Page 79 of The Earl

Chapter 32

Runnymede, England, 15 June 1215

“Will you come with us?” Conrad asked.

Cait had just entered their tent to fetch a mantle for protection against the cold. They’d been in this open meadow between Windsor and Staines for just over a sennight, the negotiations having taken longer than anyone had expected. Last eve, however, just after the sun had set, the men had come back with the happy news.

It was done.

They’d finally agreed on all sixty clauses of the Charter of Runnymede, and it was being readied for them to sign. And although the king had returned to Windsor Castle each night rather than stay in this tent city that had been erected, he would be present this morn.

“I am not needed,” she said to her husband, grateful for the invitation nonetheless.

When his hands slipped around her waist, Cait leaned into him, enjoying a warmth more profound than any mantle could give her. Would she ever become accustomed to her husband’s closeness? When he was near, she had difficulty thinking of little else besides his touch.

“I need you.”

He brushed her hair aside with his chin, his lips finding her neck. Cait tilted her head to the side to give him better access.

“You do not,” she chided, Cait’s core clenching as he kissed just under her ear. She swallowed.

What were they discussing?

His tongue?

Nay, their meeting with the king.

“Conrad—”

He spun her around, his lips capturing hers. As he kissed her, Conrad took the mantle from her hands and slid it over her shoulders. She felt the warmth of the soft fabric enveloping her. Much as Conrad was doing with his arms.

Cait would have been content to remain as such for the entire day, but . . .

“You’ve a treaty to sign.” She pulled away reluctantly.

He would not be swayed. After securing her mantle, he took her hand and kissed her once more. “Come.”

When they stepped outside, Cait startled. The others were all there, already mounted. Lance and Idalia, Guy and Sabine, Terric and Roysa . . .

“Apologies.” Conrad guided her toward them. “We had a slight delay.”

Judging from their expressions, they knew precisely what Conrad meant by “delay.” She could feel her cheeks warming.

“I did not realize you would all . . .” She let her sentence drift off. Conrad, Terric, Guy, and Lance all bore the mark of the fleur-de-lis, as did Sabine. The mark of the Order of the Broken Blade. Just yesterday Conrad had suggested that perhaps she would like to get the same mark once they returned to Licheford.

Only now did she realize what he’d truly been asking. He wanted her to join the order. She could only be an honorary member, truly, because she was no knight.

But even so . . .

“Will you come with us?” Conrad asked again.

“Of course,” she said as his squire and another page brought their horses forward. “Of course,” she mumbled again, through a throat clogged with emotion. For years, she’d felt weighed down by the guilt of what had happened. By the fact that Conrad bore a scar because of her. That he had been forced to kill a man, a king’s man, because of her. That her brother had become a man driven by revenge, because of her.

But she’d lost sight of the fact that these four men had come together, in part, because of her. By asking her to join them, Conrad was telling her that she had played a role in their victory.

Once she and Conrad were settled on their mounts, her husband nodded to the others and told them they were ready. Riding away from the tent city, Cait was lulled into a near trance. Her mind wandered back to that day, to everything that had happened since . . .

“I am one of you,” she said firmly.