Chapter 5 #2
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 survived 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.
Then her husband walked through the portal, and her hopes withered.
He looked like a thundercloud ready to burst. Lord of the Storm, they call him…
William de Bergh’s comment echoed its warning in Catherine’s mind as she stood and forced her legs to carry her toward the men.
For once she was glad of the many eyes that watched her as lady of Ravenslock; several servants fell into step behind her, awaiting her command for attention to the king.
But her husband spoke first. He motioned for his steward to lead Henry to the large bedchamber.
For this night at least, he and Catherine would move to a room down the hall.
Henry said something about a rest before the feast, then swung his arm in command of his own servants, before following the steward to the door.
Catherine’s fingers twisted in her skirts as she caught Gray’s intense expression.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” she murmured, trying without success to pull her gaze from the mesmerizing force of his stare.
“Aye, lady. Much is amiss.”
She felt as if she were going to be sick. She looked desperately to Eduard, sure, now, that something dangerous had been said in chambers with the king. But he failed to notice her, having moved stiffly to the table to gulp down a cup of ale even as he gestured for another.
Gray’s next comment dragged her attention back.
“King Henry leaves on the morrow for a journey to London, to preside over an ordeal by battle. I was to be his champion in the fight against the traitor who’s been charged.” A muscle in Gray’s jaw twitched. “But the king has elected to use another instead, due to the severity of my wounds.”
Clenching his fists, he shifted to give the man responsible for his injuries a look that was half scowl, half wolfish glare.
A shudder slipped down Catherine’s back as she felt the leashed power in every muscled inch of Gray’s warrior-hard body.
Even wounded, he was a force to be reckoned with, and it vividly reminded her of the violence that her husband was capable of committing.
Of his unsurpassed ability to kill, and how it had earned him his title as the king’s High Champion.
“’Tis most unwelcome news,” he said, sliding his gaze to her again. “Yet I cannot but choose to obey.” She thought that he might say more, but then he simply nodded brusquely and stalked from the hall.
Where he was going, Catherine couldn’t tell.
He needed time to cool his temper, no doubt.
Her guess was that he’d saddle his huge silver stallion and ride.
Such jarring would pain his injuries, she knew, but somehow mere physical discomfort suddenly seemed unlikely to affect this man who had transformed before her eyes from flesh and blood to hardened steel.
Alban stepped up from behind her. “Fear not, lady. Your husband will take care not to pull his stitches or strain his wounds overhard. But he’ll not be fit for the feast this night until he’s burned away some of the demons that sting him.”
She turned to face her husband’s friend. “Is it that keen of a disappointment to him, then, to be kept from a court battle?”
“Aye, though ’tis not just that. The king also fined him for hosting this day’s mélée and issued new sanctions against both him and Eduard for their fighting.
He declared that if they ever disobey him in this—if they ever come to blows again—’twill be at risk of all that they have, including their rank as his personal champions. ”
“I’d have thought that being denied the privilege to engage in constant battle would be a relief, not a punishment.”
Alban shook his head. “I cannot speak for your brother, but I know Gray. His purpose in life is to fight and fight well. For King Henry especially, but whenever and wherever he finds opportunity and cause. The king’s decision to leave him behind tomorrow is bound to be a sore distress to him.”
“But why? It seems so reckless for a man of his wealth and status. ’Tis why there are knights, hundreds of them, to serve in place of a great lord such as he!
” Catherine struggled to quell the shrill quality of her voice.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d lose all composure and go hysterical on him.
After the events of the day, her nerves felt tight enough to play like a harp.
Mastering her overwrought emotions, she added quietly, “Why does he continue to risk himself time and again if not for the petty sake of more acclaim, more glory?”
Alban seemed to consider how to answer. He gazed long into her eyes, as if reading her ability to hear the truth.
Finally he glanced away. “The reasons are deep that drive him, lady, and ’tis for him to tell you the full of it.
But know that he burns to see justice done.
’Tis why he craves the position as Sheriff of Cheltenham. ’Tis what keeps him breathing.”
With that, Alban nodded his leave and followed Gray’s route from the hall. She was left to stand bewildered, trying to make sense out of that which seemed to have neither rhyme nor reason.
None, at least, worthy to explain the commanding, formidable enigma embodied in the man who was her lord husband.