His gaze slid sideways, and to her relief his strange mood lifted. “She is hardly a maid. And unseemly is the very least of what I am.”
He let her hand drop and called for the huntsmen to roast the best cuts over an open fire.
Blindly she spurred her horse away. The charred odor of meat made her sicker, spinning her head on her shoulders. She forced Arianrod into the trees, wanting no more to do with the king and his court. When she could contain it no longer, she slid from the saddle and fell to her knees in the snow, hugging herself as she heaved. Sickness flooded her mouth and the world revolved around her.
Afterward, she huddled, spent and miserable. Was she sickened by the prolonged strain of Ethelred’s nearness, or her bewildered anguish whenever she thought of Eomond?
Indeed, she’d thought him a better man: upright, brave and honorable. Instead he’d slunk away like a thief in the night. Three weeks gone and nothing from him—nothing but the poor comfort of seeing Edwynna of Crayke depart with the rest of the guests. The lad Eahlstan had ridden out with his master, depriving her of another friend.
It must be Eomond’s defection that sapped her strength. She slept late into the morning and often slumbered from Sext to Nonce, as well. She grew ill, despising the fish and fowl she’d always favored, craving bloody meats that sickened her, losing the contents of her stomach three and four times a day. Even her monthly courses were disrupted—
Katrin stilled. Slowly she drew her knees to her chest. Cold dread struck inward to pierce her heart.
She’d been a fool not to see it. But she’d been so wrapped in misery that she’d thought of nothing else. In two years of infrequent coupling with Maldred, her womb had never quickened. How could it be that a lone indiscretion—one night of reckless abandon—could have accomplished what two years of Maldred’s fumbling had not?
She lowered her face into cradled arms, while the cold soaked through her gown and her thoughts chased their tails like maddened hounds. I’ll be humiliated, disgraced, married off in haste to the first man who’ll take me, and reminded of his forbearance for the rest of my days.
Worse, she’d be pressed to name the child’s sire—and if she yielded, Eomond would lose everything, perhaps even his life.
When the king learned her secret, she was doomed.
* * *
She dared not attend the noon meal, knowing disaster was written clearly as script across her features. Instead she paced her chamber, hugging her elbows, trying to settle upon some strategy that would save her.
“Ye may as well sit doon, lass,” Gwyneth advised. “Ye’ll do yerself or the babe an injury with all this racing aboot.”
“By the cross of St. Wilfrid! What of the king? I can’t hope to hide this. ’Twill mean the ruin of all his grand plans.”
“Mary and Jooseph, why couldn’t ye tell me ye’d been with the man?” Fiercely, Gwyneth stabbed her needle at the shift she was mending. “If ye’d only told me the truth! There are potions to keep a babe from taking root—”
Katrin buried her face in her hands. “I was ashamed to tell, after all my talk of virtue and the marriage bed. I was afraid!” Afraid of loving him and what it meant, knowing naught but sorrow could come of it.
“Ye’d best warn the lad,” Gwyneth said grimly. “Ye’ll be pressed to name the father.”
“Nay!” She still had her pride, even if she possessed nothing else. “’Twould be nothing but a stain on his precious honor. I’ll tell him nothing. God’s mercy, I wouldn’t even know where to send for him.”
“Aye?” Gwyneth lowered the shift in surprise. “’Tis no great secret. Milord sent him north of a sudden, to settle some Viking rabble.”
Arrested, Katrin stared. Then, thinking furiously, she strode to the cross-shaped squint and put her eye to it, overlooking the great hall where preparations for the evening meal were underway.
Her uncle told her Eomond had begged to leave. She’d thought him so distressed by the arrival of his great love on Lord Crayke’s arm that he abandoned court in disarray. She’d burned with humiliation at his easy desertion.
“Too late now to undo it,” she sighed. “I’m well and truly trapped.”
“No use saying now how you’ll have this one or that. Ye’re in a bad fix and no mistake. Ye’ll marry where yer uncle says, or be banished to a convent.”
“I can’t imagine a worse fate.” Katrin shuddered.
“Ye’d best rethink Eomond, milady. Did ye never see his face change when ye came in a room? When a score of outlaws could hardly fluster him, ye’d slay him with a look.”
She’d thought herself dead to all feeling, a burned-out cinder in place of a heart. Now she knew by the flare of pain that she lived.
“Why do you tell me this now, Gwyneth?” she cried. “Three weeks ago you were warning me away!”
“Aye, I wanted ye to hear plain sense. Ye were rushing headlong to yer own undoing! I wanted ye to have a noble husband and a high place. But now it’s all in ruin.”
“But I never wanted that to begin! I only wanted—” Nay, she wouldn’t say it. Her voice vibrated with despair. “Sweet mercy—what of the king? He’s within a hair’s breadth of making this match, and he smells blood on the air like a wolf. He’ll see us all dead before he allows this to thwart him.”
“He’ll not be pleased by it. But ye’re blood of his blood—his closest kin. He wouldn’t see ye harmed.”
Katrin hugged herself and whispered, “There is only one course that will save us from ruin. I must lose this babe.”
“Lord love us—”
“Nay, I must cast forth this babe! Gwyneth, you must help me. You said you know potions to keep a babe from taking root. You must also know how to bring one forth. I’ve heard women whisper of such things, I know they can be done—”
“I’ll do no such thing.” Gwyneth folded her arms across her bosom. “I know the how of it, but ye don’t know what ye’re asking. Casting a babe is dangerous, lass! Ye could die of it, or damage yer womb so ye can never bear another. It’s too risky to attempt.”
“And what do you think will happen when the king discovers it? For pity’s sake, Gwyneth! If you won’t help me, where can I turn?”
“Ye’d best turn to Eomond. If ye’re bearing his babe, he’ll want to know it.”
“Saints’ bones! Have you heard nothing? I’ll tell no one, least of all him. Although he isn’t the man I once thought him, still I…I would not see him destroyed.”
A brisk rap sounded at the door. Starting, Katrin dashed a hand across her eyes and smoothed her hair. Gwyneth advanced on the door. On the threshold stood an annoyed-looking boy wearing the wyvern badge of Wessex.
“Well, what is it lad?” Gwyneth demanded. “Be quick.”
“My good woman, ’tis not my practice to linger about the king’s business. My dread lord commends himself to Lady Katrin, and bids her attend him in his privy chamber after Vespers.”
Katrin went white. He knows! I should have controlled my face after the hunt, or not let him see me at all.
Aloud, she made the expected reply. The boy bowed and withdrew. When Gwyneth closed the door, Katrin wandered to the bed and sat down.
“’Tis too late,” she said simply. “We’re lost.”
Chapter Twelve
When the king’s guard admitted her to his privy chamber, she found him waiting for her alone.
Although she often attended the queen by day, the chamber at night was a different realm entirely. The walls pressed closer without the anxious supplicants who inhabited Ethelred’s daylight hours, without Emma of Normandy holding court. Shadows gathered in the corners and clotted on the floor where a bearskin lay, the monster’s jaws gaping wide. Against the wall, the great bed loomed with its draperies tied back.
During the day, th
is was the beating heart of England. It pulsed with the lifeblood of power. By night it was intimate, set for a lovers’ tryst. She roused to prickling alert.
Ethelred sat with his back to the fire, like Lucifer at the gates of Hell. His dress was lavish: dark brocade trimmed in sable, rubies gleaming.
As she lingered near the door, longing for escape, he bowed to her with a flourish.
She could not endure wearing one of his expensive gowns, whose costly threads bound her to him with obligation. Clad in her own saffron gown, she sank low and bent her head. She had fixed in place a careful mask, as poised and proud as she could make it. But her feet and hands were ice.
Saying nothing, he waved her into the empty chair. Silence stretched between them, broken by the fire’s crackle. The meal was already laid: roasted capon and quails in aspic, lampreys and porpoise glistening with oil. Small bones lay scattered across his plate.
When he saw her looking, he gestured wryly. “I pray you will forgive me, my dear, but I have already dined.”
Before her uneasy glance, he smiled—the embodiment of charm and menace. “You must make free at our table. We have noted the heavy meats at supper seem not to your liking, so here is lighter fare to please you.”
Thankfully her stomach had settled, but of course she had no appetite. As she laid a slice of capon across her plate, she wondered how to view this gesture.
A peace offering, after our last strained exchange? Surely not. A seduction gambit? Even less likely. What need had he for seduction, when he could take her flat on her back at the high table and no one present would help her, any more than they’d helped Cate?
“It seems,” Ethelred said, “my serving girl’s poor talents have displeased you.”
She glanced up guiltily. Certain the moon-faced wench spied for her master, Katrin found endless excuses to keep her elsewhere.
“My dear, I can only apologize,” the king murmured. “I have ordered her lashed for her shortcomings.”
“Nay!” Katrin cried. “She’s done nothing wrong!”
“Pray do not trouble yourself to champion the wench. Her punishment has already been administered. When she is able to return to your service, I trust you shall find her performance much improved.”
She closed her eyes—so weary, body and soul, after a lifetime of gnawing fear. She didn’t see how she could endure another moment. In any event, all was lost for her.
“My lord, you say little of your plan for me, but I’ve guessed it.” She swallowed. “We…are not always in accord. Yet I’ve done my poor best to please you. Have I disappointed you somehow? If so, I’d have you tell me straight out. Don’t toy with me like a cat with a cornered mouse.”
“My dear, you underplay yourself. Despite the meek face you wear before me, no mouse ever born had eyes that blaze like yours. Any housecat would quail to be confronted with them.” He leaned forward. “Nay, Katrin, you have not displeased me—for all your small rebellions. You wished to try your wings, and it suited my purpose to indulge you. I too was curious to see what you could do.”
And that is not much, evidently.
“Why, to the contrary.” He smiled. “I summoned you here to celebrate our success! After weeks of intolerable delay, and endless rounds of haggling worthy of the most tight-fisted merchant, our venerable guest has consented to our terms. My dear, you may assemble your retinue to ride for Argent.”
“Argent?” she whispered. The world dropped away beneath her. “Why should I ride for Argent?”
“Why, for your wedding! The details of your dowry and portion are agreed, and my bailiff is drawing up the contracts. The dowager will sign before she departs on the morrow, and you shall follow her shortly for the wedding.” Fiercely he grinned, baring his teeth like the English dragon he was.
She was a statue carved from ice, incapable of thought or feeling. “How should I wed the earl of Argent? He’s already married.”
Across the table, he seized her cold hands in his. “To our great misfortune, Borovic is wedded—albeit to a foolish girl who is unlikely to produce a living heir. I hoped he might put her aside, but the girl has powerful kin. It seems he is not prepared to incur their ire.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You are not to marry Borovic, although that was my original ambition. Nay, it’s the other son, Rafael—the would-be bishop—whom you shall wed.”
“The younger son? The one raised in France?”
“Intriguing development, is it not? This foreign-reared boy—a musician and scholar—is now made baron of Belmaine, a prestigious title with an impressive income. As part of your dowry, I’ll settle upon you the manor at Grayhaven…your ancestral home. You shall retain your holdings in the north, since Maldred left no heir. It will be Belmaine’s responsibility—or Borovic’s—to appoint a castellan in your name, restore your northern keep and close the gap in our defense.”
“Wait,” she whispered.
She had utterly failed to forestall him. Suddenly events were moving far too swiftly, sweeping her forward to the fate she must avoid. She’d looked everywhere for the threat, except toward Argent.
Ethelred squeezed her fingers. “You shall be lady of Argent and an earl’s wife in time, if fortune favors us. Do my bidding in this, and I shall make you one of the greatest magnates in England. Under my guidance you’ll rule your boy-husband with ease—and, through you, I will rule Belmaine.”
Despite being thick in his plotting, the king seemed to realize something was lacking in her response. “You seem less elated by these tidings than I’d hoped. And your hands are ice, my dear. I trust you are not fallen ill in earnest.”
To her dismay, he chafed her hands, doing nothing at all to warm her. She looked at him with loathing—her father’s half brother, yet different from him as any man could be.
“The monks will have all but castrated your baron with too much religion. In all likelihood he will be too pious to appreciate the prize I give him.” Darkness and warmth stirred in his gaze.
Seized by a powerful desire to be free of him, she pulled against his grip. Instead of releasing her, he lifted her cold fingers to his lips and breathed to warm them.
“Nay, I fear he will not appreciate you as you deserve, my dear—neither your remarkable beauty, nor your passion, nor your uncommon strength of purpose. You will have to be content with the admiration of other men—oh, you must encourage them only discreetly, and cause no scandal. But once you’ve given Belmaine a son or two, I doubt very much he’ll care where you take your pleasure.”
To Katrin’s relief, he released her. But her relief evaporated when he rose and stalked around the table to stand behind her. Gently his hands rested on her naked shoulders. Although she didn’t like having him behind her, his touch was chaste, so she suffered him.
“You will have your choice of lovers, Katrin, there or here. Indeed I’ve been at some difficulty to comprehend your weakness for my theyn, when you could have looked much higher for an admirer.”
“As high as Belmaine, my lord?” she said faintly.
“There are great and mighty lords in this very hall who admire you from a distance—why, even the greatest.” Leaning forward, Ethelred whispered, “I fear he grows weary of admiration from afar. He craves leave to woo you more intimately.”
When she grasped his meaning, it seared through her like fire, burning away the shell of ice that encased her. Horrified, she recoiled. “Nay, I won’t have it!”
In the awful silence that followed, she closed her eyes. “Nor can I marry your baron.”
The perilous stillness smothered her. She sat with stumbling heart, eyeing the knife that lay beside her plate and thinking mad thoughts.
“Don’t be a sentimental fool. I shall tell you whom you will have.” Ethelred caught her chin in his hard hand, with nothing of s
entiment in his features, only the cold scrutiny of the Devil, come to claim a promised soul.
“You may encourage or rebuff my attentions as you will, since I have little taste for overpowering a silly girl who has not the wit to recognize her moment. But you will wed Belmaine, I promise you. Cross me, girl, and I will bring you down lower than you can possibly imagine.”
He observed her shrewdly. “I do not comprehend your aversion to the match. I trust this crisis of conscience is not connected to your tender sentiments for my sword-theyn.”
She struggled to give nothing away, but the king was on full alert. His gray eyes narrowed. “I grant you the man is nothing short of Achilles in battle. I have seen men run in fear when he draws his sword. And, undoubtedly, he has an instinct for leadership. His men would follow him cheerfully to Hell and back. But, like Achilles, he too has his fatal weakness—he is ruled by passion rather than cunning. You are not the first highborn beauty he would ruin himself over.”
“You’re mistaken,” she whispered. “I meant nothing to him.”
Ethelred cast her a sardonic glance. “Despite his ungoverned passions, Eomond has been useful to me in the past, and he may prove useful again. But make no mistake—he is not indispensable. He’s a common soldier, nothing more, with neither lands nor fortune. I would never allow you to spend yourself on him.”
Wrath lanced through her to hear Eomond belittled—he, who’d been cloven in two by the conflict between desire and loyalty.
“My lord, you undervalue greatly a man who’s never been less than loyal to you.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “The prospering of his affairs rests in your hands now. A woman in your position cannot afford to indulge a maid’s fancies. Give him up once and for all, or be assured I shall deal with him another way. What say you?”
“I’ve already given him up. Didn’t you make certain of that?” Beneath her anger, pain clawed at her heart. “Therefore I trust his affairs shall prosper. But I cannot marry your baron.”
“Perhaps you will be so good as to explain what obstacle you perceive to prevent it?”
By Royal Command Page 14