Mary Reed McCall (9 page)

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!”

G
ray 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.

Eduard stopped within a few paces of both the king and Gray, so that the three of them formed a sort of triangle as they faced one to the other.

“Montford…” the king said, tight with rage. “What have you to say about this forbidden fray?”

“I can say little, other than to confess to receiving a well-deserved drubbing.”

Gray looked askance at him, doubting him more with every word that fell from his lips.

“And ’tis Your Highness’s humble apology I wish to beg before this assembly, as well as that of my noble brother by marriage, for goading him into battle. ’Twas in sport that I approached him on the field, hoping to collect ransom as a jest so soon after his wedding to my sister.”

The king looked ready to explode, but whatever he was feeling, it was only half of what Gray himself experienced. “What mean you by this?” Gray growled under his breath. “If you play another mockery with me, Montford, I warn you, ’twill be answered in blood.”

Eduard turned full to face him, his expression so contrite as to make the very angels of heaven welcome him with an embrace. Gray’s eyes narrowed, and he saw the king’s gaze shifting back and forth between them.

“Nay, brother, ’tis no jest.” Eduard bowed his head. “I must needs beg your pardon for the injuries I did to you, and hence to my sweet sister,” his gaze swept over Elise, “when I pursued you on the field. I fear I was overzealous. And when you threw down your sword and walked away after besting
me, ’twas to my dishonor that I leapt up and used my dagger against you.”

The king turned, incredulous, to Gray. “You threw down your blade and walked away?”

“Aye,” Gray answered, never breaking his gaze from Eduard’s face, “though I can assure you that it will never happen again.”

Silence settled thick over the crowd. The king stared and scowled, while Gray fought against renewed rage bubbling hot in his blood. That Eduard worked another travesty here was clear, but why? What could he gain by admitting his guilt before the king?

Finally King Henry made a scoffing sound and spun to face the assembly. His cloak billowed around him in regal folds. “We will rest here for the remainder of the day,” he called, his voice echoing tight off the great chamber’s stonework. “Seek you a place and prepare for the banquet. We leave on the morrow, at sunrise!”

Then turning back again, he muttered, “Camville, Montford—come with Us.” He stalked away toward Gray’s private solar off of the great hall, leaving the men to make their way after him.

Gray glanced at Elise, whose face was ashen, her eyes trained on the floor. But Alban met his gaze, his brows raised in an expression that echoed his own uneasiness. ’Twas a time for diplomacy, his friend seemed to say, not for the settling of scores. Nodding agreement, Gray strode forward, his jaw clenched, and his steps stiff but purposeful. Anger
at Eduard still gnawed his gut, but he forced himself to suppress it.

Alban was right. More important matters than a desire for vengeance needed to be addressed right now. The signs were all there, God help them, and Gray knew as well as any that the next minutes might well determine certain key aspects of his future and the achievement of his goals.

As much as he despised the political games required on occasions such as these, ’twas the harsh truth that the Royal Lion of England needed soothing. Unless reparation was made, some kind of concession given, Gray knew that his Sovereign’s razor-sharp claws were extended at the ready—and prepared to scratch their measure of blood from his already battered flesh.

A quarter of an hour later the solar door remained firmly shut. Catherine had been sitting at her place on the dais, hands clenched in her lap, as she waited. She’d struggled unsuccessfully to quell the fears that kept assaulting her. Meeting the king had terrified her beyond reason, and the dread still encircled her chest like a band of steel.

She nodded to one of the ladies who caught her glance, forcing a smile to her lips. Grasping her goblet with trembling fingers, she took a sip of its potent brew to calm herself. It didn’t work.

Sweet Mother Mary, the king had noticed her appearance enough to comment on it in front of the entire assembly
. She’d felt, at that moment, that she might
not possess strength to take another breath of air into her lungs. When she’d found voice to answer, ’twas with the first response that sprang to mind. She only hoped she’d remembered Elise’s age correctly. That she hadn’t exposed herself to more scrutiny, more noticeable discrepancy.

Curse Eduard for leaving her out to dry again. In those weeks before the wedding, he’d tutored her and fed her details that he thought might be useful concerning Elise’s life and experiences. But she couldn’t learn everything about his dead sister or her habits in so short a time. Now he was closeted in the solar with the king, her husband and Alban.

What if Henry remembered something more about Eduard’s knighting ceremony, recalled some detail and questioned him about it, and he unknowingly gave the true facts, glaringly different from those she’d blurted but a few moments ago? His Highness might become suspicious about her, as she sensed her husband already was.

By the Saints, if the lie she lived was exposed, all was lost. Aye, the discovery of Eduard’s plots might save her from having to assist in a foul murder, but what then? Her children would surely perish at the hands of Eduard’s men. At the very least the king would have her imprisoned for her part in the plot to kill his most powerful, favored champion. Then there’d be no one left to protect her babes, no one to shield them from brutality and avarice.

Sickness clenched her belly, and she forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. Panic would gain nothing here, she reminded herself. She’d not sur
vived men’s cruelty this long by falling to pieces every time she felt threatened. She would be strong. She’d wait and watch, as she always had. And then she’d find a way out of this nightmare, or any other that might come her way to torment her.

The solar door opened. Catherine’s gaze flew to the faces of the men emerging from behind its polished panels. The king came out first, his expression inscrutable. She felt a tiny flare of hope. He didn’t seem angry.