Velvet Bond

A deep flush stained her cheeks as she recalled her actions. Elizabeth had felt drawn to the man by some force outside herself, going to him without even pausing for thought. And had, in doing so, made a complete and utter fool of herself.

Surreptitiously she looked around the room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Now that Warwicke had left with her brother, they seemed to have gone back to their own interests. Even Percy was busily fixing the string on his lute.

Then her gaze came to rest on Lady Helen, who was standing close by, with cruel amusement in her eyes.

Elizabeth flushed, but forced herself to raise her head high. She would not allow the other woman to think she had been bested.

Lady Helen smiled thinly. “He cuts quite a figure, does he not?”

Raising finely arched brows high, Elizabeth asked, “Who?”

But the other woman was clearly not fooled. “Why, my Lord Warwicke. I felt certain that you took particular notice of him, Elizabeth.”

She shrugged with as much indifference as she could summon. “Nay. I took no particular note of the man. He is my brother’s friend, as I'm sure you heard.”

“Oh, methinks there was more to it than that,” Helen countered.

The spite in Helen Denfield’s voice was discomfiting, even though Elizabeth sensed the cause behind it. She was not so simpleminded that she was unaware of the fact that most folk thought her beautiful. It was not her fault that her looks drew so much attention, but they had made her more than a few enemies. There were many who would be happy to hear of her embarrassment. Elizabeth was a very private individual and did not care for the idea that idle court gossip would be turned her way. This was one of the reasons she and Stephen had a house in the village instead of residing at the castle itself. If she did not do something to silence Helen now, her encounter with Lord Warwicke would likely have become an affair by nightfall. Court gossips never hesitated to embellish a story beyond recognition.

But Helen Denfield had her own vulnerability, in the form of Stephen, and Elizabeth wasn’t above reminding her of this.

Helen did not know her well enough, and so could not know Elizabeth would never actually spread tales. But Elizabeth was aware that most people were apt to judge others by themselves, and so Helen would likely believe otherwise. The widow would surely hold her tongue, if she thought Stephen’s sister might talk about her affair with him. Rumor of the liaison would not aid her in her quest for a husband.

Elizabeth said, “My dear Lady Helen, I'm most certain you misunderstood. After all, you seem too much fixed on the things my brother does and says to take note of aught else.”

Lady Denfield gasped, and raised her hand as if to slap Elizabeth. Then, as the younger woman continued to return her stare, the widow seemed to realize that her genteel pose would not be served by such an act. Helen turned and fled the room.

Elizabeth arched a brow, watching as the brown-haired beauty lifted a delicate hand to wipe away nonexistent tears, just in case someone had taken note of their exchange.

But Elizabeth didn’t really care. She had already forgotten Helen as she turned toward the other end of the room, where the door to the king’s audience chamber lay. There was no sign of her brother or the other two men, and she could only assume they had gone into the inner room.

Her mind was ablaze with unanswered questions concerning Raynor Warwicke. He was the most compelling man she had ever seen. Her lips tightened as she recalled the way he had barely acknowledged her presence. It simply would not do. Because of her own interest in him, Elizabeth felt a need for him to show some reaction to her.

Pensively she frowned. Not once in her life had Elizabeth been denied anything she wanted. And she did not mean to set a different precedent now.

She was not finished with Lord Warwicke yet.

* * *

The luxuriously appointed audience chamber left little impression on Lord Raynor Warwicke as he walked down the wide aisle at its center, leaving Stephen and Bronic waiting just inside the oaken door. He forced himself onward on legs that felt as stiff as tilting posts as he passed by the somberly dressed clergy and sumptuously dressed courtiers who stood at either side of him. All his attention was focused on his king, where he sat on a raised dais at the end of the audience chamber. Edward III was flanked by two of his knights, both members of the Order of the Garter. Roger Mortise and the earl of Caliber were men of exemplary character, and battle-hardened warriors loyal to the throne. Edward was a king who set such store by honor and chivalry that he had established the Order of the Garter in 1348 for the purpose of exalting those qualities.

The baron of Warwicke did his best to relax the rigid muscles in his face and shoulders. The king would not know that Raynor had come here fully prepared to forswear himself, nor that the very future of an innocent three-year-old child hinged upon his doing just that.

Raynor was totally aware of the tall, slim man who stood to the right of the dais. There was nothing in that one’s outward appearance to tell the world that he was the most despicable of men. He was dressed as the other courtiers were, in rich fabrics and colors, and his face was strongly made, his Viking heritage firmly stamped upon it. Harrington’s eyes were blue, the hair a deep golden-brown. Not one hint of the black heart that beat inside his chest was visible. But Raynor knew it was there. Nigel Harrington had caused more misery in twenty-four years than most would bring in several lifetimes. Raynor would not allow him to have custody of little Willow. After what the man had done to his own step-sister, he was not to be trusted with the care of any female.

But Raynor had no more time to think on that now. He came to a halt only a few feet from the seated monarch, squaring his shoulders, deliberately keeping his mind focused on what he had to do. Drawing the hatred down into the deepest part of himself.

King Edward shifted his long legs as he leaned back, studying the men before him, seeming to miss little. The baron of Warwicke forced himself to bear this scrutiny without flinching.

The forty-eight-year-old Edward’s golden hair and beard were liberally streaked with gray, but he was still a vital and vibrant ruler. Over his chair was a shield that bore the arms he had taken for his own. Raynor knew it irritated the French greatly that Edward had chosen to place his own leopards on the first quarter of his shield, rather than the fleur-de-lis. Though of Norman descent, Edward had always been one to think of himself as an Englishman first and foremost.

The king caught and held Raynor’s gaze for a long, tense moment. But Raynor kept himself erect, not giving away any hint of his inner anger.

Edward spoke, saying the words Raynor had feared he would. “And you are ready to swear on a relic of the one true cross, Lord Warwicke, that the child is yours?”

His back became arrow-straight. Even though he’d known all along that the situation would come to this, Raynor was surprised at the quick shaft of guilt that pierced him at the idea of forswearing himself. But the feeling was short-lived. He must carry through, for the sake of the little one. Raynor nodded, sharply, then raised his square chin. “I am.”

He heard a quickly indrawn breath from his right, and looked toward Nigel Harrington with a quirked brow. If nothing else, Raynor was pleased at having shocked his adversary. Nigel had made the mistake of believing Raynor too honorable to play by his own tactics.

King Edward nodded to his cleric, then motioned toward Raynor. “Kneel down.”

Raynor fell to his knees, his gaze locked on the front of the monk’s black robe.

The cleric brought forth a small wooden box, which Raynor knew would contain a sliver of the Lord’s cross. He held it toward Raynor. “Do you, on your honor as a knight, swear by this piece of the one true cross, and in the name of Edward III, king of England, that the child called Willow is of your own seed, without doubt?”

Forcing himself to take the box without hesitation, Raynor brought it to his lips. “I do swear this on my honor as a knight.”

Nigel Harrington let out a growl of outrage. “He lies.”

King Edward turned toward Nigel with an expression of forbearance. “My lord Harrington, in the days you have been at court you have shown no evidence that what you say is fact. Do you have some proof to offer us at this time?”

There was a silence as Nigel fumed, his blue eyes locked on Raynor’s with fury. “No, my liege, I do not, but—”

Edward interrupted him. “Then there is nothing more to be said.” He shrugged wide shoulders encased in purple velvet. “Unless you were present at the child’s conception, you have nothing to add.”

As the king spoke, Nigel cringed, but quickly recovered. Raynor felt a burning urge to run him through right there before them all, and his fingers passed fondly over the hilt of his sword. He and Raynor were the only two people on earth who knew the true circumstances of Willow’s conception. The coward would not, could not, tell them that he had raped his own sister-by-marriage. Raynor had counted on this, but seeing the fear on the other man’s face only made him all the more disgusted.

Nigel sputtered out, “But, King Ed—”

Edward looked toward him with a dark scowl. “Lord Harrington. We have listened to you, and done our utmost to bring this matter to a speedy conclusion. We have ordered Warwicke here in haste and put him to the test. In all things we have tried to do our duty by you.” His lips thinned. “Warwicke has given his word, and as you have no proof that the child is not his, you may consider it done. We bear you no malice in this, Lord Harrington, feeling that your sister’s death has clouded your thinking, and in your grief you simply try to retain some piece of her by wanting guardianship of her child. But ’tis most clear that the child is the natural offspring of Warwicke, and he has already assured us of his intent to see the little girl well done by. You may leave Windsor with those comforting thoughts to see you safe home.”

When Nigel opened his mouth as if to protest, the king raised an imperious hand. “The matter is done.”

With that, Edward turned to Raynor. “It is our hope that such a dispute will not again occur concerning you, my lord Warwicke. In future, should you dally, make most certain that the gentlewoman is your wife.”

Raynor lowered his eyes and nodded. “King Edward, you have my assurance that I will do so.” He did not add that he planned to stay as far away from that type of female as possible.

Edward motioned with a beringed hand. “Arise, my lord Warwicke, and consider this dispute settled. I would have no more strife because of it.” He stared at Nigel Harrington for a long moment.

Knowing that he had been chastened by the king, however politely, Nigel Harrington turned and hurried from the chamber.

Raynor felt a sweet relief ease the tight band of tension around his chest. Now Willow would be safe from that bastard who called himself her uncle.

King Edward waved a dismissive hand. “We have many other matters to attend, Lord Warwicke, and thus I must bid you good-day.”

“My thanks to you, my liege.” Raynor bowed himself from the room. He was more than glad to have this interview at an end. He forced himself to walk the length of the room with carefully measured steps.

Bronic and Stephen followed him as the great oaken door was opened, and they passed into the antechamber.