By Royal Command Page 2

  For the moment, he didn’t pursue her, except with words. “You say Lady Katrin isn’t here—which I can well believe, to see the place. Are you alone?”

  “Nay.” She slid him a guarded glance. “My—the steward and his wife are here. I was trying to find them when the wolves came.”

  “Strange they didn’t come to your aid.” Thoughtful, he skimmed the heights, where the jagged palisade stood black against sullen skies. His warhorse stomped, blood-bay coat rippling, mane lashing the air with black flame.

  Frowning, the sword-theyn pivoted and strode across the yard, then vanished behind the stable. Abruptly, his footsteps stopped.

  Seized by the cold hand of dread, Katrin ran after him, knowing there were specters in these haunted ruins she feared more than him. Something was badly amiss, and she’d known it even before the wolves attacked. At once he reappeared, gauntlet raised in warning.

  “Come no closer.”

  “What have you found?” Fear tightened her throat.

  “I daresay I’ve found all that remains of the steward and his wife. The wolves had at them. Some days ago, by the look of it.”

  “May God have mercy on their souls,” she whispered.

  Faithful to their last breath, her old friends had kept their vigil, with nary a word of complaint. She should never have asked it. She should have found someone else, except there was no one else. There were too few of them left in these dark days. All her choices were hard ones.

  Eomond glanced grimly around the ruin. “Girl, where is your mistress? Time is short.”

  She hesitated. “My mistress is…at Foresthold, her hunting lodge in the wood. We removed there when this keep fell, and the Danes surged south. There were too few fighting men left after the battle—and then the fire—to hold this place. It stands too close to the road, and there was…trouble.”

  “A story often told in these dark days. The loss of this keep was a disaster for the realm. Ethelred hasn’t been able to close this gap to the Danelaw since Courtenay fell.” He glanced at her sharply. “I must demand you take me to your mistress now.”

  “Why, so I shall.” Foreboding prickled her skin. What charge from the king can be so urgent, after years of exile and neglect?

  She could see no immediate escape, but at least her mind was working again. Somehow she must deal with this unwelcome emissary—her uncle’s sworn man, the Devil’s own minion come to serve his master’s purpose.

  Whatever it was he wanted, she’d do what she must to thwart him.

  Chapter Two

  Thoughts seething, Katrin paced her privy chamber. For a fleeting interlude, she’d felt safe here at Foresthold, safe from her uncle’s long reach. Yet she knew any sense of safety was a dangerous illusion. Now even the modest sanctuary of her hunting lodge had been invaded by the outside world. The king’s man had followed here like a wolf from the ruins of Courtenay Hall to this last fragile refuge.

  When her waiting woman appeared, Katrin pivoted. “Does he still wait below?”

  “Aye, this hour and more past—ever since ye arrived.” Gwyneth thumped a flagon of wine on the writing desk. The woman knew her better than anyone alive, for she’d endured with Katrin the dark years of exile. Once she’d served Katrin’s mother, Lady Goda. She knew all the family secrets, and guarded them well.

  “Why is he here?” Katrin fretted. “I wouldn’t have him spill his secrets into twenty pairs of avid ears in the hall, and only the promise of a private audience with my supposed mistress kept him silent. When he discovers I’ve deceived him, God knows what he’ll do.”

  Beneath her white wimple, Gwyneth looked up with a twinkle. “Ye must at least talk to the man to fathom what he’s aboot.”

  “Then let him come—but heed me! You’d best return with him, and station two housecarls outside the door. If they hear an outcry, they’re to burst in at once, do you hear?”

  “I hear well enough, lass.” Gwyneth’s capable hands smoothed Katrin’s saffron kirtle and straightened the copper fillet across her brow. “Are ye certain ye don’t wish to meet him alone? It’s not often ye see a man like that one. He’s a fine strapping figure, aye?”

  “What has that to do with anything? I don’t understand you.”

  “Don’t ye?” Gwyneth braced her hands on her ample hips. “Then I’ll make meself plain. Ye’ve bided long since Maldred’s death, all but forgot by the world. Ye’re a widow now—a woman grown, with a woman’s needs. If ye’re discreet, none would cast blame if ye take a lover.”

  “A lover?” Katrin stared. “Sweet mercy! What unseemly notion have you taken into your head now?”

  “Don’t ye be throwin’ the Christ at me, when I’ve two score years to yer eighteen! Why not, I say? Ye’ve mourned that pious fool long enough—high time ye took a lover. Ye’ve known all the sorrow of a woman’s lot, and none of the joy.”

  Once Katrin had dreamed of finding a great love, like the love that bound her parents. Her marriage to Maldred had brought a swift end to that fantasy.

  “What use have I for a lover?” she said bitterly.

  “Ah, lass, from what I saw of that one—”

  “Enough! I can’t be distracted by girlish fancies. Do you forget whom he’s sworn to?” She sighed. “No more of this. Go and bring him.”

  Gwyneth rolled her eyes heavenward for patience, but lumbered downstairs, grumbling over the rheum in her knees.

  Nervous, Katrin fiddled with the amber pendant that matched her eyes. Cat eyes, witch eyes, Maldred always said—and he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

  When a step sounded on the stair, she turned swiftly. Apprehension snatched her breath.

  The sword-theyn filled her doorway, eyes sweeping the colorful spill of faded tapestries draping her walls, the clutter of scrolls and parchments among racks of burning candles, the great curtained bed. Harsh and forbidding, he could have been a Viking invading her home, tawny hair blazing with firelight.

  When his gaze lit on her, she braced for an explosion of wrath.

  For a heartbeat, he stared at her garbed in a lady’s splendor, a trace of wonder clouding his features. Briefly he passed a hand over his face, as if brushing away cobwebs. Then his fearsome brows drew together.

  “You have a facile tongue, Lady Katrin,” he said, low and dangerous.

  In the gathering dusk that pressed against her window, his presence strung her nerves tight. Yet his expression was inscrutable. Impossible to tell if her lies had angered him. Still, her knowledge of men told her to step quietly.

  Trying to pacify, she strove to flatter him. “I dare swear you were not long taken in.”

  “By the time we reached this hunting lodge, I had my doubts,” he said grimly. “You revealed yourself by your ease of command.”

  Perhaps she need not endure a thundering tirade, or summon her housecarls to restrain him. Still, she didn’t make the mistake of thinking this formidable warrior would easily forgive her deception.

  Well, reduced in fortune and desperate she might be, but let him recall her rank. She was no serving wench to cower before him, no matter how shabby her estate.

  “I pray you’ll pardon my small deceit.” Gracefully she sank into a chair, the table standing safely between them. “You and I were alone in the ruins, far from any assistance, and I couldn’t be certain of you. Do be seated.”

  Frowning, he lowered himself into the opposite chair. Despite her gnawing worry, she was forced to concede he drew the eye: broad-shouldered and larger than life, even without his armor. Tonight he wore a tunic of ocher cloth bordered with knotwork, a dragon gripping the bronze buckle of his belt. He was certainly not handsome, his features too harsh for it: his nose too prominent, cheekbones slanting too sharply, skin chafed by sun and wind—a man who spent too much time frowning into the weather. His eyes
seemed to penetrate the flimsy veil of her deceptions, to seek out her hidden truths.

  Aye, he was fearsome, but something in his looks appealed to her. He was stamped with strength and unwavering resolve—traits she held in abiding respect.

  He would be perilous to oppose. But oppose him she would.

  When Gwyneth bustled in with the winecups, relief surged through her.

  Perhaps this long-traveled nuisance will drink himself insensate. They await my word outside. We can leave him somewhere, lost in the wood, and bar the door against him. In any event, she would find some way to be rid of him.

  She smiled. “Will you take wine?”

  While he poured for both of them, she studied him gravely. “I fear I’ve been remiss, sword-theyn. I haven’t expressed my gratitude for your assistance with the wolves. Without you, it would have gone ill for me.”

  “I doubt that.” Over his cup, he shot her a wry glance. “You seemed well in command of your own defense.”

  Well, let him think so. She smiled politely.

  After a token swallow, he lowered his cup to the table. Dismayed, she realized he intended to spill out his business. Thus far, drink had not forestalled him.

  She said the first thing that came into her head.

  “Pray tell, how fares my uncle?”

  He checked himself on the edge of speaking. Impatience drew his brows together. “That tale’s long in the telling.”

  Praise God for that. She slid the flagon toward him.

  Glancing around with a courtier’s caution, he propped his elbows on the table and hunkered forward. Firelight glowed on the bronze-hammered torques that banded his forearms, sinuous with a warrior’s strength.

  “The king mourns the loss of another son. Edward died of a hunting accident on Lammas Day. All of England grieves for him.”

  “God’s mercy! It’s the second son he’s lost, in as many years.”

  “Aye, and he needed Edward badly for alliance. That marriage will never be made now. Five sons, four daughters, and all spoken for, with the king himself wedded to Normandy’s sister.” He leaned forward. “The Danes are overrunning these shores. Every summer the Forkbeard and his dragon-ships bring more of them. Ethelred’s spread thin as oil over famine bread—he needs more allies.”

  Need them he may, but he can find them elsewhere. I’ve done my duty.

  “Aren’t you eager to hear his bidding, lady?”

  Nay, he would have sensed by now she was anything but. Dread constricted her chest.

  “To the contrary, sword-theyn. I’d prefer to hear nothing at all and be forgotten utterly. But I see ’tis too much to hope for.”

  “The man’s your king, and you his sworn vassal.”

  “The man is the Devil, and my husband was his sworn vassal! I swore nothing, nor was asked to.”

  “He’s your kinsman.” Eomond frowned. “I thought your relations must be cordial.”

  “When last I saw him, I was a pawn to be placed where it suited him, no matter my wishes or my grieving mother, my father barely cold in his grave.” Simmering, she thrust to her feet. “And here you find me. I assure you cordial is the last word to describe our relations.”

  Restless, she strode to the casement and struggled to regain her composure. “I suppose you’ll relate what he sent you to say, whether I wish to hear it or nay.”

  “So I’ve sworn.” He studied her through narrowed gaze, as though she spoke a foreign language.

  Mercy, she could burn in those eyes of his—dark embers, no Viking blue at all. And he stared at her as though he saw nothing else.

  She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “I would hear it straight out, without softening.”

  “My charge is to bring you to court,” Eomond said flatly. “You’re summoned to appear by Midwinter.”

  Whatever she’d expected, it was never this. Her stomach sank with dismay. Her gaze flew to Gwyneth, who clearly shared her alarm.

  Blindly, Katrin gripped the casement behind her, and anchored herself against the sweeping tide of fear. Still she felt small and helpless—a condition she despised—before this redoubtable warrior whose presence in her chamber was an unmistakable threat.

  “So he’d end my exile at last,” she whispered. “To what purpose?”

  “My lady, I’m only a sword-theyn. Beyond military matters, I’m hardly privy to his council.”

  “Oh, but surely you must have some surmise. Haven’t you thought upon it, these many days on the road?”

  “If you want my surmise, here it is. Ethelred seeks another great alliance, and all his kin are spoken for, save the babes in arms. He’ll seal it with your marriage.”

  She felt as though she were falling from a vast height. Her blood hammered painfully in her chest. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Try though she might to think, her thoughts swirled like a rising river.

  “Another marriage?” she breathed. “To whom?”

  His voice seemed to echo from far away. “I can’t say. It’s only rumor, with a dozen names attached.”

  Did Ethelred still seek vengeance against Goda of Grayhaven, the only woman who’d dared to defy him? Or had the passage of time eased his choler? Her mother lay in her grave now, dead in childbed—a last bitter gift from her dead husband. And Katrin had wed where Ethelred ordered, having no choice in the matter. She’d shouldered the cross of her husband’s harsh and narrow-minded piety, struggled to be the modest and soft-spoken wife he demanded, fought to curb her impulses and bend before his wishes, pliant as a reed before the wind.

  But when God answered her prayers—her shameful prayers, whispered in the night while she lay beside her husband, tears streaming down her face—when God mowed down Maldred of Courtenay with the scythe of pestilence, her usefulness to Ethelred had ended. While he lived, Maldred held England’s enemies at bay. Now they crossed the border at will, piercing deep into the realm with their punishing raids. And that cross too was hers to bear.

  She’d hoped Ethelred had forgotten her, crouched behind her walls in this godforsaken outpost. But she’d been a fool to hope for that.

  The Church’s demands for obedience in women flew forgotten from her head. “What if I refuse this summons?”

  “Refuse it?” He stared as though she’d run mad. “To what end? Surely you can’t wish to stay in this benighted place? Thor’s hammer, you nearly died this very day.”

  “I do wish it! Winter is upon us. I won’t undertake a lengthy and perilous journey at this season.”

  Besides, I’ll undertake no marriage to another monster like the last, no matter what you’ve sworn.

  Clearly taken aback by her forceful objection, he studied her through narrowed eyes. No doubt he’d assumed she would tamely begin packing. Now she would hear the usual male bluster, displayed by her late husband whenever a woman demonstrated she had a will of her own.

  “My lady, have no fear. I’ve sworn to bring you safely. You can be certain I’ll do it.”

  “And because you’ve sworn, all the starving brigands and wild Vikings of the Danelaw will allow us safe passage? All the beasts of the forest too? And will your oath hold the winter storms and sickness at bay, as well? There’s smallpox in the southern shires.”

  “I understand your misgivings.” His fingers drummed irritably against his thigh. “But I won’t fail you. I’ll hire stout men to strengthen our party, if none of yours can be spared.”

  “You may be certain of that,” she said tartly. “You have your choice of a rheumatic captain, a pikeman with a broken leg, and four housecarls laid low by the sweating sickness. Oh, and I should include the potboy belowstairs among my would-be defenders.”

  Visibly he strained to keep hold of his temper. “Surely there are some likely men who’d welcome the chance to earn hone
st coin.”

  “And what shall I pay them with?”

  Unexpectedly Gwyneth spoke from her corner. “You could pay them in goats, milady.”

  Katrin felt the sting of betrayal from that defection. “We’ve none of those to spare, Gwyneth. Go below and ensure all’s in order for the night. Make certain Egfrida hasn’t forgotten to cover the milk again, lest we find the mice swimming in it.”

  Gwyneth planted her hands on her hips. “Now, lass—”

  “And make certain she doesn’t thrash that wretched lad who spilled the stew. Remind her I will not abide violence beneath this roof, no matter what the offense.”

  Heaving a sigh, Gwyneth hustled her substantial bulk downstairs.

  Eomond cleared his throat. “You’re dismayed by the expense. I’ve a purse to provision our party.”

  Katrin resisted the impulse to stamp her foot. “Haven’t you heard me? I’ve said it’s the wrong season to venture forth.”

  “You’ll have to argue the matter with Ethelred yourself.” Patience snapping, he thrust to his feet. “Be reasonable, girl. The season passes swiftly, with no heed for a woman’s bridal nerves.”

  “Bridal nerves?”

  “My lady, there’s no point standing here and debating. Your king commands it. Your duty’s to obey.”

  “Don’t dare to lecture me on my duty. Haven’t I done my duty without complaint in this accursed land these four years past? I vow I grow right weary of it.” She struggled to rein in her flaring temper. “Ethelred is many days’ ride from here and won’t venture near the border for any reason—for which I thank God on bended knee. Perhaps I’ll say ‘here I stay,’ and let him do what he can to move me.”

  “I don’t advise it.” He strode around the table to confront her. Perhaps the man wasn’t as easily led as she’d hoped.

  “What will you do if I refuse? Are you charged to drag me bound and screaming from my hall?”

  Unexpectedly, he looked chagrined—a chink in that formidable armor. “I hope we won’t come to such a pass. Look here, what do you think will happen if I return without you? Do you think Ethelred will shrug and let it drop? He’ll have his way in the end, as he always does. I can see you’re not pleased—but what choice do you have?”