Spoil of War: An Arthurian Saga

Leodegrance removed his outer robe, the red one which declared his office, and draped it over Elsbeth’s shoulders. She reached up to hold it closed, but the king’s hand, circled around her, was there first. “I’ll take you to your room. The passageways at night can be confusing.”

“You could send a servant for that.”

“This I prefer to do myself.” Pressing her body close to his, his free hand taking hers, Leodegrance guided Elsbeth back to her apartments. Heat enveloped her — from the robe, the nearness of his body, his breath on her cheek, flowing out from the center of her being.

The outer door was closed, the room beyond dark, the fire burning low. Two shapes huddled beneath the fur blanket, one breathing softly as she slept, the other gently snoring. Elsbeth and Leodegrance slipped past them into the far chamber. Picking up the iron poker, the king stirred life back into the fire that Ruth had laid.

With bruising suddenness, Leodegrance whirled, pulling Elsbeth fiercely to him. Even through his robes and her tunics she could feel the strength of his desire. He bent his neck, swept back her hair, and took her throat in his mouth. His hands clutched at her back, drawing her as near as their garments would allow.

“I could force you to submit.”

“You could.”

With a shuddering breath he released her. As quickly as he had taken her, she was free. He paced the room with long strides and measured breath. An angry lion schooling himself to patience. She breathed in the scent of him — ¬mead and sweat and musk. The fire in the middle of her being spread. A demanding flame.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Her laugh was sharp, shrill. “You could ask me that after what you’ve done to me?”

“But you want me. You want —”

“I want to be free.”

He caught her again, crushed his lips to hers. She responded, unable to help herself, unable to resist. “Your body knows. One night, Lady.”

He was warm beneath her hands. Warm and tense, hard and leanly muscled. Indeed her body did know. It ached for him, would draw him down into it if she surrendered her will for even a moment.

She held tight. The hands that of themselves had caught at his neck and shoulder she used to push away from him.

“By God, Lady, you would refuse a king?”

“I would refuse a murderer.”

“That was war. It’s what you do in battle.”

“Then war is murder.”

“And every man’s son a murderer, then. Look about you, Lady. Who is clean enough to share your bed?”

“Then let my bed go unshared until I die.”

He shook his head. “Passion runs too high in you. You couldn’t live by the vows of Christ’s brides.”

“For this one night I shall. Leave me.”

His jaw twitched, and for a moment Elsbeth thought he would hit her for her haughtiness. His right fist clenched once, unclenched slowly.

“I shall have you. By my life and crown and kingdom I swear I shall have you!”

“And by your honor you will not. That was the oath that you first swore.”

Leodegrance’s anger rose. So did his hand. Elsbeth saw it, refused to cower beneath the blow that must accompany it.

“Damnation!” The hand closed around the base of a golden candlestick. Only Elsbeth’s widened eyes betrayed her fear. The candlestick flew, crashing against the far wall.

Two strides and the king was at the door. It opened before he could touch the latch and Ector, in splendid naked wrath, burst in, his sword high before him. His eyes swept in the king, the room, Elsbeth all in the space of a heartbeat. The blade fell a fraction. “My Liege, all is well?”

Leodegrance scowled. “All is not well. God’s greatest mistake was to give women wit and the will to use it.”