from her shoulders, baring her to the waist before his entire court.
“But I fear it would be a use you would little enjoy,” he finished softly. “Do I make myself clear?”
Katrin swallowed against her dry throat, and clenched her fingers in her costly gown to still their tremor. “You are clear.”
“I knew you were quick enough to follow the play. Indeed, I am comforted to see we are still in accord.” Bending over Cate’s exposed body, the king murmured, “You look fatigued, kinswoman. I think you must retire for the night.”
Freed, Katrin fled.
* * *
Despite the late hour, she had to bathe. She would never sleep until she scrubbed the crawling horror of that encounter from her skin.
Waking Gwyneth as she dozed before the fire, Katrin paced while yawning servants hauled in the steaming buckets two by two. Briskly Gwyneth assembled the tub, a high wooden basin hung with a cloth tent to ward away draughts.
With shaking fingers, Katrin stripped off the costly gown that was her uncle’s gift. When the moon-faced countenance of her new serving girl loomed before her, Katrin sent her away. For all she knew, the wench was a spy for her master.
Trembling, she crawled into the tub and hugged her knees. Tutting with concern, Gwyneth poured steaming buckets of water over her shivering frame and added a dollop of rosemary-and-lavender scent. Gently, the waiting woman kneaded her taut neck and shoulders.
Beneath these ministrations, Katrin’s muscles gradually unknotted. No calamity she’d ever known was not eased by the palliative of Gwyneth’s soothing hands. Except for her exile, her loveless marriage and her mother’s death.
“Now ye’re settled, ye’ll say what’s happened,” Gwyneth said.
In a shame-filled voice, Katrin confided the encounter with her uncle. Midway through the tale, Gwyneth froze, care-worn hands trembling against Katrin’s shoulders. After the ugly tale, her old friend said nothing for a long time.
“God and Mary save us.” Gwyneth sounded shaken. “Is there no perversity the man willna’ stoop to?”
Katrin smiled wanly. “Never fear. We’ll give him no excuse to carry out his threats.”
“’Tis no more than I’d expect from the man what deviled yer sainted mother, may God assoil her soul. With ye, though…” She paused. “I thought he’d be different.”
“I don’t know why you should imagine he’d show me some special regard.” Katrin hugged her knees. Through the walls, the chapel bell tolled Compline.
She stiffened. “Sweet Jesus—Eomond! Do you know where he sleeps?”
“He ought to lay his head in the barracks with the other fighting men. Lord love us, what would ye be needin’ him for? Ye’ve missed yer moment to dally with that one. ’Twould have been easy at Foresthold, but this is no place for it. I knew ye’d regret it—”
“I don’t intend to dally with him. But you must carry him a message.” Grimacing, Katrin struggled for a discreet phrasing. “Tell him…tell him to forget our arrangement, no more than that. Tell him to mind his bearing. Tell him we’re watched!”
“Do ye think he needs to be told, lass? If he does, the lad’s run mad! Aye, he’s wanted ye since Foresthold. I told ye to have him then, didn’t I? ’Tis too late now.”
“Aye, you told me! But—”
“But there it is. I’d almost believe ye bewitched the lad.”
“Gwyneth, you know I’m no witch. If you love me, do not argue! Send Alix to him, I implore you—unless you wish to confront him here.”
“By the hooly relics! Has it gone so far? Doon’t spin tales to me now, lass. Did ye lie with him that night, when ye sent me away?”
How many times must I deny him, as Peter denied Christ before the cock crowed?
She closed her eyes and lied. “Naught happened that night.”
“Ye’re both fools, then. But he durst not come near ye now, or the king will hang him from the wall by his own entrails!” Gwyneth leaned close. “’Tis all through the keep. The king’s found a baron for ye, and him rich as Midas! The good Lord save us if you spoil the deal.”
“I can’t bear it,” Katrin whispered, a sword of fear twisting in her gut. “Not now, when I—nay. Send Alix to Eomond with my warning.”
“Marry, I’ll go! I’ll not have that tender lass caught up in this dangerous nonsense.”
By the time Gwyneth returned, the water had cooled. Starting from her uneasy reverie, Katrin took one look at her face and sat up. “Were you able to find him? Pray God—what did he say?”
“Aye, I found him. He keeps a room in the barracks. But—”
“But what?”
“This is a bad business, milady, and no mistake. He wasna’ alone there, yer heart-sore lover. I could hear voices inside, so I waited until the…lady…should leave, so as to pass yer message.”
“Lady?” A searing image of Lady Edwynna of Crayke, an ice queen clad in ermine, sliced through Katrin like a knife. She groped for the tub and clung to it, steeling herself for the rest. She wouldn’t utter the coward’s words that trembled on her lips, would not implore Gwyneth to say nothing more.
“Aye, a lady,” Gwyneth said dourly. “Soon enough the harlot left him, bold as day, not even a serving-wench to attend her. I caught him comin’ out, milady—having himself a busy night, as I made plain to tell him.”
“Say the rest of it.”
“Well, I gave the man a good piece of a Christian woman’s mind, I did! I chided him for troubling a virtuous lady, tender as any maid I told him, and for playing the thing so bold to set tongues wagging from the buttery to the king’s chamber! I told him as ye said, that ye’re watched, and not to come. Such a face he wore when I said it!”
“He’s in a towering temper, no doubt,” Katrin said coldly.
Katrin was shivering, naked in the icy water, heart pounding in a frenzy of bewilderment and pain. He and Edwynna of Crayke—and he would have gone without a qualm straight from her bed to mine! Well, he’ll learn that I’m no man’s whore.
Even curled in her bed, she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Thoughts tumbled like frightened mice through her brain. She shouldn’t have been so foolish as to think herself in love with him. Now she could never see him alone again.
Yet her ploy was working, wasn’t it? Tongues were wagging all through the keep. Merely the appearance of indiscretion would destroy her uncle’s plans. But, St. Cuthbert’s chalice, what would her uncle do?
Chapter Eleven
The choir sang like the angels of Heaven, but Katrin was in no mood to appreciate their talents. She knelt at Mass beside her uncle and tried to keep her thoughts from Eomond, who hadn’t appeared that day. The nave behind her seemed empty without his blazing presence.
But the lady of Crayke’s bold beauty burned like a torch across the aisle. Her lord had a kind face; no doubt he didn’t deserve to be made a cuckold. Given the venomous looks she couldn’t avoid noticing, thrown at her like knives from the lady’s ice-blue eyes, Katrin felt no great charity for Edwynna—her rival if she cared to think in those terms, which she did not.
The congregation heaved to its feet for the hosannas and sank down with a collective groan for the Eucharistic prayer. Ethelred leaned close to murmur in her ear.
“We ride to the hunt directly after Mass. You are with me, kinswoman. I have a brace of hounds I’ll be pleased to show you.”
He startled her with this olive branch, but she nodded. “Very well.”
“I fear your brave protector has gone from court,” he whispered.
She couldn’t think quickly enough to conceal her reaction. Where had Eomond gone, and why, and what purpose had the king in telling her? Questions she would never voice, with answers she might never know.
“’Twas best to let him go,” he said softly. Beyond him, his queen and the white-haired dowager of Argent glanced toward her with matching frowns. The king and his niece, whispering through the Mass, and clearly they blamed her for it.
She knew it was folly to betray her interest, but now she longed desperately to keep him talking. “When will he return, my lord?”
“I cannot say, but he may be long in coming.” He drew close—like two children misbehaving in Mass, though the priest would only punish her for it. “I could hardly refuse him, when he craved to go. Have you heard the tale of my sword-theyn and yonder lady, who watches you with murder in her eyes?”
It was madness to care and madness to hear it, but she answered nay to encourage him.
“I fear our captain looked for love above his place. Eomond was newly come to court—oh, eight years ago it was. He was young and reckless, but a terror in battle. Men threw down their swords and ran rather than fight him. His reputation grew, and Edwynna encouraged his ardor. When she accepted Lord Crayke’s offer instead, our poor besotted gallant took it poorly.”
“How so?” she whispered.
“I had to send him from court, for I feared he would do one of them a mischief. In time he returned, but he loves her still.”
Caught between compassion and the gnawing rat of jealousy, she sighed. Oh, Eomond, no wonder you couldn’t trust me. Another highborn lady who trifled with your heart.
Around them the congregation clambered to its feet. Solicitous, the king helped her rise, which she didn’t like. Must he be so obvious?
“Now that the lady has given Crayke his heirs,” he whispered, “I dare say she will return to her lover, if she has not done so already. One has only to see them together…”
The savage teeth of anguish tore at her heart. The king slid an arm around her waist: the loving uncle, supporting her through the service.
“I know you lost your heart to him, Katrin. Viking’s bastard though he is, and not handsome, he does hold for the weaker sex some crude appeal.”
His lips brushed her ear—kissing her in church while his wife knelt beside him. Sickened, she recoiled, but he held her. “You are as far above him, my dear, as Heaven is to the Devon soil where his ancestors rooted like shoats. I will see you served better, but you must trust me. Affirm that you are my creature first, here in God’s house where I know you dare not lie.”
Fingers knotting, she stared straight ahead. “I’m no man’s creature! But I will please you if I may, since my own welfare depends upon it.”
“Honesty,” he said dryly. “I suppose I must be content with that.”
* * *
The hunters streamed across the moor like a flock of ravens, hooves churning through clouds of snow. Beneath their feet a tangle of hounds surged: the keen-nosed lymers, baying at the scent, then the sleek greyhounds running for the kill—large enough to tear out the throat of a grown man if that was the scent they were given.
They brought the stag to ground in a wooded coppice with horses jostling and squealing, riders cursing, hounds winding between restless hooves. Clinging to her saddle, Katrin glimpsed the huntsmen with their lances, converging on the buck. Disgusted—she, who had first ridden to hunt in her father’s arms when she could barely walk, and prided herself that she was never squeamish—she struggled to turn her mare aside.
Nearby, Thorkell loomed on his roan stallion, face concerned as he fought against the tide to reach her. Since Eomond’s abrupt departure three weeks past, he seemed always to linger near, taking a protector’s role. Cheerful company though he was, armed always with a jest at his own expense, she was careful to keep him at arm’s length. She didn’t need to learn the same lesson twice.
He’d nearly reached her when a horse stumbled against Arianrod. Without even looking, as if he sensed her presence by witchcraft, Ethelred reached back and caught her bridle, pulling her forward to share the best view.
Discreetly Thorkell fell back, yielding to his liege, as the hunters swung their lances to the buck and thrust. Sickened almost to retching, Katrin turned her face away.
“Oh, well-timed!” her uncle called.
She would have avoided the rest of the bloody business if she could, when the hunters skinned the carcass, laying out the hounds’ curee across the hide. Arianrod shied at the smell of blood, but Ethelred’s hand tightened on the bridle, holding her when she would have fallen back. She lifted her chin and stared straight ahead while the butchery went on below.
The king’s solicitude was part of his game—another display of her value. She thought perhaps he overplayed it. Still she didn’t know his target, for the gossips had supplied a steady stream of names for her husband. Half-a-dozen barons resided beneath his roof, and her uncle gave none of them precedence.
She bent to adjust the sweep of her skirts across Arianrod’s flank: white mare and a fur-lined gown to match, ermine nestled to her chin, expensive gloves of Italian leather sheathing her fingers. She was a well-kept doll, with a shattered heart beneath her finery that had ceased to beat.
Her fingers tightened, crushing the snowy fabric. Despite the spectacle before them, Ethelred caught the tiny movement as a falcon would.
Beyond him the dowager of Argent sat vigilant in her saddle. Beneath that discerning gaze, the king patted Katrin’s hand, as if to comfort her for the kill he’d ordered.
“Why, my dear, how is this?” he exclaimed. “You are pale with dismay on the buck’s behalf?”
“I’m unwell, my lord. I told you so before, but you wouldn’t leave me behind.”
“Nay, I am a selfish monster.” He smiled blandly. “Oh, come—is that not what
you meant to imply? You cut me to the quick, my dear. If I am selfish, ’tis only that I cannot bear to be parted from you.”
He lifted Katrin’s hand to his lips. Her lashes swept down to cover her loathing. To divert him, she called to the dowager, “What think you of the sport?”
“Sporting,” the dowager said dryly. “But I’ll not complain. The expense of the hunt devolves to Ethelred, while Argent has but to enjoy the chase.”
“Until the buck is run to ground,” the king said amiably. “Then the spoils of the hunt are ours.”
His beard was smooth against her heated skin. She fisted her hand. “Don’t! I’m unwell, my lord.”
Dismissing them, the dowager spurred away. But there was Cate, his plaything, sulking to be ignored while she glared at Katrin.
With a sigh, Katrin tried to withdraw her hand. But his grip tightened playfully, holding her at bay.
“I am sorry for it,” he told her gently. “When we return, you must go to bed, with a hot stone at your feet and mulled wine to warm you. I shall attend you myself, to be certain you are well served.”
Her gorge rose at the prospect, but she forced a chilly laugh. “Don’t be absurd. You have greater matters to occupy your time than playing nursemaid to a greensick woman.”
“Have I indeed?” he mused. “Nay, it would please me. Your well-being is precious to me.”
His tone was ironic, but no amusement lightened his saturnine face as he studied their clasped hands. Suddenly he pressed her reluctant palm against his cheek and held it, trapped beneath his own.
“Tell me this,” he murmured. “Do you weep in the night for your lost love?”
Nausea pushed up to choke her. She would be ill, physically ill before him and all the rest, if she did not win free at once.
“Certainly not,” she said in her coldest tone. “I’m no weak-willed maid to pine for love—not like your sulky harlot there. My lord is unseemly.”
By Royal Command Page 13