“Do you hunt this day, good-brother?”
“We do. D’you care for the hunt? You’re welcome to ride with us.”
“If I didn’t care for it, we would have gone hungry on my lands.”
Uneasy, she smoothed back her hair as the wind tugged at it. Aye, he admired her, but this was the wrong brother. She wondered if, seeing the way matters stood with him—a ripe fruit ready to fall—Ethelred would tell her to encourage him. Surely she was more valuable as Argent’s bride than his sister.
But she wouldn’t order her life on such cold calculations, picking and choosing between brothers based on political expediency. Nor would she scheme to supplant that poor listless girl she’d met last night—his wife Aelfwydd, who struggled to carry his heir. Katrin had enough sins to her account without adding more to the balance.
Expectantly he waited for her answer, slapping hunting gloves idly against a thigh that bulged with muscle. She summoned a regretful smile.
“It’s a kind thought, good-brother. But I’ve been so much in the saddle of late that I’m in no hurry to return there, else my seat will be tough as the leather!”
He laughed appreciatively. “We must take care to avoid that.”
But his eyes were wistful—as if he’d known her long ago, and willed her to recall him. Abruptly he reached to catch a flying ribbon of hair and smoothed it away from her eyes. Swiftly Katrin stepped back, covering her retreat with a smile.
“I wish you good hunting, my lord.”
He stood at the foot of the stairs, his gaze following her as she fled him.
* * *
In the spicery, she found the dowager with her keys, measuring out the day’s allotment from the locked chests. Quietly Katrin waited, hands clasped behind her, enveloped in the sweetness of cloves and the sharp bite of pepper.
The old woman wore the same unsmiling countenance as she’d shown at court. Undoubtedly one of the least fortunate aspects of this entire business was acquiring this proud and difficult woman as a good-mother. Nonetheless, she must manage to get along with her. The woman could make her life comfortable or exceedingly unpleasant.
“A pleasant day to you, good-mother.” Katrin curtseyed.
The dowager assessed her. Katrin restrained the impulse to smooth her wind-tangled curls.
“What’s the matter, girl? I’ve no time to stand about in idle chatter.”
Katrin held on to her temper with both hands. “I’d like to learn from you, good-mother, how best to aid you in this household. I’m knowledgeable in all domestic arts—”
“Those are Aelfwydd’s duties, though she doesn’t do them.” The dowager brushed past in a swirl of black skirts. “I’ve no doubt you managed your hunting lodge in the wild well enough. But you’ll find this great household another matter entirely. You won’t wish to embarrass yourself before my son. Indeed, I have matters well in hand.”
The dowager swept across the kitchen, past an army of laboring kitchen scullions. Squaring her shoulders, Katrin followed to the table where a red-faced maid pounded chicken into blancmange as if the fate of her soul depended on it.
“Indeed I’ve much to learn, good-mother. I trust with God’s grace I’ll prove equal to it.”
The dowager sampled the sweet-smelling mess of milk and sugar without a word.
Katrin strove for patience. “I’ve some experience in the education of children—”
“My scribes have the castle children well in hand.”
Stubborn, Katrin followed her to the pantry, where sunlight poured through the open door. The wholesome smell of fresh-baked bread filled the air.
“My lady, any woman can see that Aelfwydd is…not well. Perhaps I can help fill her place—”
“I dare say my eldest son would have no objection to that.”
Chagrined, Katrin fell back, suddenly grateful for the old woman’s turned back. Of course she would have marked the way the earl stared at her at Mass. He wasn’t a subtle man—even with Rafael kneeling at his side, seemingly lost in prayer, but with quiet vigilance etched in every line.
Alerted by her silence, the old woman turned. Hastily Katrin composed herself, a blush lingering against her skin.
“It’s my younger son you’re contracted to wed, Katrin of Courtenay. That’s what Ethelred settled for, and at no small cost to Argent. Don’t think to fill a higher place.”
“Nor do I,” Katrin whispered.
Had she encouraged the earl in some way that was blatantly obvious to his entire court? Was she to blame for his desire?
“I wasn’t impressed by your conduct at court,” the dowager said flatly. “I agreed to this match for political reasons. If not for the clear advantage of this alliance, I would never have chosen you to marry my favorite son. Rafael was barely persuaded to turn down his bishopric and take his place here. Embarrass or dismay him, and I’ll ensure you regret it.”
“I understand you.” Knotting her fingers to steady them, she lifted her chin. “You needn’t fear my virtue shall falter.”
“We shall see.” The dowager raised her brows. “They’re waiting for me in the buttery.”
“Where may I find my promised husband?”
“Where he is every day at this time—in his oratory, tending the administrative and financial affairs of this shire.” The old woman brushed past her. “Rafael strictly adheres to his daily schedule. He doesn’t thank those who disturb him. Be warned.”
Dismissed, Katrin pivoted and strode away, steps quick with embarrassment. Clearly the woman gripped the household reins firmly in her own hands, with no intent to share her authority with her son’s unsuitable bride. But for Katrin, trained by birth to run a household, this state of affairs was hardly satisfactory. She couldn’t spend all her days mewed up beside the fire with her spinning wheel and a meek-faced manner. She must find some useful occupation or go mad.
Fueled by resolve, she set out to explore the donjon. But that proved a daunting task. The castle was a labyrinth of stairs and passages. Corridors ended without warning at blank walls. Shuttered windows overlooked neglected gardens. Fountains stood dry under bleak gray skies. Indeed, half the keep appeared deserted, and the servants fearful.
Finally she was forced to admit defeat. Instead she’d escape these walls for a gallop in the open fields. She was retracing her footsteps from another blind corridor when suddenly, around the corner, the dowager’s strident tones drifted toward her.
Swiftly Katrin retreated, determined to avoid her. A door rose before her, the only opening in a blank wall. As the hectoring voice drew nearer, she jerked the door open and darted in.
Praying she hadn’t been seen, she pressed her ear to the door. But the old woman swept past without slowing. Katrin exhaled, tension easing, and rested her forehead against the wood.
“Are we under attack, madame?” someone said behind her.
Heart lodged in her throat, she spun. Surely she’d been fated to find him, as if he’d cast a spell to draw her.
Rafael le Senay sat behind a table piled with books and curling parchments. An illuminated Song of Roland unfurled across the table, held beneath a giant candle. Behind him loomed a treasure trove of oddities: an astrolabe, a compass, a long leather tube with glass fitted into one end.
Amid this scholarly clutter he watched her, pure as alabaster in sober black wool, writing quill poised over vellum.
She’d been warned not to trouble him, but how could she avoid it? Their marriage had forced him to abandon his ambitions. Nay, nothing was settled between them—nothing at all. She hesitated on the edge of flight.
Wryly, he grimaced. “Have the Forkbeard’s murdering hordes come pouring through the gates?”
Did she detect a subtle note of humor? Looking into his green eyes, she was distracted all over again. Sweet mercy,
he’s unearthly fair. Why would God fashion his own servant to invite temptation?
“It’s no matter for levity, monseigneur,” she said stiffly. “I’ve lived through a Viking assault. If you’d mock it, you don’t understand the threat that faces this land.”
“I understand the threat well enough. Persuade me why I should care, and you’ll accomplish something my mother cannot.”
Anger spiked through her. She’d given up everything for duty’s sake. Was this proud bishop truly so self-centered he couldn’t see past the end of his elegant nose to the common danger?
“If you cannot see it of your own accord—”
“Stay, madame.” He lifted a graceful hand. “You’ve had the misfortune to come upon me in the midst of a bothersome chore, and I’m sulky as a schoolboy. From whom are you hiding in here?”
“I hide from no one.”
His brow arched. “Are you avoiding the amiable attentions of my brother?”
“Nay!” Embarrassed heat scorched her cheeks. “I mean to say, he isn’t here.”
Damnation. Was the entire castle whispering about her? She was weary of having her personal affairs bruited about, and weary beyond words of being watched.
“Your brother has gone hunting,” she said, “with that brawling tangle of hounds.”
“Again?” Rafael studied the tip of his quill. “At least it has the benefit of removing him from underfoot. When foul weather keeps him indoors, no keep is large enough to contain him.”
He paused, mouth curling with irony. “If not Borovic, you must be fleeing my mother.”
She studied his inscrutable face. “She’s a formidable lady.”
“You possess the gift of understatement.” He glanced at the candle as if it agreed. “Well, you may hide in here if you wish. She has too great an appreciation for the value of the tenant rents to disturb me.”
Dear Heaven, to be alone with him. But they were pledged to marry six weeks hence. Perhaps if he grew accustomed to her presence, he’d resign himself better to the match.
His quill resumed its orderly march across the parchment, but she thought him keenly attuned to her presence, just as she was to his. His sharp intellect seemed to quicken the air around him; his leashed vitality licked her skin, deadly as the lightning flicker of his saber.
Glancing at him sidelong, she found him watching her. A frisson rippled through her as their eyes met.
Near his elbow stood a wooden frame with cords like a lyre, strung with rows of painted beads. The marvel stirred her curiosity.
“Pray, what is that strange device?”
“Ah.” He glanced at the contraption. “It’s a counting device I brought back from Rheims. It hearkens to the East—they call it an abacus.”
She approached for a better look. “How does it function?”
He slid it closer for her inspection, as though he found nothing untoward in her interest. “These painted beads represent sums. By counting across the rows one can add and subtract them quite accurately. I’m using it to reckon the tenant rents. Mainly the villeins pay from their crops, or with a pig or a milking cow.”
He paused. “Such is the elevated nature of my intellectual pursuits these days. My sainted brother Bannan left these accounts in a hideous snarl. God in his wisdom blessed neither of my brothers with any head for figures, as these pages vividly attest. I’m taking it as a penance for disdaining their feudal labors.”
Beneath her lashes, she slewed a look at him. Something in his tone hinted at more than disdain for his brothers’ accounting.
She adopted the same unimpeachable tone. “You must mourn his passing, your brother Bannan.”
“Indeed I mourn him daily,” he said, sardonic. “If the lackwit hadn’t gotten himself skewered on a Viking spear, I’d be in Rome for my ordination.”
He flicked a parchment with his fingertips. “I’ve received a missive from the pope, expressing his…disappointment with my decision. He urges me to return to the Church.”
“Does he care as little as you for the safety of this realm?”
His mouth lifted ruefully. “Since you’ve affirmed your resolve, I intend to perform my duty. God wouldn’t have laid this burden on my shoulders if He intended me to shirk it.”
“But will the pope allow it to rest?” With rising agitation, she paced. “Sweet Heaven, if Sylvester himself opposes it—”
“By the time he receives my reply, the match will be made. And His Holiness is an eminently practical man.”
He glanced over the missive with unreadable eyes. “They say Bannan died a hero’s death, leading a doomed charge against a vastly superior force. The king himself commends it, which would please the vainglorious fool no end.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you mourn your brother’s passing.”
His quill followed a row of figures and paused over a number. “Bannan was a lesser version of Borovic in all things—except malice. If you’d hear him praised, appeal to Borovic.”
Her instincts roused to tingling awareness, as much from his studied indifference as the words he didn’t say—the dark currents swirling beneath his surface.
“You can’t have known him well. How often did you encounter him?”
“I encountered him often enough during the summer I spent here in childhood. You may be certain both my brothers were entertained by the oddity of a sibling destined for the priesthood. I left thanking God on bended knee that my future lay elsewhere—or so I thought.” Frowning, he corrected a number. “Are you familiar with the new system of Arabic numerals?”
Seeing the door close on that line of interrogation, she looked down at his neat figures. “Indeed. Marvelous, isn’t it?”
“I learned algorism at Rheims, along with many other useful arts. Before his elevation, the pope honored me by calling himself my mentor.” He paused. “Don’t be offended by his…interest in our marriage.”
He withholds with one hand but offers with the other.
“You must be a great scholar, monseigneur.”
“I was an attentive one, which is uncommon.” Keenly, he watched her. “It appears you possess a respectable education of your own. My mother said so, but I scarcely dared credit it.”
“My mother was an educated woman,” she said, hesitant. “She saw to it I could cipher as well as read, in both Latin and English, so I could read Scripture and understand the Mass.”
“Commendable.”
A play of emotions flickered through her—sorrow, longing, the dangerous anger against her uncle she must conceal.
His gaze lingered on her features. “Where is this worthy lady now?”
Katrin felt her face closing like a door. “She died.”
Spinning away, she strode to the casement and stared out blindly. She recalled what Ethelred had confided with his complacent smile, and it destroyed her anew. Had Goda yielded to his unstoppable will, even as Katrin herself had done? She struggled against a surge of self-contempt, bitter as soap on her tongue.
His chair scraped as he rose, warning her to control her face. Silent as a shadow, he appeared beside her. Together they stared out at a closed courtyard, dead fountain rising in a rusty tangle of weeds. At last, she asked the question growing in her mind.
“What happened here? This keep stands half-empty—like some enchanted castle dreaming under a witch’s curse.”
“You didn’t know? There was sickness here—the murrain, that some call anthrax. They say it came from tainted meat sent by an enemy. If so, he must have been pleased with what he wrought. In this household, one in every three perished.”
“What manner of enemy slaughters women and children?” I’ll never be safe here or anywhere again. “God’s mercy, I should never have come here.”
Rafael let that pass, looking away until s
he recovered her composure. His fingers drummed thoughtfully on the sill.
“You’re a most unusual woman,” he said at last.
A fickle breeze combed through his dark curls, baring a blade-fine profile that had surely broken hearts in Anjou. His eyes remained on the fountain.
“You’ve set me a riddle and I can’t find the key to it. Though you deny it, your heart is given elsewhere. You claim to come willing to this marriage, even when I give you every opportunity to escape. You pretend to be devoted to your uncle, though you bear him no love. You captivate my brother effortlessly—which I confess many women manage to do—but then seem dismayed by his interest, which is rather less common.
“In short, you perplex me—and that isn’t easy to do.” He turned toward her. “I’ve little experience wooing women, and none coaxing a reluctant bride. How am I to treat you? Do I marry you or set you free?”
This was her moment; she could never expect a better one. She need only say she was compelled, and he would free her. For all his wry commentary on Christian duty, this scion of a powerful clan would be all too pleased to return to his monastery, given half an excuse.
Rafael would have the courage to sever the tangled net that bound them, and he would raise a brow coolly at the consequences and shrug. But she had not that liberty.
Ethelred had known how to bait his snare, known love and duty would compel her to the match. She’d lost Eomond, if she’d ever had him. He’d abandoned her, and she’d flung words like catapult stones to keep him away. But she’d still protect him, and ensure from afar that he prospered.
As for this promised husband, he knew already that she lied to him. Rafael lived his life steeped in secrets, drinking them with his morning ale. She dared not risk setting him against her.
Indeed, she needed his protection.
“Very well.” Color rose beneath her skin and her chin came up. “I won’t deny I loved elsewhere—or so I thought. But where I loved, I could not wed. I’m but a woman, with less freedom than you. I don’t have a champion like the pope standing by to defend my interests. But I’m ready to uphold my part of our bargain. You won’t find me unfaithful.”
By Royal Command Page 20