“Just this,” she whispered, knowing she could no longer avoid it. “Even a bishop will not take to wife a woman ripe with another man’s child.”
A profound silence struck the chamber like a hammer blow. Fear rose up to choke her. The king would see her dead for spoiling his ambitions, and Eomond with her—unless she named some other man the sire.
“It seems I saw the threat posed by his passion for you too late. I find it interesting, my dear, that you yielded to him.” His eyes narrowed. “You did yield, I take it?”
Does he think Eomond raped me—an aetheling, and the king’s own niece? Heat climbing into her cheeks, Katrin nodded.
“So, then. How far has the matter progressed?”
“A month or two, no more. But it might as well be six months for your purposes. I can’t possibly reach Argent, wed and bed your bishop—if he’s even willing and capable of bedding any woman—in time to pass the child off as his, if that was your thought. God forgive you for it.”
Ethelred eyed her dryly. “Unless the man is a eunuch as well as a priest, he’ll be willing enough. You are to make certain of that. Still, you have a point. Eomond’s brat cannot possibly be passed off as Belmaine’s. If not for the unfortunate fact that you played the whore for my sword-theyn and now find yourself bearing his bastard, would you undertake this marriage?”
“What choice would I have? The gap in our defense must be closed, unless we want the Danes to murder us all in our beds.”
Played the whore… Never in her life had a man applied that epithet to her—Katrin of Courtenay, cherished daughter of Grayhaven and the king’s niece. Pride and anger ignited in her heart.
“It must rankle, my lord, to know how close you came to achieving your purpose.”
“Do not make the mistake of thinking I am thwarted.” His eyes lidded. “You must tire easily in your current condition. Go now to your rest.”
Grateful to be quit of him, Katrin all but fled to the door. On the threshold, she turned to make her curtsey. He didn’t give her leave to rise, so she waited.
“Are you certain you don’t wish to share my bed after all, my dear? At least you need not fear bearing my bastard.” When she jerked her head up to stare in horror, he smiled without mirth. “’Tis but a jest to try you. Go now.”
She fled as if the very hounds of Hell were at her heels, ignoring the startled queries of the guardsmen as she burst into the open.
Now the worst is over. She ran shivering down the covered pentice toward the uncertain refuge of her chamber. The worst, that was, except for knowing she would never see Eomond again.
* * *
Katrin lay sleepless in bed, waiting for the bells to ring Prime, when a furtive tapping brought her upright. As wakeful as her mistress, Gwyneth threw back the furs and went puffing to the door, muttering about the godless cold.
Beside the bed a strange woman appeared, black-haired and brown-skinned, dark skirts exuding the dry odor of herbs.
Katrin had been expecting someone like this. The cautious king would confirm the facts before he did anything else. While Gwyneth shooed Alix to the fire, the wisewoman asked a series of bald questions in her thick English that made Katrin blush. In a muted voice, she forced out the answers, and lay with gritted teeth while the crone prodded her tender flesh.
When the woman slipped away to report to her master, Gwyneth muttered, “That was a witch if ever I saw one. Get up for Mass, if yer stomach will settle.”
While she was dressing, her morning tray arrived, hot mead sweetened with honey. Although her stomach heaved, she drank the mead as she sat before the polished plate, letting Gwyneth coil her hair.
A stranger’s eyes stared back at her, wan features reflecting sleeplessness and dread. She must continue her charade as the king’s magnificent niece, while in secret he decided her fate.
Without warning, a serpent of acid and flame uncoiled in her belly. It struck at her womb with savage fangs, making her cry out.
She fell onto her knees, curling tight to contain the flashing pain. During a moment of fading clarity, she realized Ethelred had done for her what Gwyneth would not. Then night fell like a curtain around her.
* * *
When she’d recovered sufficiently, under Gwyneth’s tireless nursing, to sit up in bed, Katrin saw in her mirror a face like a starving cat’s: high cheekbones jutting almost through her skin, topaz eyes burning in violet shadows, skin white as parchment, all color leached to her flaming hair.
She knew without being told that her ordeal had extinguished the fragile spark of life within, and that the witch’s poison had almost blown out her own fluttering candle, as well.
But I wanted that, she recalled with an unpleasant jolt. I wanted the babe gone. So why did grief fill her throat like a bitter potion? For days she drifted on the dark sea of despair, while Gwyneth whispered to summon her strength, gather her resolve, overcome the wicked thing that had been done to her. But Katrin couldn’t find any reason why she should.
After some weeks, her strong young body began to recover. Still, the thought of leaving her chamber, going down among the wolves that prowled the great hall, was more than she could stomach. Often during those bitter nights, while the storm winds howled outside, she huddled with Gwyneth and Alix under the furs, yearning for the simple pleasures of home.
One day, while Katrin sat propped by pillows and reading, Ethelred came to call.
He stood over her bed, laid his hand against her brow, murmured sympathetic queries about her health. Then he told her what he’d decided.
Too weary to spar with him, hating him with a dull intensity, she listened to everything he said. When he pressed her, she nodded listlessly and closed her eyes. When she opened them later, he was gone.
Gradually her strength returned. On St. Vincent’s Day, two months past Yule, she was summoned to the great hall for a feast in her honor. Feeling as though she dressed for her own funeral, she donned the king’s sapphire-blue kirtle and descended.
At the high table, she sat straight and pale while Ethelred announced the betrothal of his dearest niece Lady Katrin to Rafael Raymond Sebastian le Senay, the new baron of Belmaine.
* * *
The legal documents detailing her dowry and jointure were drawn up under the king’s watchful eyes. Despite her lassitude and an overwhelming apathy for the entire affair she couldn’t seem to shake, Katrin forced herself to read them.
She found all as her uncle promised, though she’d have no recourse if he played her false. If Borovic, earl of Argent, died without male issue, her firstborn son by Belmaine would be named his heir. Yet the contract was not binding until it was signed by all parties, and the marriage consummated.
Women from court were assigned to her household: two serving girls—including the luckless moon-faced Becca—and four ladies-in-waiting. Elspeth and Anne were twins, two witless magpies seeking husbands in Argent. The third was Elayne, a tall gray-eyed blonde lately come to court, who started at shadows and never spoke above a whisper.
And the fourth was chestnut-haired Cate, the king’s discarded plaything, brown eyes sulky with discontent. None of these seemed likely to become boon companions.
When Katrin protested Cate’s presence, Ethelred smiled. “I’m surprised you should question it. I rendered you a service, did I not, by relieving you of the unwelcome consequences of your own carnal passions? I trust you will not shrink from performing a similar favor on my behalf.”
She eyed him with cold dislike. “She may ride among my retinue and enter my household if she will, but I shan’t go as far as you did.”
“I hardly care whether the harlot gives birth to a brat or a litter of kittens, so long as she is well away from here. Pray do not sneer at my indiscretions, Katrin. You and I are far more alike than you acknowledge.”
She turned her face away and made no reply.
When it came to her wardrobe, the king showed his generous side, for she would be his emissary, and must dress to reflect his honor—with no fewer than ten new gowns in rich-dyed wool. As she studied this small fortune spilled across her bed, Katrin felt like Judas, selling her soul for thirty pieces of silver. She would have preferred to wear sackcloth and ashes, but that wasn’t part of the Devil’s bargain she’d made.
Her escort assembled under the command of Thorkell, newly promoted to head the king’s household guard—an arrangement that made her teeth grit in silent protest. Clearly Eomond’s dark-haired friend liked the arrangement no better than she. The easy banter that had flowed between them once had vanished. Stiff, constrained, he no longer sought her out. When required to address her, he did so without meeting her gaze.
What else does the man think I could have done? Is he witless, not to realize I made these choices for Eomond’s safety?
Her armed escort would be two score in strength. A standard-bearer would ride before them, bearing the golden wyvern of Wessex. No element of ceremony would be omitted. All the arrangements appeared to be in order. The date of her departure loomed two days hence.
And then, when she’d given up all hope of ever seeing him again, Eomond returned.
Chapter Thirteen
A churl came running into the hall with the news that Eomond had returned and craved leave to report. The king granted it with a sidelong glance at Katrin.
She fought to keep everything she felt from flooding her face: her relief that he’d survived the battlefield, God and St. Cuthbert be praised for it, and despair that he should see her now, cloaked in the splendor of her betrothal. She struggled against desperate fear of his indifference, mixed with a painful surge of hope that somehow he’d save her, snatch her from the jaws of peril as he’d always done. But she would be a fool to hope for that.
She’d resolved nothing in her heart when Eomond flung wide the double doors. Heads turned as he advanced between rows of blackened timbers, his lean frame still girded with arms and clashing with mail. Flaming brands leaped high in their brackets as he passed. He swept by like a force unstoppable, impossibly tall, and voices fell silent as he passed. In his wake, a sea of whispers foamed. She struggled to show a serene countenance while her heart gave great bounding leaps as if it would break free from her breast.
Across the hall, his dark eyes fixed her, riveting her to the chair. An immediate current of energy—the first she’d felt in weeks—arced from him and coursed like a fever through her body.
The king’s eyes upon her, she gripped the table as Eomond bore down on them. “I pray you’ll remember your promise, uncle.”
“So long as you remember yours,” he replied, spearing a chunk of bloody meat with his dagger, “you will find me as constant as rain.”
Below the platform, Eomond went down to one knee, bowing his head, tawny hair tumbling forward to hide his face. “I would tender my report, my liege.”
Ethelred angled an assessing glance toward Katrin, hands twisting in her lap. “So then, sword-theyn, come up and tell us. What news from the north?”
Eomond cocked an upward glance. His gaze flickered to Katrin and slid away, trying for a subtlety that was foreign to his nature. He clambered to his feet and climbed the dais, moving slowly with the weight of armor.
Beneath lowered lashes, her eyes devoured him. No matter what crisis had befallen her, no matter what devastating betrayal he’d committed, still she rejoiced at the sight of him. Sun-browned skin stretched over stern features, high cheekbones reddened with wind. Tiny lines fanned out from his eyes, as though he spent too much time squinting into the weather. He looked tired and raw, but his big-boned frame crackled with vitality.
I fear nothing could change the way I feel about him—not unless he betrays me outright. For all her efforts these many weeks, telling herself it was over—had never begun—still she yearned for his nearness, his voice, his touch. He’d made her wanton, planting it within her body like his seed, in the course of a single night.
Eomond squared himself below the great chair, watchful eyes trained on his lord. “We found the Danes occupying the watchtower of Kildarren. As I predicted, my lord, this rabble was little more than a nest of squatters. Still, their numbers were greater than reported. They were more than willing to fight, but ill prepared to withstand a siege of any length. So we besieged them.”
Smiling as he stroked his beard, the king murmured, “Continue.”
“Hunger drove them forth. We routed them until the beach ran red with their blood—harried them all the way back to their longboats, and then to the sea in a hail of arrows. I left a garrison to hold the keep until you issue further orders.”
Even the sound of his voice beguiled her, hoarse with cold and shouting orders. For an unguarded moment, while her uncle pondered, she lifted her head and gazed at Eomond, filling her eyes against the years ahead when he would be only a faded memory.
“Those are excellent tidings,” the king murmured. “You have served us well. What boon would you ask in return for such faithful service?”
Again Eomond’s gaze flickered to her, eyes narrowing as if he searched her face for clues. But it was Edwynna of Crayke he wanted, so perhaps he would ask for her. He hadn’t even troubled to send a message before he left.
Frowning, the theyn studied his boots. “If I’ve pleased you, my liege, that’s reward enough.”
“Why, that is nonsense, my good man.” Satisfaction glittered in Ethelred’s eyes as he smiled at Katrin. “You must be more worldly if you expect to get ahead in life. You have performed a service for the king, and the king must reward you in kind.
“Sword-theyn, we hereby charge and appoint you castellan of Kildarren and sheriff of its surrounds. We ask only that you swear aid and counsel to England, and answer the king’s levy when I summon men to war. There is only a minor title attached to this holding, and I fear no great revenue. But you gain your own fief, and that is no small thing for a common-born man. Now, what say you to that?”
Her heart contracting painfully, Katrin watched surprise flash across Eomond’s wind-chafed features. Nay, he hadn’t expected this upswing in his fortunes. Still, he came down on one knee and placed his hands in his lord’s, swearing the oath of vassalage and giving thanks for Ethelred’s generosity.
Not long ago she’d plotted to thwart him; now she was his secret benefactress. In the end it was she who’d protected him, though he would never know it. To seal his bargain with her, the Devil had raised him high. But she harbored no illusion that her uncle wouldn’t bring him low again if she failed in her duty. By elevating Eomond, she sealed her own fate.
But the king hadn’t finished, and prolonged the spectacle for his own amusement. He created a minor fuss over his new vassal, pressing him into the seat across from Katrin.
Looking uncomfortable, Eomond lowered his mailed body onto the bench. He dropped muddy gauntlets beside his plate and raked a hand through his hair, revealing a furrowed brow and cautious eyes.
Nay, he was no fool. He smelled the trap, but was uncertain where it lay.
Carving meat from the suckling pig, he glanced up at her suddenly—one of his piercing looks that transfixed her like a bolt—and said for the public ear, “How does my lady? Does life at court suit you?”
“Oh, wondrous well,” she said with brittle cheer. “I could hardly ask for kinder attentions than my uncle’s.”
The king cast her an ironic glance. “You must not be shy, kinswoman. Tell Eomond your news. After all, you’re no blushing maid.”
Eomond looked sharply between them. So he must look when he glimpsed the foe in battle: violently alert and capable of hostile action.
Katrin spoke swiftly, to forestall any reckless word on his part. “I’ve been g
reatly honored.” She hesitated, but there was no way out of it now. “I’m pledged to marry the baron of Belmaine at Easter.”
Beneath his blond whiskers, Eomond’s jaw clenched, as he stared in disbelief. In that moment, a spear of doubt shafted through her.
She’d doubted him for his love to another woman. She’d questioned his motives for leaving so abruptly. She’d been certain of his indifference, certain he would shrug to learn her fate. She’d braced herself for the pain of that. Could it be she’d mistaken him? His eyes were uncompromising, condemning her in silence. In that moment, she glimpsed his belief in her as it flickered and died.
Like a book, his face closed. “I wish you much joy in your marriage.”
“God grant it,” she said miserably, aware of her uncle’s malicious enjoyment. In the early days, Ethelred had restrained his habit of twisting the knife, and sought to please her instead. Since the night she’d recoiled from his advances—and how could he expect anything else?—he had shown her his other face, the one Goda must have seen.
Eomond crumbled a hunk of bread to fragments in his fist. “I must commend you, my lady. You’ve done surpassing well here at court in so short a time. I was afield for barely two months and return to find you’ve acquired both a rich husband and a high title. They must have been long in the planning.”
“Katrin has been both obedient and clever.” Ethelred smiled. “And so we will all prosper. Is that not so, my dear?”
“The realm will surely prosper, just as you intended.” Katrin could remain no longer, or she’d lapse into a stammering betrayal that would earn his vengeance. She thrust to her feet. “I’ve much yet to do—I dare not tarry. Eomond—”
To her horror, her voice broke, but somehow she steadied it. “Enjoy your new estates. You deserve them.”
She fled the hall, skirts crushed in her fingers, before she gave in to tears.
* * *
He caught her on the coil of the twisting stair, marooned between the hall below and the chapel above. Frantic to escape, she fled before the sound of thudding feet, taking the stairs three at a time. If he caught her now, she would be hard pressed to maintain this charade of the happy bride. But she could no more escape him than escape her own fate.
By Royal Command Page 15