by Secret Vows
Gray remained silent, though she could tell that he studied her. She tried to keep her hands from trembling as she knotted the end of the thread, in preparation to stitch him.
“So you’ve had children in your care, then? I didn’t realize you—” His questioning came to an abrupt end when she jabbed the needle into his shoulder.
“Aye. My niece and nephew often stayed with us.” She tried to sound unconcerned. Pulling the stitch through, she tugged it secure and then stabbed again, before pausing. “Are you certain that you don’t wish to drink some of the herbed wine the serving boy brought? ’Twill at least dull the sensation while I finish the stitching.”
“Nay,” Gray muttered, obviously rigid with discomfort. She was relieved that her effort to divert his attention, deplorable as it was, had born fruit.
“I prefer to keep my wits intact,” he added. “’Tis why I don’t partake of strong drink. Why I haven’t for nigh on seventeen years.”
Catherine contained her surprise. Most men she knew relished their ale and wine, preferring intoxication to almost any other pastime. She fixed Gray with an intent look. “Do you also object to herbed cider, or water that’s mixed with healing extracts?”
“Nay,” he admitted, “as long as the herbs don’t dull my wits. ’Tis the clouding effects of alcohol that I won’t abide.”
“Then here.” Letting the needle swing from the thread in his shoulder for a moment, Catherine sprinkled some of the crushed marjoram and fennel into a water vessel, then added a few dollops of nettle juice. She swirled it together and handed it to Gray. “Drink it down in one gulp. ’Twill ease the pain, as well as speed the healing inside. The taste would improve with honey, but if you quaff it quick enough, it will not matter.”
He drank it down with a grimace, coughing and shaking his head once it was swallowed. “Saints, but the stuff wouldn’t taste better if you poured an entire bowl of honey on it. I’m beginning to think that you enjoy tormenting me, what with the iron, then the needle, and now this.”
Catherine suppressed a smile. “And you, my lord, sound more like an unruly boy than the fierce warrior you showed yourself to be on the field today.”
“I doubt that anyone will even think me skilled in the fundamentals after today’s spectacle.” He looked at her askance, and she was relieved to see that his good humor hadn’t completely disappeared. “’Tis not my custom, you know, to swoon at a tourney.”
“Aye, but ’twas not a lack of skill that led to that.” She paused, weighing her next words carefully and knowing that while she might not be able to tell Gray the truth of why she’d asked his restraint against Eduard, she could at least try to make some amends. “I—I wish to beg pardon for Eduard’s cowardice against you, my lord. ’Twas his weakness and my interference that led to your wounding, and I regret it most heartily.”
When she mentioned Eduard’s name, Gray’s eyes darkened. Once she finished, he remained quiet for a while. Not a muscle of his face moved. Finally he answered, “Then don’t compound the error by taking on the guilt of it. You may have asked me to spare your brother’s life, but ’twas I who chose to comply. Let us agree to leave it at that.”
She nodded. Turning her attention back to his shoulder, she finished stitching the cut; in silence she knotted off the silk and cut the needle free. Gray cleared his throat but seemed lost in his own thoughts, so she continued to prepare a cloth to wash away the dried blood around the stitching. When she finished cleansing his shoulder, she moved to the rest of his torso, wiping the stains away with smooth strokes.
As she worked, she recalled the battle between her husband and Eduard in her mind’s eye, remembering the look on Gray’s face as he’d turned to her, and seeing again the emotional struggle in the depths of his gaze when she’d begged him to listen to her.
But in the end he’d walked away. Gray had looked into her eyes, and at the moment when he might have plunged his sword into Eduard’s heart, he’d walked away. For her sake.
Warmth rushed through her even more potent than what she’d experienced in the pavilion when he’d attached her ribbon to his armor. It welled up and filled her; sudden moisture bathed her eyes, and she murmured, “My lord?”
Gray glanced to her. “Aye?”
“I know you wish to leave it be, but I need to say one thing more about this afternoon, if I might.”
He nodded, his expression both cautious and questioning.
Catherine took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I think that you are a truly noble knight, my lord. You showed fairness and honor today, far more than anyone could expect, and I—I wish to thank you for it. ’Twas a lesson in nobility that I’d never glimpsed before in my dealings with men.”
Her face flamed as she spoke, not only from the voicing of her most intimate sentiments, but also from the liquid heat that had begun to unfurl inside of her as she pulled the warm, wet cloth across her husband’s chest and abdomen. It suddenly occurred to her that she was ministering to a virtually naked, completely virile man. A man with whom she would eventually join in the most intimate of ways.
A man who was staring at her right now, by sweet heaven, as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Her breath came more shallow. Her fingers clenched the cloth, and drops of water trickled down his belly. She caught the spill quickly, but silence stretched on as she worked over him, winding her tighter and tighter inside; she felt the heat of his gaze on her, adding to the heightened atmosphere. Finally, she could bear it no longer, and she pulled away to wring out the cloth.
“Wait,” he murmured, his voice husky as he gripped her wrist. “You missed a spot.”
The words sent tingling warmth up Catherine’s spine, and she glanced up. His sensual expression devastated her, making the linen drop from her hand to land with a faint plop in the basin. “There’s a little more right…there,” he added, twisting toward her to show a rusty smear that ran from the flat just below his navel, downward, where it disappeared beneath the rolled edge of his braies.
Catherine licked her lips, realizing that her mouth had gone dry. To stall for time, she said, “I—I think the water has cooled overmuch. Let me freshen it.” Hands trembling, she emptied the basin into a waste barrel near the door. Then, walking to the fire, she dipped out several ladles of simmering water before adding some cool cups full from a pitcher.
“Here,” she murmured as she sat next to him again. “Tell me if this is too warm. My hands are used to it, but your stomach and…well, what with that part of you being covered all of the—or at least, most of the time—” Catherine came to a stuttering halt, and a flush crept up her neck again. She pressed her lips together. “I just meant that you might be sensitive to the heat.”
While she spoke, a slow smile had spread across Gray’s face. “Aye, lady, I’m sensitive enough to it. And I’ll be sure to let you know if ’tis too hot for me to bear.”
With a curt nod, she stroked the linen across the muscled planes of his abdomen. The dusting of ebony hair there thickened below his navel; she tried not to notice how the wet cloth made his hairs whorl together, or how his hips seemed to tilt slightly back, revealing a sudden, unmistakable swelling beneath his braies.
Her pulse quickened, and she paused in her ministrations to look up at him in uncertainty. But his eyes were closed. He leaned back against the bunched up blanket that served as his pillow, seeming completely contented. Even relaxed.
Heat flooded her cheeks again. Relaxed was the last word she’d use to describe her own state right now. She kept her gaze trained to the area she washed, pointedly ignoring the spot below his waistband as she rushed to finish quickly; her cloth skimmed along the edge of the garment, dampening the fabric as she gently rubbed to remove a particularly stubborn bit of blood.
She lingered there, fighting the urge to delve beyond that barrier, trying to ignore her desire to see if he looked as impressive to the naked eye as he appeared with the layer of fabric covering him.
She was just mastering her emotions enough to pull away, when he subtly lifted the rolled edge of his braies, causing her hand to slip beneath it on a downward stroke. She gasped and Gray groaned as the force of her motion slid the wet cloth—and her palm—across the hot, rigid length of him.
At that moment the door swung open. Catherine jerked back, and Gray shifted with a wince. The serving boy turned red as he looked from his master to Catherine and then back again. Finally, he averted his gaze, staring straight at the wall behind them, announcing, “My humblest apologies, my lord, my lady.” The boy’s voice cracked as he continued, “But I come with report from the sentries. A caravan has been spotted, approaching from the East. Sir Alban thought it best to inform you, my lord.”
Gray sat up a little, holding his side and grimacing. “Are they outfitted for war? Look they ready to attack?”
The boy shook his head, so nervous and embarrassed that Catherine could see his knees quaking; the tops of his ears glowed scarlet. “Nay, my lord. Sir Alban said naught of that.”
“Then why the summons? Tell Briggs to have chambers readied to accommodate them if they’re nobility, or victuals served and a place to pitch their tents if they’re but passing travelers.”
“But my lord, I—I think you should come down yourself, if ’tis possible. The caravan—they be nobility all right, my lord,” the boy stammered. “Sir Alban recognized them by their pennant.”
“Well, son? Who is it then, that needs bring me from my chamber when I’m being tended for my wounds?” Catherine could tell that Gray was trying hard to keep his temper in check. But when the boy answered, he came bluntly to the point, and Catherine thought that her heart might stop in her chest.
“Why, ’tis the king, my lord!” The boy finally met Gray’s gaze, his eyes wide with the wonder of a child. “King Henry himself has come with his caravan, and he’s about to gain entry to Ravenslock!”
Chapter 5
Gray gripped the edge of the table, balancing himself. All of his wounds throbbed, but at the moment the torn muscle in his thigh pained him the most. He knew that his wife had noticed the hidden injury when he’d stood after hearing about the king’s arrival at Ravenslock, but he’d foregone wrapping it to avoid being late to the great hall.
Now she stood a little behind him on the dais, silent. They both faced the arched doorway, but still he felt her gaze upon him, sensed the worry emanating from her clear, expressive eyes. The hall was filled with his own people, as well as many of the visiting tourneyers, yet the only sound came from whispers and hushed comments as everyone awaited the arrival of England’s young king.
Alban flanked Gray’s left. Eduard was nowhere to be seen, and Gray wondered if his wife’s brother would dare to make an appearance. As if he’d read his thoughts, Alban leaned in to murmur, “Eduard was still being stitched when I checked on him a few moments ago. ’Tis not likely he’ll come out of his sanctuary soon. I doubt he’ll want to face the king, looking as he does.”
“That bad, is it?” Gray grimaced as he shifted his weight partially onto his wounded leg.
“Aye. His nose is swollen twice its size. One of the women had to pack it with wool to stop its bleeding. ’Tis so distended from the stuff that he looks like a sow caught rooting in a patch of milkweed.”
Hearing a smothered laugh, Gray twisted to see Elise; her hand covered her mouth, and his breath caught at the sparkle of humor in her eyes. Yet he couldn’t question her unexpected reaction to the news of her brother’s condition, because at that moment trumpets sounded in the courtyard.
The doors swung wide, and His Royal Highness Henry III, King of England, strode into the chamber, followed by his retinue of flag bearers, armorers, vintners, men at arms, wardrobe attendants, grooms and ladies. The entire assembly of Ravenslock Castle sank into bows and curtsies as the king passed. By the time all of his retainers had filed into the vaulted hall, the room looked more like a crowded marketplace than a spacious chamber in the greatest estate ever gifted to one of England’s knights.
Gray pulled himself to his full height as he faced his Sovereign. At six and twenty, Henry was a tall, impressive man, yet he was not well liked by all of his barons. In the seventeen years he’d worn the crown, he’d chosen numerous and often unpopular favorites as political advisors. Many of England’s nobles whispered of rebellion, angered by the constant stream of foreigners he welcomed to court. Gray, however, had decided to bide his time. Until the need arose, he saw no reason to act out against the man who ruled the land.
“Welcome, Your Highness,” Gray called loudly, though the effort sent a burning lance of pain through the dagger wound below his ribs. “You honor us with your presence. Care you for some refreshment after your journey?”
He felt more than saw Elise move closer to him, her skirt whispering against his legs as she positioned herself at his side. Her hand slid, warm and comforting, beneath his elbow, supporting him as he bowed his greeting.
“Lord Camville.” Shifting his gaze to Alban, who also bowed, King Henry nodded, “Sir Warton.” He waved off the courtiers who had rushed forward to help him to a seat upon the dais. He chose to stand directly in front of Gray, scowling as he took in the physical state of his favorite champion. Without speaking further, he reached for the cup of wine a servant held ready for him, drinking deeply before he fixed Gray with another frown. “We see that you’ve been engaging in something more demanding than the pleasures of your marriage bed. Might it be another one of these tournaments We’ve forbidden you to host?”
Elise’s hand tightened on Gray’s arm, but he stood firm. “’Tis true that I sought a bit of sport to celebrate the nuptials you were so gracious to arrange for me.”
“Aye, well, in light of the occasion We will overlook the transgression.” A thin smile creased the king’s cheeks. “Now that you’re wed, you must admit We made a fine choice of brides for you.” His gaze swept over Elise, but he paused, mild confusion replacing his smile. “Yet lady, We must say that you’ve changed greatly in the years since We saw you first at your brother’s knighting ceremony.”
Elise dipped into a curtsey, murmuring, “I was but a child, then, milord. I had not yet reached my twelfth year, if memory serves me.” Her voice shook ever so slightly, Gray noted, and she cast her gaze to her hands, clenched in front of her.
The king frowned. “Aye, you were small. And exceedingly pale, as We recall.” He tilted his head as if to study her, a quizzical look on his face.
“I—I regret that time has not been overkind to me, milord,” Elise mumbled.
Gray glanced to his wife, feeling the same twinge as when he’d lifted her veil in the chapel. But she bowed her head, refusing to meet his gaze.
“My wife hadn’t mentioned her acquaintance with you, Sire,” Gray said evenly, swinging his gaze back to the king.
“We met but that one time,” King Henry commented, pausing to drink from his wine again. “It must have been…” he gestured in vague circles with his cup, “…some eight or ten years ago, now. Isn’t that right, Lady Camville?” Henry’s gaze pinned her, and Gray noticed that she squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny.
“Aye, milord.”
“’Twas a fine dubbing ceremony your brother had that day.” King Henry laughed as a new, obviously fonder memory came to his mind. “Montford stood stoically in the heat, refusing even to sip some water to refresh himself. A staunch warrior even then. He’s served as one of Our best knights since. Second only to you, of course, Camville,” Henry acknowledged, raising his cup to Gray.
He drank again, then looked round the chamber, searching among the guests. “Where is Lord Montford, by the by, that he comes not to greet Us upon Our arrival at Ravenslock?”
After a moment of uneasy silence, Gray answered, “He rests in another chamber, being stitched.”
The king went still before raising his brow. “Ah.” His gaze swept over Gray again, pausing for an instant on each of his visible wounds
. “And who, We must needs ask, found means to injure a seasoned warrior like Montford?”
“’Twas I.” Gray admitted the truth boldly, looking Henry straight in the eye.
It was as if an icy wind swept through the chamber; every voice hushed, and each gaze seemed trained on the dais. “How unfortunate,” King Henry clipped with deceptive calm, “in light of Our command forbidding the two of you from ever taking weapons to each other again.”
Gray clenched his fists at his sides, reminding himself to be careful in what he revealed of Eduard’s craven attack or his feelings about it.
“Your disobedience aggrieves Us, Camville,” the king continued, enunciating each word with cold precision. “It calls your loyalty into question and makes Us wonder at your sincerity in defending Us against Our enemies on the field of combat.”
“I have never lost a battle of honor for you, Sire, nor will I, unless the life be taken from me. I am as always your true subject.”
“Then I must needs ask why you persist in trying to slaughter Lord Montford against Our command!”
Elise gasped, and Gray stiffened before answering, “’Twas not my wish to fight him.” He stepped away from the dais, anger helping him to ignore his painful wounds. “But I could do no less without forfeiting honor.”
“He speaks true,” a voice called from behind them. Everyone nudged and jostled each other to see more clearly who had spoken. Gray knew without looking that it was Eduard. Yet the bastard’s admission was so unexpected, he wouldn’t have believed it without proof of his own hearing.
Eduard walked closer; a path opened before him as lords, ladies, and servants backed away to allow him free passage. His movements seemed slow and stiff; it looked as though his back pained him, and several bandages marked the places where Gray’s blade had found its mark. However, the packing had been removed from his nostrils; his nose was still swollen, but it would heal cleanly.