The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  “There was a demon at my throat,” he said now, as naturally as he spoke of the weather. “Ever did it whisper to me that my sins were not forgiven, no matter what the priests say. Ever did it thirst for my death, so that my soul would return to its rightful place in Hell. Yet it fled into the night when it met you.”

  She remembered him, raving in his fever about devils and hellfire. “You asked for mercy.”

  “I thought you sent from God to deliver me. An angel with a fiery sword.” A corner of his mouth curled up briefly, the ghost of a smile that was gone even as it began. “I was right.”

  So bleak and melancholy was he that a prickle of alarm moved along her nape. After weeks of studiously avoiding all thoughts of what he might have felt when he discovered she had left him, her mind raced to take in his true meaning, to understand the magnitude of it. He thought she had come as God’s judgement upon him. When she chose against him, she had left him open to Edward’s wrath… and this, he plainly thought, was a just reckoning for his sins.

  She stepped forward to him, surefooted at last. She raised her hands, cupping his face, commanding his attention.

  “Believe you that I can see through to the heart of you, Ranulf?”

  “I do,” he answered.

  “And that I can speak no falsehoods of what I see there?”

  She felt his breath against her fingers, the tensing of his jaw, before he nodded once, a small but definite answer.

  “Then must you hear this and believe, for never have I spoken more true. Full well do I know you, every part of you. And I love you better than myself. I love you so well that I did flee from it.” She felt tears on her face, womanly and weak, a frailty she could not help, but she let them come. She did not let herself hide them, nor let her voice waver. “I have seen you, Ranulf of Morency. And sooner would I carve the heart from my chest than I would have any other man but you.”

  Her lips trembled and her eyes wept, but she did not turn her face from him. Let him see it, he who thought her so strong. Let him not shy from her weakness, as she did not flinch at his dark places.

  “There can be no man would take you from me,” he said at last, “for I would cut the manhood from him who tries.”

  She gave a choking laugh that was more than half-sob. A wild hope that he might mean it, that he might truly believe her rose up in her – and, in the same breath, a sharp pang at this reminder of what she could never be. She could not make apology for it, but neither could she leave it unsaid.

  “Nor can I ever be such a lady as men fight for, nor bards sing of.” She touched her thumb to the cut on his lip, evidence of the fierceness of their coupling. It was his blood she had tasted, and she who had drawn it. “It has grieved me, that you must suffer such an unnatural wife.”

  He turned his face into her hand to kiss her palm and did not answer. He did not hear, or understand, and it raised a panic in her. He would have her return to Morency, where she must try again to be what she could not be.

  She pulled away from him, feeling the weight of her armor as comfort and curse. With distance between them, she swept her hands roughly across her face to wipe away the senseless tears left there.

  “Do you heed me? I know not how to be a lady. Naught do I know but this life.” She gestured to indicate her armor, her male clothes. “I do not weep to leave it but I cannot welcome what will take its place, so ill-suited am I to the life of a woman.”

  “I need no bards to sing of you, to know your worth.”

  “Nor do I know how to be anything but a master of men, to command and lead them.”

  “Then command me,” he said simply. He was himself again, the pleasant teasing, the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her.

  She shook her head in despair. It was impossible to explain. “The ladies at court and at Morency – you have seen I do not know how to be like them, or even like my mother. Do you not see? Never will I be at ease in a gown.”

  “Then will I be sure to ease you out of it.”

  But his face sobered when he saw that still she could not make light of it. Still she did not move closer to him. She could feel the heat come to her face, patches of red that would highlight her uncomeliness. She found she could not look him in the eyes, when she remembered his insults from a lifetime ago.

  “You may joke, my lord, but it was you who said I was more suited to be the blacksmith of Morency than its lady, before we married.”

  “Before we married, I was an ass and a knave.” His voice was categorical, but when she looked up at him, there was discomfort in his face. To her great amazement, she thought she saw the blood rising in his neck, to his face, even to the tips of his ears. “I would spend what years God grants me in repenting of the insult I gave you.”

  He took a step to close the distance between them, and though she knew what she was, in his look she saw herself as he did. Such admiration and devotion was there that no bard could hope to sing of it.

  “Gwenllian,” he said softly, and her name in his mouth caused a warmth to spread through her. “By God and by nature are you fashioned as my match, with strength enough to bear the burden of a man so filled with pride and anger and wickedness.”

  He put his hand in hers and drew her closer, interlacing their fingers. The sensation of it ran up through her, reassuring and exciting at once, the relief it was to feel the sureness of his grip. His other hand came up to the mail shirt she wore, fingertips catching in the rings of it as he brought his face closer, eyes level with hers.

  “Never could I love an ordinary lady,” he said. “In this world or the next, I could only love you.”

  CHAPTER 21

  In the courtyard he watched her take her leave of Madog. She had said that her cousin must stay here and not return with her to Morency. “This is his place,” she had told him, “in Wales.” But she also said she could not know Madog’s feelings on rebellion, if he would part from Eluned to fight or if he would stay to command the men in whatever way he thought right.

  Ranulf could see, as anyone could see, that Madog would do as Gwenllian wished. They spoke together in Welsh, but still he kept himself a respectful distance from them to allow them the privacy of their goodbye. The other men stood yet further, a cluster of familiar faces that watched and murmured among themselves. He would miss them, he thought, though of course not as she would. He would miss seeing her among them, the easy way she commanded. She had told him yesterday, as she put off her armor, that it had never been easy, that it was constant effort and relentless doubt, a wearying way to live.

  “You will not have to work so hard, to make men love you,” she had said. “Only do the things that were poison for me: show mercy, and that you can bleed as red as any man.”

  For the first time he believed it might be possible, with her to advise him.

  He had bid her wear her armor while they traveled, if she wished. Over her gown and under her cloak, awkward as it was, it eased his mind to think of her wearing it. Almost like a talisman, a protection that was hers and was not his. He did not know why it should please him so, to think of it, but it did.

  She would not wear it as she took leave of the men, and her mother. “I must leave them as Lady of Morency,” she had said, and he was filled with equal parts dread and delight to hear her say it.

  “Will you go to the king, ere you take the road to Morency?” Eluned had appeared at his side, wrapped in a thick cloak, arms clutched about her and looking not at him, but at her daughter.

  “Is there a need for it?” he asked, and watched the pinch form in her lips.

  “Only you may say how much the crown may doubt your loyalty.”

  He inclined his head to acknowledge it, then spoke the more important truth. “Suspicions fall harder on you, my lady.” If she had played the game with the priest well enough, attention would be diverted to another in the court. It would be enough to save them from the king’s fury, so long as she returned to Ruardean and meddled no more in games of w
ar.

  Her chin lifted higher by an inch. “I have wit enough to keep such suspicions from crushing me. And it is as you have said,” she murmured, turning a bland look to him. “Our lives and fortunes are as one now.”

  “They are.” He watched her steadily and entertained thoughts of bloody retribution, until she seemed to shrink a little from him, daunted. “If you would risk your daughter’s life for your rebellion again, lady, such a swift and bloody reckoning awaits you that you will wish it came from Edward’s hand and not my own.”

  Her eyes were so like her daughter’s that he found he could not hate her, not really. She had grace enough to look shamed.

  “I told you once you had not met my daughter. And verily, always have I believed that none knew her, who had not seen her with sword in hand.” She looked back to where Gwenllian clasped hands with Madog. “But then I saw her unarmed, with such tender feeling in her when she looked to you. Then did I fear the danger to her, even more than to give her to war, to know she would trust her life and her heart to the king’s man.”

  Gwenllian turned, her veil a glowing white in the morning sun. Her eyes found him, settled on him. He saw the tenderness Eluned spoke of there.

  “Nay, you need not fear,” he said. “I am her man. Hers and no other.”

  The journey was a cold one, but the ground was smooth and hard, and they joined parties that rode swiftly. They would reach Morency in time for the Christmas feast, an event she seemed uncommonly eager to see.

  “Hugh began planning for it even before the first leaf fell in autumn,” she said as they lay curled together for warmth at an inn at Shrewsbury. “He would have a tapestry to honor your first Christmas at Morency as lord. Is true you never lived there after Aymer died, but only came for rare visits?”

  “Aye is true,” he said, and burrowed his face into her hair, tightening his arms around her, loving the feel of her. He did not say that it had not felt like his own, that it had ruled him more than he could rule it, until she had come there. Instead, he closed his teeth on the flesh of her earlobe, a soft nip. “But you try divert my attention from this tapestry that so frightened you that you must run to the mountains of Wales to escape the horror of it.”

  She drew up her knees and gripped his hands where they lay clasped on the blanket. “Next time I am so struck with terror, I shall run to you instead,” she said solemnly. “I vow it.”

  “And gladly shall I vanquish your enemy, my lady, and lay the broken loom at your feet. Less messy than the head of a dragon.”

  She laughed then, that hard-won sound that swelled inside him and warmed him as nothing else.

  When Morency was at last in sight, he sent Davydd ahead to give warning to Hugh. It was two days before the Christmas mass, time enough to rest and prepare for the Night Vigil and the feast. The leaves were all stripped from the trees, and the wind from the sea blew strong.

  He slowed his horse when they came around the walled park, the lake in front of them reflecting the castle as clear as a mirror. As it always did, the hope rose up in him at the sight of it. This time it came with a certainty he had not known before, something he could not name but that he knew as deeply as he had known her, in that moment he had opened his eyes from a fever.

  He found himself searching the path to the castle, looking for the little white dog that had insisted on greeting him for years. It seemed to him an important thing, that the dog would greet him still. Perhaps he should give it a name, if it would persist in hanging at his heels. Then, as though to confirm the homecoming, the annoying little beast was streaking toward them through the cold. Ranulf took a deep breath, surprised at the stab of emotion that came with the sight. He closed his eyes and said a brief and silent prayer, that he would be worthy of the place. And of her, he thought as he opened his eyes. She had slowed too, and then stopped, looking up at Morency.

  “Believe you that we are stronger than the ghosts that live here?” she asked suddenly, and looked at him. Of course she knew. Of course she had seen the fear in him, and what caused it, and what must be overcome. “Strong enough that they will lose their grip and leave your soul in peace?”

  He looked at her, tall in her saddle, then to the castle.

  “Already has their grip loosened. When they saw my soul was claimed by so fierce an opponent, they were compelled to make way for you.”

  She nodded, eyes full of mysteries as she dismounted. He watched her reach into the pack on her saddle, digging deep until she found what she sought. It was a bundle of cloth, small enough to hold in one hand as she walked forward to the lake.

  At the water’s edge, she bent down. She unfolded the fabric, letting the small pile of dried leaves inside fall. They floated on the surface for a moment before the water carried them out, away from shore. She watched them all the while they drifted until they disappeared from sight. When there was no trace of them left, she dropped the fabric in too. If he did not know her better, he would think she was saying a prayer, so long did she linger in silence as she sat on her heels.

  “What was that?” he asked, when she finally stood up again.

  She only gave a rare and secret little smile, hugging the cloak more tightly to herself. “Soon I will tell you.”

  She walked back to him, handing him the reins to her horse as her smile broadened. She took his hand and swung herself up onto his mount, behind him. He looked ahead toward Morency, where even now the household prepared to greet them.

  It felt like home. For the first time, it felt like he belonged.

  “Soon,” she said, a sigh of a word. She leaned forward into him, keeping his hand in hers, her voice warm at his ear. “But first, bring me home.”

  The End

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  Acknowledgements

  I used to read acknowledgement pages and wonder how the heck SO MANY people deserved to be thanked for just one measly book.

  Then I wrote this book, and realized I was an ignoramus.

  So here they are, briefly, the people who kept me going in one way or another through the long and often dark years this book tried to get written:

  Snezana Pavlic, first and foremost, for reading every word and unfailingly knowing what worked and what didn’t.

  Susanna Malcolm, for showing me how to never give up on writing.

  Laura Kinsale, for inspiration and camaraderie and for being the best fairy godmother a girl could ever hope for.

  Charles R. Rutledge, for help with plot twists and sword fighting (and e-burritos).

  Thunderpussy, my companion in all the silent moments where writing gets done. I miss you.

  Amanda Dewees, for generously sharing all the e-pub knowledge, and the time it took to communicate it all.

  Lyssa Menard, Rebeca Barroso, writing buddies extraordinaire, and all my fellows at Just Write Chicago.

  Next Door Chicago, for providing the perfect atmosphere for getting shit done.

  Kate Rothwell, Rachel Wallace, and Tracy MacNish for reading it when I needed it most.

  Dr. Dawn Zapinski, for the medical advice on dislocated shoulders. (Sorry if I got it all wrong.)

  Colleen Seville – she knows what she did.

  All the above friends and more, for believing in me and making me better: Agnes and Rita and Monica and Megan and Randi and Sarah and Heather and even Paul.

  Snookie Pavlic, again, because I can’t thank her enough and also she promised to be my first sale so thanks for that, too.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12


  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  Acknowledgements