By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  Although she knew it was only sport, Katrin held her breath as the two armies converged. Mounted men pounded past each other, steel ringing, horns blaring. She saw Borovic’s massive sword slicing down and cried out, but the Fox twisted to let the blade whistle past.

  With the precision of a striking serpent, the black knight’s saber darted through the earl’s defense and rang against his shield. Then the moment was past and their horses were carrying them apart. A long slash scored the painted bear and spears of Argent.

  The earl brought his battalion around in a wide circle. The trumpets screamed in frenzy as his army hammered across the field. Smoothly, the well-trained contingent from Anjou wheeled toward him.

  A quiver of disquiet swept through her. Borovic wasn’t accustomed to being bested, even in play, and Rafael carried no shield. With the earl’s monumental strength behind his sword, any miscalculation could prove fatal. Around her, pockets of silence opened in the crowd as awareness of his peril spread.

  The two lines came together with a deafening crash. The earl’s massive blade cleaved the air. Rafael’s saber slid screaming along its length, sparks flying. Viciously Borovic’s greaved elbow swung up—an unsanctioned blow in formal combat. He missed smashing the Fox’s chin by inches as the latter ducked aside. Again their horses swept them apart.

  Tireless, the earl bellowed for another charge, troops struggling to reform around him. Chaos broke out as several horses with empty saddles shied away, thrown riders floundering and staggering out of harm’s way.

  The Black Fox viewed the ruined field in watchful silence, tension crackling around him. Along with everyone else, Katrin held her breath.

  At last he stirred, heel nudging the gray’s ribs. Gracefully the horse lowered onto folded knees, neck arched in perfect submission. The Fox pressed a hand to his chest and bowed, yielding the field. Across the trampled ground Borovic watched, frustration shouting from every muscle. Grimly, he hoisted off his helm. Shaggy hair streamed in the wind as he bared his teeth at his opponent.

  With a flourish, the Black Fox saluted him. Then he pivoted his stallion and galloped from the field, speculation hissing in his wake.

  Now Borovic trained his glower at Katrin—she who’d favored his rival over himself. Turning aside to deflect the look, she beckoned for wine she didn’t want.

  Looking sullen, Borovic jammed on his helm and cantered away.

  Midway through the archery Rafael reappeared, glittering in his wedding finery. From the judges’ station near the butts, his eyes searched the crowd until they found her. A frisson of awareness touched her like a finger, as the coil of shared secrets drew them close. Among a legion of hostile and indifferent eyes, she alone knew him. The knowledge bound her to him like a spell.

  Borovic returned, jovial as Jupiter once more, flinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders as they watched the contest. Rafael tolerated the intimacy, although she knew he didn’t enjoy letting the earl inside his guard.

  A stranger approached her: a skeletal man with iron-gray hair, sober as a cleric in dark weeds. Turning away from Elspeth and Anne as they wagered over the knife toss, Katrin offered a courteous greeting. His mouth stretched briefly—more rictus of pain than a smile. The expression never reached his ice-water eyes. By instinct, she distrusted him, but knew better than to show it.

  “I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but I can’t recall your name.”

  “Sheriff Rolf of Jorvik—here to witness your marriage for Ethelred.”

  Fear poured down her nape like a pitcher of cold water. Recovering her balance, she summoned back her smile. “Then you’re welcome to Argent. You may inform my uncle that all’s well here.”

  “Perhaps.” Unbidden, he sat in Rafael’s vacant seat. “The marriage contracts are signed and witnessed?”

  Her skin crawled at his nearness. “Indeed, Sheriff, else I wouldn’t have married. You may tell my uncle I’ve done his bidding.”

  “He will be gratified to hear that.” Rolf of Jorvik gripped the chair with his bony hands. “How are your relations with the mighty Borovic?”

  Fresh unease jolted through her. What could the man know or guess?

  She forced a little laugh. “Our relations are cordial. My good-brother values this alliance.”

  Rolf of Jorvik glanced toward the archery field, where Rafael stood beside his brother, the image of an attentive vassal, vigilance crackling around him like a warning.

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “I note Borovic sought your blessing before the melee. A touching gesture.”

  Aye, that had been a difficult moment. Before the eyes of a hundred guests Borovic had begged her blessing, and she’d laughed as though he jested and blessed his sword with as much indifference as she dared. All the same, he’d looked ready to invade the stand and sweep her into his arms. Borovic was not a subtle man, but showed his heart all too blatantly.

  She strove for nonchalance. “His wife can’t leave her bed today. As his good-sister, I was the obvious choice.”

  Somehow this unpleasant man must have seen or heard something that set him on the scent. Indeed, that wouldn’t have been difficult, with her ladies whispering that Borovic trailed at her heels like a puppy.

  God’s mercy, I should never have let him kiss me—though I hardly see how I could have avoided it.

  “Indeed?” Jorvik’s gaze sharpened. “I hear the Cornish girl lost another babe. How tragic for Argent that his wife should prove such barren stock. Will he put her aside?”

  “I cannot say.” She wished passionately that Rafael would return. But Borovic had sent him off on another errand—almost as though he wished to keep them apart.

  “Surely you’ve some surmise? Some shred of female intuition, or something you’ve overheard?”

  “I think he’s loath to bring Aelfwydd’s kinsmen down upon his head if he puts her aside.”

  “But to secure the succession, will he bring himself to it?”

  “I can’t see inside his head, and he says nothing to me,” she said shortly. “But I can tell you he’s fond of his wife.”

  “Fond he may be.” The sheriff paused. “But not, I think, as fond as he is of you.”

  A spike of pure alarm drove through her. She darted a hunted glance around the stands, her ladies all busy with their own pursuits. Elayne sat at her very elbow, lost in a book, fair hair falling forward to curtain her face.

  The sheriff showed yellow teeth in a smile. “Ethelred will be intrigued to hear of Borovic’s…affection. No doubt you encourage it, like the clever girl he says you are.”

  “You assign me too much credit.” She pitched her voice low. “I’ve done exactly as ordered—I wedded Belmaine. Playing the whore to his brother was not the part I was given to play.”

  He leaned close, rancid breath nearly gagging her. “Any man with eyes can see Argent’s half in love with you. This entire court is agog. They say he’s panting to tumble you.”

  Crimson heat scalded her cheeks. Dear Heaven, this is worse than I feared, with the whole court whispering behind lifted sleeves.

  “I don’t understand you, Sheriff. I’m already wedded to Rafael.”

  “That marriage can be undone. Make Borovic put the Cornish girl aside and turn to you.”

  She managed a brittle laugh. “Are those my uncle’s orders or yours?”

  For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered—no more than a blink, but it betrayed him. Rolf of Jorvik was improvising, trying to anticipate her uncle’s response. Well, she wished him a fine time explaining that to Ethelred.

  With renewed confidence, she lifted her chin. “I’m contented enough with the husband I have.”

  “Married to a baron?” he scoffed, trying to regain the ground he’d lost. “When you could be an earl’s bride, with only the queen above you?”

&nb
sp; “Perhaps I’m in love with Rafael.”

  “Love has no place in the marriage bed.” He snorted. “How easily you shift your affections. The new lord of Kildarren would be devastated to hear it.”

  When she looked at him blankly, he barked a laugh. “My God, you haven’t heard. The new lord of Kildarren’s your Viking lover.”

  She stared. By St. Cuthbert’s chalice, her uncle had kept his word! How jubilant Eomond must feel—his own master, with his own lands at last. At least her efforts had wrought that much good in the world.

  Beside her, Elayne parted her curtain of hair. “My lady? I believe the dowager is beckoning.”

  Thankful for any excuse to flee, Katrin stood. “I beg your pardon, Sheriff, but there are many who seek my ear today.”

  To her infinite relief, the cadaverous wretch unfolded his body and rose. “Will you pen a few lines to your uncle and pledge your undying devotion?”

  I’d rather rot in Hell.

  “You may assure the king I haven’t forgotten him. So long as he keeps his part of our bargain, I shall keep to mine.”

  “In that case,” the sheriff said dryly, “I wish you much happiness in your marriage.”

  Chapter Twenty

  At nightfall, fire roared in the barrel-vaulted hall. Grand as a cathedral, the ceiling arches marched backward overhead, lost in coiling smoke. Lines of laughing dancers cavorted like imps, sweeping together and apart to the music.

  Katrin had drunk too much mead in her effort to wash away the sour taste left by Rolf of Jorvik. Now, flushed with heat like a proper bride, she submitted to being flung from one partner to the next. Damp tendrils clung to her neck, and perspiration made the silver damask gown stick to her back.

  Sweet mercy, where is Rafael? The room spun as she clasped hands with yet another partner and skipped beside him down the line. Briefly the crowd parted and she caught a glimpse of him, a dark angel whose eyes gleamed with sinful promise. Yet when she sought him, the crowd closed like a trap around her and whisked her away. Clearly there would be no stealing away from the public bedding that crowned such festivities.

  As she whirled from one partner to the next, Borovic’s bearded features swam into view. Her step faltered.

  Instantly he moved into position, clasping her hands, covering her hesitation as he squired her down the line. Katrin found her step and completed the measure, feet swift and sure on the flagstones. But her heart was rabbiting with more than exertion by the time they reached the finish.

  “You look fair winded, good-sister! Here, come away for a moment.”

  Deftly scooping two horns of mead from a passing tray, the earl chivvied her out of line and waved away another would-be partner. If he’d tried to slip away with her, she would have broken free, but he merely led her to an alcove overlooking the hall. Self-conscious to be seen with him, knowing what they all thought, she edged aside when Borovic lowered his big body onto the seat beside her.

  Where is that odious sheriff? Thankfully, she hadn’t seen much of him since the tourney. Like the rat he was, he’d gone to ground. Nearby she glimpsed a brief scuffle as Elspeth—or was it Anne?—surrendered to some disheveled lord’s embrace.

  God save us, they’ll all be big-bellied as Cate if I’m not more vigilant.

  “Are you well now, Katrin?” Solicitous, Borovic hovered over her, flushed with mead and good humor, sweat glittering along the powerful column of his neck. He could have any woman in the castle tonight—except her.

  Eyes lowered to her cup, she nodded.

  “So then.” He rescued the cup from her slack fingers. “We come to it. I’ve been trying to get a moment of your time for three days. Why are you avoiding me?”

  “Avoiding you?” Uneasy, she watched his bearded features blur and divide. The two earls revolved hazily before her tipsy gaze.

  Apparently unaware that he was dividing and multiplying before her eyes, he grinned like a boy caught in mischief, yet certain of his charm. “You disconcert me, Katrin. I’m not used to dangling after a woman like a pup with his first love. Have I caused you some offense?”

  Irritation prickled her skin. Was the man daft not to know why she avoided him, after the scene to which he’d subjected her? If only some blundering guest would rescue her from this awkward moment.

  He toyed with her trailing sleeve. “I would have you smile on me.”

  “Saints’ bones! Don’t you recall assaulting me and threatening my virtue while your own lady lay at death’s door in the next chamber?”

  “Assaulting and threatening you?” He stared at her with smoldering eyes. “I recall kissing you, and I don’t recall that you disliked it. Christ’s Rood, what else did you expect after making me trail hotfooted at your heels for weeks? I’ve tried to be patient and play the game your way. It’s unkind to punish me merely for misjudging my moment.”

  He left her no choice but to say things that would anger him. She dared not allow him any further wooing, knowing what Jorvik would report to her uncle.

  “Your attentions are unseemly.” She made her voice unsparing, kept her face cold as stone. “I’m a married woman, and your own good-sister.”

  Anger darkened his face. “You were intended for me. It’s what the king wanted. But Aelfwydd was breeding again and I thought—”

  He fell silent, hand lifting in an oddly helpless gesture. “Should I believe your reluctance is genuine virtue rather than sport?”

  “I was a virtuous wife to my first husband, and I intend to be the same to your brother.” She leaned forward, hair spilling over her shoulder. “If you hold me in any regard at all, Borovic, do not persist. I…value your friendship, but there can be nothing more between us.”

  He stretched out his legs and studied his booted toes. Katrin held her breath, daring to hope she’d persuaded him.

  He looked up from beneath bushy brows. As if she’d bespelled him, a cloud of desire misted his eyes.

  “In that case I should warn you, Katrin, that I’ve some skill at wooing women.” With a courtier’s charm, he gathered the silver links of her girdle and slid them through his fingers, tugging lightly at her belt. “I wager you’ll be confessing me to your priest within a month.”

  She twitched her girdle from his fingers. “I wouldn’t wager anything you value on it.”

  His hazel eyes creased with appreciation as he laughed. “Commence the chase if you will. Hunting you to ground will be fine sport.”

  Angry words bubbled to her lips, but died unspoken as a chattering flock of women surrounded them. Soft hands closed around hers and pulled her up.

  Belatedly she realized what was happening. Her outrage at Borovic had so distracted her that she’d nearly forgotten.

  Still anxious, she glanced toward him. Damnation, two of him again, as if one weren’t bad enough. Good-natured, he hoisted his drinking horn and grinned. Then the women closed ranks around her. Head spinning, she let them lead her away.

  After all, this was not her first wedding night. She was all too familiar with this unavoidable custom.

  Behind them scattered cries arose, building to a howl of male pursuit. Something wild and elemental coursed through the hall, and pure instinct seized the women. Despite her sage acceptance a moment ago, Katrin found herself running with the others, bursting from the hall into the torchlit night.

  Across the bailey they fled, like Diana and her maidens pursued by the hunter’s hounds, pale stars clustered like watchful eyes above. Up the stairs into Belmaine’s tower they scrambled, past the Anjou knights who called teasingly after them. Cries of pursuit mounted behind them.

  Two ladies in the rear were caught squealing by their pursuers, kisses and other tokens claimed as forfeit. But the tide bore Katrin along—she couldn’t have withstood it—into the privy chamber. As a dozen women shrieked
at the top of their lungs, she spun cat-quick to slam the door and slide the bolt home. Her surroundings flashed before her: a whitewashed chamber with arched casements, spartanly furnished, a harp curving like a swan’s neck in gold and lapis, a cross hanging before a prie-dieu cushioned in crimson.

  Firelight spilled across the bridal bed that waited with curtains back, deep blue tester slashed with the silver spears of Belmaine. The door rattled on its hinges beneath the impact of male bodies.

  “Quickly, for God’s love!” Elayne hissed, driven beyond shyness by the wildness that gripped them. “The nightgown! Get her into it before they break the door down.”

  To Katrin’s relief, Gwyneth appeared to take charge, her wimpled face familiar and serene.

  Cool air encased Katrin’s heated body as the heavy cage of damask parted and fell away. Reverent hands bore it away, then peeled off her linen shift. For a heartbeat she quivered, naked before a roomful of strangers. Surely her sins must be written on her flesh: her prior indiscretions with Eomond, and her sinful desire for the man she’d married.

  But she’d confessed before Mass, her soul shriven—until she tumbled into some new temptation.

  Hands lowered the nightgown over her head, silken folds whispering over her skin. This, too, was intended for public display, to proclaim the wealth and power of England: sheer as gossamer, crusted with pearls in cream and gold. Gwyneth fitted on her head a mesh cap dripping with pearls, matched stones spilling like teardrops down her brow. Sighs of admiration and envy arose.

  She hoped her uncle would be pleased he’d gotten his money’s worth, for he was ever one to value a good investment. Her reflection glimmered in the polished plate as Gwyneth drew the comb through her curls: a slim white-skinned girl, looking younger than her years, tawny eyes blazing like lamps.

  The door shuddered on its hinges, drunken shouts spilling through it.

  Gwyneth hustled her to the bed and helped her climb into it. Overwhelmed with sudden trepidation, Katrin let Gwyneth smooth the tester over her lap and plump the bolsters behind her. Then she was bereft, stranded between memories of fear and pain on her first bridal night. Suddenly she feared she would cry.