By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  “Thor’s hammer—I made a mistake,” he said through clenched teeth, the words forced out of him. “I should never have let you go.”

  Heart aching, she blinked against the unexpected sting of tears. Once, she would have given anything to hear him say it.

  “I’m sworn before God to a man who chose me before his own freedom,” she said softly, “and gave up his heart’s desire to protect me. Saints’ bones, Eomond, I won’t betray him—now or ever.”

  This time, her determination made an impact. He stiffened, but didn’t release her.

  “You’re contented with your baron then? With your fine gowns and jewels and this castle for your home?”

  “Those things mean little to me, and they never have.” She sighed. “Didn’t you know me well enough even for that? Belmaine gives me what I need most—security and protection, even against his own kin.”

  “Do not fail me,” Rafael had warned her, and thus far she hadn’t. It wasn’t for wifely virtue that she burned in his arms at night.

  She gripped the cold links of Eomond’s hauberk and met his gaze.

  “I’m contented in my marriage, and I won’t have it placed in jeopardy. My lord, we shall not meet again.”

  For a heartbeat, he flinched beneath the sting of betrayal. Then, inevitably, she felt his slow wrath building. She’d have her wish; his unbending pride and precious sense of honor wouldn’t permit him to pursue her. Despite all that had passed, a single pang of regret stabbed her.

  A part of her would love this man until the day she died: her first love, the man who’d taught her that passion could be more than Maldred’s brutality. But the bond she’d forged with Rafael was stronger. Bitter circumstance had forced her to make unbearable compromises. Though she lived in fear of her own good-brother, though Rafael had never said he loved her, she didn’t regret her choice.

  Eomond thrust her away, breath ragged as he fought for control. Prudently, she put distance between them.

  When he spoke, his voice was remote. “My lady, you must excuse me. I should see to the comfort of my men.”

  She gripped her skirts with shaking fingers and spoke from her heart. “May God and all the saints protect you in battle, Eomond.”

  “Oh, they will,” he said grimly. “I enjoy better fortune in battle than I do at love.”

  “Despite all that’s happened,” she whispered, “I’ve never wished you ill.”

  “Nor I you,” he said quietly. “I won’t trouble you again.”

  He strode across the sickroom, Viking head held high. Hugging herself, she watched him go.

  “I’ll always love you,” she said to the empty room. “But this, finally, is goodbye.”

  * * *

  After an unsettled night, Katrin stood alone on the curtain wall—where no one could see her face—to watch the king’s warband depart. With charm and a woman’s softness, she’d coaxed the reluctant earl to let the fevered men remain, since they showed no sign of plague.

  As for the others, time was precious. These men dared not tarry.

  Now, behind Eomond’s formidable figure, the mounted band issued from the tunnel beneath her feet and rumbled across the drawbridge. The trumpeters of Argent winded their horns, and the harsh mote of war-horns blasted back.

  A fine spring rain, little more than mist, filmed her skin. Through clouds of fog, the men faded until they were lost from view. Then, like a waking sleeper, she drew a hand across her face. To the marrow of her bones she was weary—flogged by guilt. Even if she hadn’t been unfaithful in the flesh, had she betrayed Rafael in her heart?

  A hard hand descended on her shoulder.

  “What do you here, good-sister?” Borovic asked casually.

  Without turning, she stared after the vanished men. “’Tis been a month since Rafael rode forth. I’m wondering when to hope for his return.”

  His hand lay heavy on her shoulder. “Impossible to say. We hear nothing of how the fighting goes, but the Vikings are everywhere, pillaging and burning. No doubt they’re hard pressed.”

  The wind on the heights stripped ribbons of hair from her braid. She smoothed it back, but froze when he spoke.

  “How well did you know Lord Kildarren?”

  Prickles ran along her skin, for this was no idle chatter. How much did he overhear or surmise? Did he leave the sickroom last night, or linger unseen?

  “I knew him.” She told her hands to continue their task. “He was my uncle’s theyn, after all.”

  “Ah.” Gently, his fingers inched up to close around her nape. A shudder worked through her as he squeezed the fragile column. “By his manner toward you, I thought you were close companions. I trust he wasn’t overly familiar?”

  Stomach knotting, Katrin laughed shortly and shrugged against his hand. “He was no more familiar than you, good-brother. Should I take offense to one but not the other?”

  The vise tightened, blunt fingers digging into her vulnerable neck. His colossal frame pressed her back, a menace she couldn’t avoid, trapping her against the parapet. His breath brushed her ear.

  “Would you still take offense to my attentions?”

  “My lord, how should I not take offense to any man, save for my lawful husband? I’m a virtuous woman.”

  “Are you so?” He laughed softly, and it held an ugly sound. “Tread carefully, Katrin. You play a dangerous game, but I’m willing to stand your ally. Believe me when I say you don’t want me as your enemy.”

  Heart jumping, she spun to confront him. “I’ve allies of my own, good-brother.”

  Brave words, sparked by fear and anger. Within these walls, she was entirely in his power. He could say she was a witch and have her thrown into the dungeon. He could beat her senseless, and no man would stop him. He could do anything to her, anything…but to bolster his ego, he wanted her willing, and so was reluctant to resort to brute force. That was her protection—a flimsy shield indeed as she held it between them now.

  Borovic smiled down at her, white teeth showing in his beard. “This clan has a tragic history—our men are a jealous lot. We don’t share what we covet. Blood has been spilled for it. What do you think Belmaine will say when he hears of your tender tryst? No one will defend an adulteress.”

  Rage and panic blurred her vision—the unthinking response of the hunted fox, turning to confront the mastiff. Before she could contain it, her hand flew out and struck his face.

  The blow slammed from her palm through her body and echoed like a thunderclap. Katrin had never in her life struck anyone. For a moment she was as shocked as he, their eyes locked together in startled confrontation. Up and down the curtain-wall, she sensed heads turning.

  She clenched her stinging hand in her skirts. “My relations with my husband are no concern of yours. And I’d rather lie with one of your slavering hounds than you!”

  Twisting free, she ran toward the mural stair, expecting at any moment to feel his hands close around her.

  No doubt she was the only person living who dared slap the powerful earl of Argent like a naughty schoolboy, even if he’d richly deserved it. Perhaps he was rooted to the spot by disbelief, but she couldn’t expect that blessed state of affairs to last.

  It took all her courage to slow her steps before the astonished eyes of his guards and descend with some pretense of composure, wind whipping her skirts around her legs. What she really wanted to do was run, twisting and fleeing from culvert to safe hole, away from the naked malice glaring from the earl’s lustful eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Now Katrin lived in fear beneath his roof, but she dared not show it. Like the day the wolves had attacked, she knew showing fear would invite instant assault.

  Rafael had asked her to keep the peace with his brother. Now he would return—if he returned—to find she’d
failed him. She should never have met Eomond alone. There were a hundred things she should never have done or said.

  She worked as though nothing were amiss, gathering fruit from the orchards, brewing the summer ale, carding and spinning and dyeing the wool. Yet the lack of tidings from the front worried her to distraction. Wild rumors raced through the shire: defeat and disaster, a countryside in flames beneath the Viking torch. Daily she debated the wisdom of dispatching a churl for news. But every pair of hands was needed to till the fields against the winter months, when they must live off the fruits of their labors or starve.

  Even if someone could be spared, what could she tell Rafael? That she feared and despised his brother and longed for her husband’s return? And what could he do, if the Vikings pressed them? He could hardly abandon his king in England’s hour of need to come racing home merely because his wife was fearful.

  Midsummer’s Eve dawned dry and clear, heat shimmering above the dusty fields. Although the Church had sanctified the holiday, Katrin always felt a pagan tempo pulse just beneath the surface. Despite the protests of the village priest, farm lads still carried burning brands through the fields to drive away the dragons. They still rolled wheels of fire downhill to signify the sun had reached its zenith and must sink as the season waned. Taboos were relaxed, and the common folk still came together in the fields, to honor life in the ancient way.

  She was returning from the more restrained festivities when she saw the band of men on the road ahead, winding uphill toward the castle. Glimpsing the dark forest of spear-points rising against the blue sky, she clutched the reins until Arianrod tossed her head in protest. Her anxious eyes combed through the mass of men until she found the standard at their head: crossed silver spears against a cobalt field.

  Blood pounded against her eardrums. How often had she startled awake at night from this vision: Rafael’s body, borne home on a bier.

  When she spied the lithe black-clad figure astride his dappled gray, her heart gave a joyful bound. A rising tide of feeling bore her aloft—a sparkling wave of pure happiness, lifting her from the earth. Whatever doubts she’d harbored about her attachment to Rafael dissolved in the flood of emotions that overcame her now.

  Ignoring her ladies’ cries of protest, she clapped her heels to Arianrod’s milky flanks. The mare skimmed down the road to overtake the column from behind, jewel-green skirts flying in her wake. Men were falling away before them with startled exclamations, the dappled gray pivoting on his haunches. Beneath the spur of emotion she acted without forethought, launching herself from the saddle straight into Rafael’s arms. She caught a bare glimpse of his fine-bladed features, green eyes wide with surprise. Then his arms closed around her, pulling her against his lean frame as she spilled across his saddle.

  Katrin realized she was laughing—better so than crying—saying foolish breathless things. Amid this torrent of speech, Rafael bent and kissed her—no chaste decorous press before the eyes of his men, but a kiss rich with the promise of things unsaid, the dark pleasures they’d explore in the marriage bed.

  Willingly she wound her arms around him, twining fingers in his decadent raven curls. She’d caught him off guard with the spontaneous warmth of her welcome. But, undoubtedly, she’d pleased him.

  So she wasn’t the only one who felt it: this uncanny bond between them. Around them, his fighting men erupted with cheers and whistles—a liberty they would never have taken in Belmaine’s disconcerting presence when they rode out last spring. Blushing, she turned her face into his neck.

  The spicy odor of cloves mingled with road-dust on his skin. Tingling, she wondered what duties he’d feel compelled to discharge before he took her to bed.

  “I take it I needn’t inquire,” he murmured into her hair, “whether you’ve missed me.”

  “Nay,” she said, bold as any wench, “but if you require further convincing, that can be arranged.”

  “Witch, I’ll require sundry demonstrations and tokens of your affection, lasting a span of hours at least.”

  Face on fire, she reached for Arianrod’s bridle. But Rafael tossed her reins to another, settling her into the saddle before him with a teasing flex of his fingers.

  “Do I disconcert you, madame?” he said in her ear.

  “Always,” she whispered.

  The white walls of Caerwyne shimmered in the sun above them—reminding her, with a fresh stab of anxiety, of the complications in his homecoming. Not for the first time since she’d slapped Borovic’s face before his men, she wondered how far the earl would go to avenge that humiliating setdown.

  As if her thoughts had summoned him, hooves pounded the road, mingled with the baying of hounds. She sat tensely as hunting mastiffs poured around them.

  Borovic surged alongside on his snow-white stallion, all smiles and booming welcome, wind riffling his shaggy hair. Wariness resonated from Rafael’s taut frame, but he greeted his brother with faultless courtesy.

  Borovic’s eyes flickered from Arianrod’s empty saddle to Rafael’s hand at her waist—clearly disliking the arrangement. But he concealed his rancor behind a sunny disposition and a barrage of questions about the fighting. Their mounts jogged toward the castle with the hounds frisking behind.

  “England has seen the back of Sweyn Forkbeard,” Rafael said, “for now. I confess I wasn’t overly impressed with the counsel his advisors gave our king. When the Forkbeard was in the east, we were in the west. When he raided south, we were off to the north. Still, we brought them to ground in the end, and sent them off in their longboats with a hail of arrows to speed them on their way.”

  “God be praised for it,” Borovic said, “and our good king Ethelred.”

  “But the season is young. We’re likely to see more of them before the weather turns. Ethelred is calling on the sheriffs to levy a new tax, so he can pay the Danegeld to buy them off when they return.”

  “Marry, that hardly seems advisable.” Katrin frowned. “How will we ever be rid of them if he pays them off every time they come? Our taxes are steep enough—one third of every harvest already goes there.”

  “Ethelred knows what he’s about.” Borovic scowled. “What does a woman know of warfare?”

  She stiffened but held her peace, determined to say no more.

  “The king sends you his warmest regards, brother,” Rafael said, “and hopes to see you when the witan meets. Perhaps you’ll lend your own counsel to the king, if it pleases you.”

  “It’ll please me,” Borovic said, mollified. “We two were reared as brothers at old King Edgar’s court in Wessex, but I’ve seen too little of Ethelred since then.”

  Together they clattered through the echoing gatehouse and across the drawbridge. In the courtyard, the earl swung down and bellowed for his steward to arrange a banquet.

  Rafael jumped down and lowered Katrin to the flagstones, hands lingering at her waist. Beneath the belling hounds, he murmured, “I trust we’ll indulge in a Midsummer ritual of our own—”

  “Ah, now, brother, time enough later to reacquaint yourself with your lady. Come to the hall, and help me pass judgment on the first batch of summer ale.”

  “All in good time, brother,” Rafael said pleasantly. “Let me first see to the comfort of my men.”

  The earl’s eyes flickered as he marked the easy way Rafael now referred to these men as his. Aye, the war had changed him, rooted him in the soil of his homeland, made him a true English lord instead of an uneasy exile.

  Having no desire to linger in Borovic’s company, she curtseyed for Rafael. “I’ll await you upstairs, my husband.”

  Rafael arched an appreciative brow and turned away, calling orders with cool authority. She was turning as well when Borovic caught her gaze.

  “Belmaine holds you in high esteem, good-sister.” He bared his teeth in a smile. “It’s a shame to disillusion him
. Aren’t you going to beg me to keep silent?”

  Conflicting urges tangled on her tongue: lies and disclaimers, protests of innocence, the overpowering urge to turn his face purple with a scathing setdown. But nothing she said would dissuade him, except the words of capitulation she would never utter.

  Scornfully she lifted her chin to show she didn’t fear him—but that was a lie, of course—then strode away in a flurry of bright skirts.

  He’ll say what he pleases, as always. Then I must try to undo the damage—if I can.

  * * *

  Midnight. Voices raised in ragged song, winding among the turrets and drifting over the walls. Katrin curled in the open window of the cavalier tower, draped in her linen shift, cool breezes flowing over her heated skin. A banner of moonlight spilled across the floor to the looming bed, but the chamber was drenched in shadows. She felt like a small forest animal, watchful and huddled in the darkness.

  Supper had been a rowdy affair, tables groaning beneath tusked boars, whole suckling pigs gripping apples in their jaws, sculpted subtleties of sugar and paste. The hall was filled to bursting with drunken men and women, toasting their communal success in walloping the Vikings and heartily wishing them Godspeed to their cold heathen Hell.

  Katrin had sung a victory ballad, though she hadn’t cared to put herself forward before this overripe throng. It seemed to her the women drew together and hissed as she sang, and the men eyed her too boldly. Yet she performed with fiery head held high, proud eyes sweeping the hall. She wouldn’t let them see how their censure wounded her.

  Two men leaped out in a sea of faces: the lean shadow that was Rafael, eyes kindling with secrets as he watched; and Borovic’s looming menace, throwing back his leonine head to roar with laughter when his sycophants whispered in his ear. Merely being in the same chamber with him now, even in Rafael’s warding presence, was sufficient to make her flesh crawl.