The Prize

Chapter Four

After spending one long week with Lady Nicholaa, Royce decided he wasn't a very patient man, after all. By the time they reached their destination, he was ready to strangle her.

The hellion had made the journey as unpleasant as possible, and damn if she didn't try to escape three additional times.

The woman simply refused to see the futility of running away. She was sinfully stubborn. But then, so was he. He had demanded she concede defeat to him each time he caught her. He had even said the one word-"checkmate"-that seemed to send her into a full rage, but in truth, he wasn't trying to humiliate her. He only had her best interests at heart. If she was going to survive with her spirit intact under Norman rule, she would have to be more docile. Not everyone would be as kind and as thoughtful as he was.

Royce didn't want Nicholaa to be hurt. The mere thought of anyone mistreating her made his mood blacken.

The need to protect her nagged at his conscience. He found himself lecturing her on how to behave when they reached London. Nicholaa, however, wasn't in the mood to listen to anything he had to say. When he suggested she be docile, she bit him. He let her get away with that only because she'd had so little sleep over the past god-awful week, and she was simply too muddleheaded to think properly.

They reached London in midafternoon. The palace was nearly empty of guests when Royce strode inside, nearly dragging Nicholaa in his wake. He ordered two soldiers to report to William that his prize had at last arrived. Royce personally saw to the task of settling Nicholaa in her chamber.

She tried to trip him with her foot, and he really did drag her a good distance before letting her regain her balance.

He would be glad to be rid of her. Royce kept telling himself that lie until he almost believed it.

Almost.

His second-in-command, a knight several years his senior, caught up with the pair just as Royce was opening the door to Nicholaa's quarters. The soldier's name was Lawrence. He was a fit looking man with brown hair and hazel eyes. He was nearly as tall as his liege lord, but lacked the bulk and the muscle around his shoulders. Lawrence had fought by Royce's side in countless battles. He was a seasoned warrior, trustworthy, and loyal to his very soul. He was also Royce's good friend.

"'Tis good to see you again, my lord," Lawrence said in greeting. In his enthusiasm, he slapped Royce on his shoulder. Dust flew up into the air between the two giants. Lawrence laughed. "You're in need of a bath, Baron."

"Aye, I am," Royce answered. "It's good to be here." He glanced down at Nicholaa, matched her frown, and then added, "At last."

The implication wasn't lost on her. She knew she was the reason the journey had taken so long. Her chin came up a notch.

Lawrence was highly curious about the woman. When he turned to her, his heart skipped a beat. Lord, she was a beauty. Her eyes captivated him. They were the most unusual shade of blue he'd ever seen.

She wasn't timid, either. Her gaze was direct, unwavering.

Royce was amused by his vassal's reaction. It was as telling as Ingelram's had been when he'd first seen Nicholaa. Lawrence looked stunned.

"This is Lady Nicholaa," Royce announced.

Lawrence bowed low. "It is a pleasure to meet you, milady."

She curtsied in response to his politeness.

"I look forward to hearing about your adventures," Lawrence said.

"What adventures?" she asked.

"For one, I would like to hear how you came by all those bruises. You do look as though you'd been in battle," he added with a gentle smile. "Surely there's a story there."

"She's prone to accidents," Royce drawled.

She let Royce see her frown. Then she turned back to Lawrence. "I won't be in London long enough to tell you any stories."

She remembered Royce still had hold of her wrist when he started squeezing it. Lawrence noticed the frown on his baron's face, but couldn't understand the reason behind it. "Are you going somewhere soon, milady?" he inquired.

"No," Royce said.

"Yes," she said at the very same instant.

Lawrence grinned. "There's a rumor, Baron, that we will be leaving for Normandy before the week is out."

"We'll discuss that later," Royce announced with a meaningful glance at Nicholaa.

The vassal nodded. He noticed that a stricken look had come over the beautiful woman's face and decided she must be exhausted from her journey. "The king will send servants to see to your comforts, Lady Nicholaa," he announced.

"And soldiers to see that I don't escape?" she asked.

Lawrence was taken aback by the vehemence in her voice. "You're not a prisoner," he announced. He gave Royce a look of puzzlement. "Is she, Baron?"

Royce nodded. "She is until she accepts her fate," he announced.

"William is your king, too," Lawrence said to Nicholaa. His voice was gentle.

"No, he isn't."

"Lawrence, it won't do you any good to argue with her."

Royce let go of Nicholaa's wrist and gave her a nudge to get her moving. She walked into the chamber, Royce and Lawrence following close behind her. "I will escape," she boasted.

She went directly to the window. Royce knew what was going through her mind. "You'll break your neck if you try to jump, Nicholaa."

She turned around and smiled at him. "And would you care, Baron?"

He didn't give her a direct answer. "Your Ulric will care when he's old enough to understand. Consider him and Justin, too, Nicholaa, whenever you contemplate doing something foolish. You'll be harming your family as well as yourself." He started to pull the door closed.

"Wait," she called out, a frantic edge in her voice.

Royce stopped and turned to face her. "Yes?"

She took a step toward him. "Is that it, then? You're leaving?"

"Was there something more you wanted?"

"No."

He started to leave again.

"Is that all you can say to me?" she demanded.

He stopped again and let out a loud sigh. "What more do you want me to say?"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she started wringing her hands.

He couldn't understand what had come over her. "What in God's name is the matter with you?" he asked, thoroughly confused by her manner.

She shook her head. "Nothing. Nothing's the matter with me. I'm well rid of you, Baron. You're rude and insufferable." A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

Hell, she acted as though he was deserting her, and heaven help him, he felt as though he was. "I'm not leaving for Normandy," he said then. "If you need me, send one of the soldiers with a message. He'll find me."

Her relief was visible. The panic eased from her expression, and her stance relaxed. She couldn't seem to control her tears, though, and she turned her back on him so that he wouldn't witness her disgrace. "I won't be sending anyone to fetch you, Norman. Leave. I don't care."

He couldn't leave her like this. She looked so alone, so miserable… and so vulnerable. Damn it all, for some reason he wanted to see her strong and angry at him as she'd been on their journey.

"Baron?" Lawrence asked when his lord continued to stand there for such a long time without saying a word.

Royce shook his head. "Nicholaa?" he called out as he reached for the door.

"Yes?"

"I do have one last thing to say to you."

She turned around to look at him. Anger, he thought to himself. The anger would make her forget her fear.

"What is it?" she asked.

He grinned. "Checkmate."

He pulled the door closed on her outraged gasp. Royce laughed.

A loud crash sounded against the door. "What was that?" Lawrence asked.

"The water pitcher, I believe. She's feeling better."

And so was Royce.

Nicholaa's anger kept her occupied for the better part of the day. Two women came to her chamber late that afternoon. Both were Saxons, a fact that surprised Nicholaa. One carried fresh clothing; the other brought linens. Nicholaa moved to the window when they carried a wooden tub into the room and poured it full of hot, steaming water.

The bath was too inviting to refuse. Nicholaa soaked in the rose-scented water and washed her hair until she finally felt clean.

She didn't speak to either woman until one offered to brush the tangles out of her hair. "Why do you serve the Norman king?" she asked.

"He's England's king now," the servant named Mary answered. "Everyone serves him."

Nicholaa didn't agree with the servant, but she felt it would be unkind to contradict her. Mary was entitled to her own opinion, even though she was wrong.

Mary was about Nicholaa's age. She was a plump young woman with bright red hair and freckles that covered most of her face. The other servant, Heloise, was considerably older, and her manner was brisk and unfriendly.

"I'll never serve William," Nicholaa announced. She sat down on the stool Mary had provided and folded her hands in her lap.

Mary started to brush her hair. "Talk like that will land you in trouble, milady," she whispered.

Heloise was turning down the covers on the large bed. "Mary speaks the truth," she announced with a dour-faced nod. "Those who won't kneel before King William get themselves killed. Even now a dozen Saxon soldiers are waiting for the deathblow."

"Where are these Saxon soldiers?" Nicholaa asked.

"They're here, two floors below us," Mary whispered.

"God have mercy on their souls for being so stubborn," Heloise muttered. "Each one was given the chance to pledge his loyalty, and each one turned his back on that chance."

The fire crackled in the hearth, causing Mary and Nicholaa to jump. "Everything's so different now," Nicholaa said.

"It's orderly," Heloise interjected. "It's only taken the king two short months to squelch most of the resistance. He rules with an iron hand, that one does. Everyone has his place now."

"Everyone except Saxons," Nicholaa said.

"Nay, even Saxons have a place," Mary countered. " 'Tis the reason you're going to become a Norman's bride, milady. The more marriages between the two, the better for the future peace."

Nicholaa listened to the women talk about all the changes. She didn't eat the supper that the women provided, but went to bed early. She thought about the twelve Saxon soldiers waiting for execution. Her heart went out to the men and the families they would leave behind. She knew her brother Thurston might very well be one of the twelve, and that thought terrified her. She prayed until she was exhausted and then cried herself to sleep.

She dreamed about Royce.

He had a nightmare about her. He decided he must have been more fatigued than usual to have had such a bizarre dream. It had been a long day, after all. He'd spent over three hours talking with King William and hadn't returned to his chamber until the dark hours of the night.

The nightmare made him wake up in a cold sweat. It had been so vivid, so real. In the dream Nicholaa was lost in a forest. She was in great danger, and he couldn't get to her.

Royce couldn't go back to sleep and ended up pacing in the gardens behind the palace. There was much to consider. His life would be forever altered if he allowed himself to lose his heart to this woman.

But damn it all, he was too old for her, too set in his ways. Why, his life was like a map. Yes, that was it… a map. The lines had already been drawn, and the map couldn't be altered. And neither could he. It was simply too late for him to change.

He felt relieved after he'd come to this conclusion. He'd made the right decision. Yet time and again he found himself staring up at Lady Nicholaa's window, wondering if she was all right-and if that wasn't ridiculous, he didn't know what was.

The Norman knights were called before their king the following evening. Lawrence walked by Royce's side when they went into the gigantic great hall. The vassal was concerned about his lord, who seemed preoccupied. Lawrence sensed that something was wrong, but he couldn't imagine what it was. He knew it wouldn't do him any good to prod, though. Royce would tell him when he was ready.

King William took his seat in the tall-backed chair in the center of the platform four steps up from his audience. The king was a big man, given to bulk around his middle. His brown hair was tinged with gray, an indicator of his true age, but when he smiled he looked like a fit young man.

Matilda, the king's wife, was the complete opposite. She was a tiny woman, plump in bosom and thighs, and had sparkling brown eyes and curly brown hair.

King William motioned for his wife to join him on the platform, and when Matilda stood by her husband, the top of her head came only to William's waist. He waved his hand for silence. A hush immediately fell over the group. William then took his wife's hand and smiled at her.

"Most of you have heard the tale about Lady Nicholaa and how she bested three of my noble knights."

A loud murmur rushed through the crowd. Royce smiled. He had explained to his king that the Saxon named John had helped defend the holding against the Norman challengers, but William had decided to withhold that information from the group. The soldiers were in need of a reward, he explained to Royce, and he didn't want to sour the sweet by splitting the praise and possibly marring the legend.

"Clayton the herald will recite the feats soon so that those who aren't familiar with this remarkable woman will understand why the rest of us are so well pleased," William continued. "But first you must meet my prize. I've deliberately kept Lady Nicholaa well hidden until this very minute just to pique your curiosity."

William paused to kiss the back of his wife's hand, added a wink to let her know how much he was enjoying himself, and then motioned to two soldiers who stood to the right of the platform. As soon as the soldiers opened the doors behind them, William turned back to his audience.

"You will decide whether to engage in battle games for her hand in marriage. The winner will have his bride tomorrow evening."

Matilda whispered in William's ear. He nodded, then said to the crowd, "I've been reminded to tell you that the holding goes with Lady Nicholaa, as do fertile lands as far as the eye can see to the east and west. 'Tis a generous dowry I give with this courageous woman."

A loud cheer went up. William smiled in amusement. He was immensely pleased with the men's enthusiasm.

The noise soon became deafening-until Lady Nicholaa walked into the hall. Silence reigned then. Men quit cheering in mid-bellow. Women stopped laughing. Everyone stared in fascination at the beautiful woman walking toward King William.

Nicholaa was dressed in white, a gold braided belt looped around her waist. Her unbound hair fell in soft curls that swayed ever so slightly with each step she took.

She looked like a vision. Royce stood at the very back of the hall, his big shoulders resting against the wall. Because he was the tallest man in the room, he didn't have any trouble seeing Nicholaa.

"Lord, she's a beauty," Lawrence remarked.

Royce agreed, but in truth he was far more impressed with Nicholaa's regal bearing. There was such pride, such dignity, in her manner.

He knew she had to be terrified. Yet she kept her feelings well hidden from her audience. The expression on her face was peaceful, serene.

He knew, though, that the hellion was probably plotting to kill both the king and his wife right now. He heard someone whisper that she was an angel and almost laughed out loud.

Lawrence glanced up at Royce just in time to catch his smile. "Will you fight for her?" he asked.

Royce didn't answer him.

Nicholaa followed the guards over to the fireplace. When they stopped, so did she. Then the two soldiers moved away, and she was all alone. She stood several feet in front of the giant hearth, a fair distance from the crowd and the king.

God's truth, she felt as though she'd just been led into a den of lions. And she was their supper. She hoped her expression didn't betray her fear. Her heart was pounding such a wild beat it was almost painful, and her stomach seemed to be on fire. Thank God she hadn't eaten any of the nooning meal she'd been offered. She'd have been throwing it up now if she had.

It didn't take long for her to start feeling like a freak. Everyone was staring at her. She could feel their rude gazes on her, like bugs crawling up her arms.

Three little girls sneaked away from their mother's skirts and rushed over to stand directly in front of Nicholaa. They looked up at her, mouths gaping open, eyes wide with curiosity. They reminded her of little birds waiting to be fed.

"Are you a princess?" one whispered.

Nicholaa looked down at the child. The dark-haired little girl couldn't have seen more than four or five summers. There was innocent curiosity in the child's expression. Nicholaa couldn't be rude to her. She slowly shook her head. Then she turned her gaze to the far wall, determined to ignore everyone.

Baron Guy stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by his vassals. He'd been relating an amusing story when Lady Nicholaa entered the hall, and he had lost his train of thought then and there. He feared he might have lost his heart as well, for though he wasn't given to fancy, he was certain he was in love. The vast holding King William offered as dowry added to the Saxon woman's appeal, of course, but Guy was smitten by her beauty, too.

He decided he would have her.

Guy took a step forward and broke the silence in the hall with an arrogant boast: "I'll challenge anyone for her hand in marriage, and I'll win, too."

"You'll win only if Baron Royce doesn't enter the games," a bold knight shouted.

That remark didn't go unappreciated. Laughter echoed through the crowd. Guy kept his composure.

He turned to face the king, bowed formally, and then stood with his legs braced apart and his hands at his sides while he waited for the other knights to enter their bids.

Guy had fought beside William for nearly ten years. The scars on his arms were ample testimony to his battles. By sheer luck, his face had remained unblemished, and the ladies at court considered him quite handsome. He had golden hair and clear hazel eyes. He was almost as tall as his king, though he lacked both the bulk and the advanced age.

Royce was Guy's opposite. He was as dark skinned as Guy was light and towered over his friend. He wasn't considered the least bit handsome, either. The right side of his face was marred by a jagged scar that ran from the top of his ear to the base of his neck. He had earned the sickle-shaped mark years before when as a squire he'd put himself in front of his leader's wife, Matilda, to protect her from attack. Needless to say, that noble act hadn't gone unrewarded. Royce had been given his own contingent of men as soon as he'd finished his training under William's personal supervision.

Royce had proved his value early. Because he'd become so skilled in battle tactics, William began to send young, unseasoned knights to him for instruction. Royce was always patient, though ruthlessly demanding, and it was considered a privilege to train under his tutelage. His troops were the elite, invincible core of William's mighty army.

Guy considered himself a true friend to Royce, but he was still consumed with jealousy at what he considered Royce's good fortune. The leftovers were sent to Guy for training, for he'd also become known as a trainer of men. Guy had been fiercely competitive with Royce ever since their squire days together, and he often thought to himself that he would have become the more favored knight in William's eyes if he'd been the one to save Matilda's life.

Royce recognized the fever of jealousy in Guy's character, acknowledged it as simply a flaw he would surely eventually overcome, and then dismissed the insignificant matter from his mind.

"I, too, shall fight for her hand," another knight shouted. He strutted forward to stand before his king.

And then another and another stepped forward to join in the bids.

Nicholaa had never felt such stark humiliation before. She straightened her shoulders in reaction as she tried to block the shouts and fuel her anger at the same time. She needed to stay furious inside so she wouldn't break down and weep. But the humiliation, the degradation, was making her too sick to concentrate on much of anything.

The three little girls, all dressed like ladies, in long, flowing gowns, were now chasing one another in a spontaneous game of tag. They ran in wide circles around Nicholaa.

Where was Royce? Why was he letting this happen to her?

She forced herself to block any thoughts of him and tried to picture little Ulric in her mind. Royce had told her to keep Ulric's future in her thoughts whenever she was tempted to do something foolish.

She thought she might like to kill the king of England. Was that foolish? William alone was responsible for the disgrace she was now suffering. If he'd left England alone, none of this would be taking place.

It was a foolish plan. She couldn't kill the king. She'd never get away with it. She didn't even have a weapon. She was a good distance away from the platform where the king and his wife were seated, a good distance, too, from the gawking crowd bidding for her.

She still hadn't heard Royce's distinctive voice enter into the bidding. Was he even in the crowd or had he already left for Normandy? God's truth, she wanted to kill him, too.

An ear-piercing scream turned Nicholaa's attention. It was a child's voice. Nicholaa turned just in time to see one of the little girls screaming in agony. The child's gown had caught on fire. The flames were licking their way up the backs of her legs.

Nicholaa pulled the child up against her own gown and used her skirt and her hands to beat the flames out.

The fire was extinguished before any of the soldiers could give assistance. Nicholaa knelt on the floor, tore the remnants of the gown away from the little girl, and then hugged her tight, whispering words of comfort all the while.

The child clung to her savior, whimpering softly against her neck.

No one seemed capable of moving for a long minute. Then the child's mother let out a scream and came running across the hall.

Nicholaa stood up with the little girl still clinging to her neck. She transferred the child into her mother's outstretched arms. "She's still frightened," Nicholaa whispered, "but I don't believe she suffered any serious burns."

King William had bounded out of his chair as soon as the child's tortured scream reached him. His wife stood by his side with her hands clasped over her mouth.

They both watched as the mother accepted her daughter. The little girl turned back at the last second and loudly kissed Nicholaa on her cheek. "You are a princess," she whispered. "You saved me."

The child's mother wept with relief. "Yes, she did save you," she agreed. She hugged her daughter and turned to smile at Nicholaa. "I would thank you properly," she said. She started to bow low, then let out another scream. "Dear heaven, look at your hands. You've blisters already."

Nicholaa didn't want to look at her hands. If she saw the damage, she knew it would hurt even more. Her left hand and arm throbbed far more than the right did. 'Twas the truth the burns felt as though she were holding a burning log in her hands.

She glanced up and saw Royce making his way toward her. She spotted him through the haze of tears burring her vision.

It was about time, she thought to herself. He damn well should come to her. This was all his fault… wasn't it?

She couldn't seem to concentrate. The crowd swelled around her. Nicholaa took a step back. She hid her hands behind her back.

She desperately wanted Royce to get to her so that she could tell him to go away.

"Let me see your hands, Nicholaa."

He was standing so close to her; all she had to do was lean forward and she'd be touching him. He might put his arm around her shoulders and offer her comfort.

She vowed she'd smack him if he touched her.

Dear Lord, she wasn't making any sense. She shook her head and took another step back.

"Make way, make way."

The shrill feminine demand forced the crowd aside. Royce moved to her side, and Nicholaa suddenly found herself staring down at the king's wife.

Lord, she was short. The top of Matilda's head only reached Nicholaa's shoulders. The woman had the bearing of a commander, though. "Give me your hands. Now."

Nicholaa didn't argue. She showed the woman her burns. Determined not to look at her hands, she stared over Matilda's head while the queen examined her injuries.

"You must be in terrible pain, my dear. Come, I shall personally supervise your care. William?" she called out. "There will be no more talk of challenging until we return."

The king was in complete agreement. Matilda tried to take hold of Nicholaa's elbow, but ended up grasping air, for Nicholaa moved like lightning to get closer to Royce. She was literally snuggled up against his side before Matilda could blink.

The action was telling. Matilda looked at her loyal vassal, then at the Saxon woman and back at Royce again. "You may come along with us, Baron," she announced.

Nicholaa allowed the queen to take hold of her elbow then. Matilda tried not to smile. She noticed that when she led Nicholaa out of the hall and down the corridor, the lovely young lady kept glancing back over her shoulder to make certain Royce was following.

He was right behind her. Relief swept through Nicholaa, though she couldn't imagine why. Oh, yes, now she remembered. This was all his fault and she needed to tell him so.

He was only doing his duty by dragging her to

London. That logical thought popped into her mind all of the sudden. She pushed it aside. She didn't want to be logical now.

"You're a very courageous woman, Lady Nicholaa," said Matilda. "The little girl you saved is my dear niece. We're all in your debt." She paused to give Nicholaa a penetrating look, then added, "She's Norman, but that didn't seem to make any difference to you, did it?"

Nicholaa shook her head. She wished Matilda would quit being so solicitous. She looked back over her shoulder and gave Royce a wait-until-I-get-you-alone glare.

He winked at her.

"You're responsible for this, Royce," she whispered.

Matilda heard her. "No, dear, it was an accident," she said. She motioned for the guards to open the door to Nicholaa's chamber, then marched inside.

Royce had to nudge Nicholaa forward.

The next fifteen minutes were sheer agony for Nicholaa. While the king's bossy wife issued her orders, her personal healer-a wrinkled old man named Samuel who looked in dire need of a healer of his own-arrived with three servants. The women put their supplies down on the wooden chest, bowed to Matilda, and then backed out of the room.

Royce stood at Nicholaa's side, his hands clasped behind his back, when the healer began his ministrations. Matilda stood near the window, her arms folded across her ample bosom, her gaze as sharp as a hawk's as she watched the couple.

Nicholaa had refused to take to her bed. She sat on a stool. Her back was as straight as a lance, her expression devoid of all emotion as she stared off into space.

Baron Samuel sat on a stool facing his patient. He cleaned the burns with cool water and then spread a thick brown salve from her fingertips to her elbows.

The cleansing had hurt like fire, but the cooling salve had a soothing effect on her skin. Nicholaa didn't realize she was leaning against Royce's thigh. Matilda noticed, though, and she couldn't contain her smile this time.

"She'll have a few scars," Samuel told Matilda after he'd finished wrapping the injuries with soft white cotton strips.

Royce assisted the old man to his feet. Samuel's knees crackled louder than the logs in the hearth.

"I'll send you a sleeping draft," he told Nicholaa. "It will ease your pain and help you rest."

"Thank you," she whispered.

They were the first words she'd uttered since the healer had entered the chamber. His smile was broad. "I'll return tomorrow to change your bandages."

She thanked him again. Matilda's piercing gaze kept turning from Nicholaa's serene expression to Royce's worried one.

"Are you in pain now, Nicholaa?" Royce asked.

The compassion in his voice was almost her undoing. "Don't you dare be kind to me, you scoundrel."

"Royce, would you leave us now?" Matilda requested.

He didn't want to leave. That was very obvious to Matilda. The baron did her bidding, of course, just as she knew he would, but he paused at the door to give Nicholaa a long hard look before he bowed and left the chamber.

"What was that frown all about?" Matilda asked.

"It's his you'd-better-behave-yourself glare," she answered.

Matilda walked over to stand in front of Nicholaa. She brushed Nicholaa's hair back over her shoulders in a motherly gesture. "It was Baron Royce's duty to bring you to us. Why do you blame him?"

Nicholaa shrugged. "Because he was so cheerful about it," she remarked. "And it makes me feel better to blame him."

She glanced up in time to catch Matilda's smile. "I know Baron Royce is your loyal servant, my lady. You probably appreciate him, but I must tell you I find him insufferable."

"Did he mistreat you?"

"No."

"Then why do you find him insufferable?"

"He's rude, arrogant, and…" Nicholaa stopped when she saw how amused Matilda was. That reaction thoroughly confused her. She was insulting one of the king's most favored knights, wasn't she?

"If Royce had left you at the abbey, my dear niece would have been severely burned before my worthy knights could have saved her. So you see, Nicholaa, it was God's will that you were here to save the child. Do you argue with me?"

Her tone suggested Nicholaa agree. "I won't argue with you," she said. In her heart she knew Matilda was wrong, though. Her coming here hadn't been God's will at all. It was William's decision, and that was that.

"Tell me what you see when you look at Royce." Nicholaa thought that was a peculiar request. She didn't want to talk about Royce anymore. Still, it would have been rude to ignore the question. "I see a very stubborn man."

"And?"

"A vain man," Nicholaa answered.

Matilda looked startled. "Vain, you say?"

Nicholaa nodded. "I know you don't want to hear about your baron's flaws, but Royce is vain. He knows his appeal."

"Explain to me exactly how you feel about his appearance," Matilda prodded.

Nicholaa decided from the determined look on Matilda's face she wouldn't let up until she had her answers. She wasn't going to soften the truth, though, when she gave her opinion. "He has dark, handsome looks, and he knows it. Even I will admit that I've admired his beautiful gray eyes. I'd have to be blind not to notice, my lady. He also has a strong profile."

"You noticed that, too, did you?" Matilda asked, smiling.

"Yes," Nicholaa said with a sigh. "Then he gives me one of his lectures, and I forget how handsome he is. I just want to shout at him. Do tell me why you're smiling. I am insulting one of your barons, and I would expect you to take exception to my remarks."

Matilda shook her head. "You're telling me what's inside your heart."

"Royce means nothing to me," Nicholaa announced. "The man's a barbarian. He has the manners of a…" She started to say that Royce had the manners of a Norman, but caught herself in time. "A dog."

Matilda nodded. She walked over to the door. "I shall have the servants help you change your clothing. Are you up to returning to the hall and finishing this contest?"

Nicholaa nodded. She wanted to get the ordeal over and done with. "I'll give you fair warning, my lady," she called out. "I won't be a good wife. I'll make whoever weds me miserable for the rest of his days."

She meant the remark as a threat, but Matilda misunderstood. Her smile was gentle. "Do not berate yourself, my dear. I'm certain you have enough good qualities to keep your husband content for the rest of his days."

"But I meant…"

Nicholaa didn't get a chance to explain. Matilda had already left. Mary and Heloise came rushing into the chamber then, and she turned her attention to the matter of keeping their hands off her. She was determined to be left alone, and she determined not to change her gown.

Matilda hurried back to the hall. She didn't pause to speak to anyone but continued until she was once again standing by her husband on the platform. William was sprawled out in his chair. He held a silver goblet of ale in one hand.

His wife whispered into his ear. It was a lengthy, one-sided conversation. Matilda paused several times to dab at her eyes with her linen square, and when she'd finished her explanation, William was smiling. He took hold of his wife's hand and kissed it.

The king handed the goblet to his squire, then motioned for silence. In a loud, booming voice he ordered all the married knights, along with their wives and children, to leave the hall. The unattached knights were to remain where they were.

Royce thought the order odd, and the puzzled expressions on his friends' faces told him they thought it peculiar, too. No one questioned the king, though. Royce walked back to his place against the far wall, for it gave him the best unblocked view of the double doors where Nicholaa would reenter the room. He nodded to Lawrence and then leaned back to wait. The doors were finally opened. Everyone, including the king of England and his wife, turned to watch Lady Nicholaa walk into the hall.

Those who had been sitting quickly gained their feet. Someone started clapping. Then another joined in, and another and another, until the hall was a thunder of noise.

King William didn't stand, but he did join in the applause. Nicholaa didn't understand what was happening. She came to an abrupt stop and almost turned around to see who was standing behind her drawing everyone's cheers.

From her expression, Royce could tell she didn't realize the crowd was paying her a tribute. She didn't appear rattled by the noise, however. Nay, she looked quite serene.

And lovely. She was dressed in a deep blue chainse and bliaut. Royce thought the color was even more beautiful on her than the white gown she'd worn into the hall an hour before.

King William motioned Nicholaa forward. She hesitated for the barest of seconds before doing as he commanded.

Royce frowned over the lustful gazes some of the knights wore as they watched Nicholaa walk toward their king. He had an almost overwhelming urge to beat the soldiers to a bloody pulp.

In that minute of raw possessiveness and true jealousy, he knew what he had to do.

"What has you scowling, Royce?" Lawrence asked.

"Nothing has me scowling," Royce muttered. "Damn it, Lawrence, Nicholaa has to be in severe pain. Look at those bandages. They cover most of her arms. She should be resting."

"That is for our overlord to decide," Lawrence remarked. "Perhaps he thinks it best to get the ordeal finished," he added before turning back to watch Nicholaa.

In truth, Nicholaa wasn't feeling any pain at all. Baron Samuel had promised her the salve contained a special ingredient that would numb the burns. He'd been true in giving her that promise.

She walked over to stand in front of the four steps that led up to the platform. She couldn't have knelt down if she'd wanted to, because she couldn't grasp the hem of her gown to move it out of her way.

William noticed the slight. He leaned forward in his chair. "You do not kneel before me?"

A frown was settling on his harsh features when his wife interjected, "She cannot kneel, husband. Her hands are bandaged, and she can't catch hold of her skirts. She'll fall on her face if she tries. Nicholaa dear," she called out. "Bow your head. That will please your king."

William nodded. He looked appeased by his wife's explanation.

Nicholaa realized she could defy the king then and there.

And what would become of Ulric?

She bowed her head.

William chuckled. "You've shown great courage," he announced in a near shout so everyone would be sure to hear his praise. "I had thought to allow my knights to compete for your hand in marriage, but now I've changed my mind. You will have the choice."

Her head came up with a start. The king smiled at the surprise he'd given her. "Yes, you shall choose your husband," he said. "Turn and take their measure, my dear. They are now the prizes, Lady Nicholaa. All are worthy soldiers. Prod each one if you wish; question each, too. If it takes you the rest of the night to make your decision, so be it. We'll wait. The marriage will take place as soon as you've made your choice."

Baron Guy let out a hoot of laughter. He adjusted his red tunic and took a step forward. One of his vassals nudged him in the ribs and gave him a knowing grin.

There wasn't any doubt in Guy's mind that she would choose him. He didn't believe he was being the least bit conceited in that judgment, either. He recognized his value. He was a handsome man, perhaps the most handsome baron in William's army. Women tripped all over their hems just to get near him. And why not? He had thick blond hair, perfect hazel eyes, white teeth, and a commanding nature. He was also tall, reed thin, and possessed the physical endurance of three ordinary men put together. What more could any woman want?

Yes, she would choose him. He just needed to get her attention. Then he'd smile at her, and she would be his for the plucking.

As soon as Lady Nicholaa turned and started through the crowd, Guy moved to one side and barred her path. He smiled. She stopped, turned her gaze up to look into his eyes, and smiled back.

And then she skirted her way around him and continued on.

He couldn't believe she'd rejected him. He reached out to touch her arm. Nicholaa shrugged it away.

Guy could feel his face turning red with embarrassment. His hands became fists at his side, and it took all the restraint he had not to grab her shoulders and demand she choose him. With an effort, he forced himself to feign indifference.

Guy's two favored vassals, Morgan and Henry, moved to flank their baron. Not even trying to hide their anger, they openly scowled at Nicholaa's back.

Nicholaa had no idea of the fury she'd caused. Her attention was solely directed on one man. Royce. He was leaning against the far wall, looking very bored, almost sleepy.

But he was staring at her.

The closer she got, the more worried he looked. She tried not to smile.

She could feel the tension in the hall. Most of it, she thought, came from Royce. None of the barons could possibly like this turn of the tables, for one of them had just become the coveted prize, the possession.

She really should have felt a little compassion for the knights. She didn't, though. She was too busy gloating.

Lord, it was a fine moment.

Nicholaa continued to move through the crowd until she reached Royce. When she was just a foot away from him, she stopped. She didn't say a word, just looked up at him for the longest while.

He couldn't believe she was standing there. He shook his head.

She nodded. "Royce?" She said his name in a whisper, but he heard it all the same.

"Yes, Nicholaa?"

Her smile captivated him. She motioned for him to come closer. And then she stretched up on tiptoes and whispered into his ear.

"Checkmate."