Enchanting the King (The Beauty's Beast Fantasy Series)

by E. D. Walker

  Too much, probably, but that was a concern for a different hour.

  ***

  One good thing about riding to the point of total exhaustion was that Aliénor had no energy left to think about Philippe or to worry over the fact that she was not heartbroken. King Thomas and his men set a brutal pace. It was all she could do to keep her seat on a horse that was meant to be ridden by someone much stronger and larger than her. Her eyes were gritty and burning with lack of sleep, her muscles stiff and aching. Yet she felt almost as if the king gave her that discomfort as a gift, gave it to all of her ladies, really. They could lose themselves in the very real struggle of staying on their damned horses for just one more minute despite an aching back and chafed thighs and weary minds—and they didn’t have to remember that battlefield, didn’t have to remember their lost men for this small respite of time.

  When the sun at last sank toward darkness, and King Thomas finally, finally called a halt for the night, Aliénor practically had to fall off her horse into his arms. Her muscles had locked up, her legs like runny pudding. King Thomas even went so far as to carry her himself to one of the bedrolls set up by the fire.

  Once he set her down, she snuggled into the rough blankets on the chill ground, her mind fuzzy and already running toward the welcoming arms of sleep.

  “Shouldn’t you eat, Princess? And wash?”

  “Hmm…”

  “Are you already asleep?” His voice was tender, warmly amused. She could actually hear the smile in it.

  As her mind floated away to blessed blankness, she smiled into the folds of her blankets, carrying his warmth and gentleness with her into her dreams.

  ***

  When she awoke, much later, it was early morning. Her body was almost unbearably stiff, and Aliénor’s muscles burned and protested when she sat up. Her rump especially was afire with pain. Still, the sleep had done her good, refilling some well of energy inside her.

  The camp seemed mostly empty except for Violette sitting on her bedroll a few feet away, propped against a rock and dozing. Some healer in the king’s party had set her broken wrist. Of Noémi there was no sign, and few of King Thomas’s men were around except for one or two drowsing in their bedrolls, including the king’s young page. The horses were all still in camp, though, tied up together next to a small stand of trees.

  A low baritone voice rang out nearby from behind the clump of horses. He was humming under his breath as he worked. She caught the tune, an old song about spring flowers and a maiden’s hair. Aliénor sang a few of the verses low and half under her breath as she rolled her blankets up to be packed.

  Unfortunately, her singing had opposite to the desired effect, because the deep baritone humming stopped at the sound of her voice. Still, her singing did produce some good results, as King Thomas appeared from behind the horses he’d been tending and approached her. “You slept as if bespelled, my lady.”

  “It was a good spell if so.” She stretched and it hurt—of course it did—but it brought warmth and a tingling into her muscles, a healing kind of hurt. “I feel much better.”

  “Good. Your other lady is stealing a chance to wash while my men hunt and gather for some food. We want to save the packed supplies for any bare stretches.”

  “Food.” Her stomach emitted a most unladylike grumble, and she clapped a hand over her gut, hoping to muffle the sound.

  The king’s eyes crinkled with amusement, but he made no comment. “Godric caught two rabbits, and Llewellyn coaxed some fish out of the river.”

  “Llewellyn’s your magician, isn’t he? Did he use his magic to catch the fish?” She had been trying to sound light, unconcerned, but she was rather afraid her voice came out stiff or stilted. She dropped her gaze from his and nervously pleated the fabric of her filthy skirts.

  The king cleared his throat, gruff but clearly embarrassed too. “You are Jerdic. You were all Jerdic in that damned camp. How was I to risk telling you, even you, that I had a Lyondi magician with me?”

  She worried at her lip and stared at a cluster of pebbles on the ground before her. “You were right not to tell anyone in that camp. I don’t blame you. If I’d found myself lost in a camp of Lyondi strangers, I would have kept every advantage I might have as a secret too.”

  “You’re very understanding, Princess.”

  “No, just practical.” Still, there was a sick sort of aching in her gut. Thomas was not just a man of Lyond—he was the king of Lyond, a nation that had been fighting her own for her entire life and more. Even with Philippe gone, she was still the Jerdic princess. Thomas—King Thomas—was still her enemy, and the enemy of her whole people.

  She allowed herself to sneak one small glance at him, at the rugged handsomeness of his face, the line of his leonine nose, the softness of his lips, those clear, piercing gray-blue eyes of his. He does not feel like my enemy. He felt like warmth and safety and solace. He felt like home.

  You’re just overwrought. Latching onto the nearest strength and comfort. These wild, foolish feelings didn’t mean anything.

  Aliénor shoved herself to her feet. She teetered unsteadily, and King Thomas caught her elbow to keep her from falling down again. They stood close enough that his breath stirred against the skin of her face.

  “Your Lady Noémi will be missing you by the river, and there isn’t much time left before we depart. You should go. ’Tis that way, over the hill. I have a guard posted, but he will not disturb you.”

  “Thank you.” She walked away, stopping to rouse Violette enough to tell her handmaiden where she was going.

  Violette looked thoroughly ashamed to have fallen asleep. “I am supposed to be guarding your honor while we travel among these rough Lyondi men. I failed you, Princess. I’m sorry.”

  Aliénor only motioned Violette to follow her up the hill. The king had returned to the horses, stroking his hand down the silky neck of one of the geldings. She looked back at King Thomas once on her way to the river and saw he had not returned to his work yet. He was watching her walk away.

  She tore her gaze from his. Oh, what fools we are.

  ***

  Godric probably should have been content with the two rabbits he’d already brought back to camp to stretch their supplies, but they had those three lovely ladies to feed now too. His luck had already been good that day. He hoped Kind Fate would extend her care to two or three more rabbits.

  The land along the river was craggy with rocks, but further from the shore was the forest with tall pines and scrubby brush. It felt almost like home, although winter here was warmer and dryer than in Lyond. His lips and knuckles were already cracking. Still, he could hardly hope for another rainstorm after the last one.

  Godric bent to set a new snare.

  “Sir Godric, how lovely to see you. I’ve been looking for you.”

  He froze and had his knife half-out as he whirled at the sound of her voice. Her. The blood witch. Even as he tensed his muscles to face her, he felt his body lock up, stopping his motion. As pain stabbed all up and down his arms and legs, he swallowed a scream. His muscles flexed and strained, dueling impulses coursing through his blood, her magic burning him from the inside out.

  The blood witch stepped out from the line of trees. She twirled her dagger between her two hands and smiled at him. “I have need of a guide and a guard. You shall take me.”

  He flexed his jaw, trying to form words, trying to deny her. He managed only to let out a half-swallowed moan. Nausea roiled in his gut as she took a firmer hold on her blade and crossed toward him. With a soft, warm smile she drew her knife across the meaty part of his forearm, a line of blood oozing up. She smeared the blood away with her thumb and popped her finger into her mouth with a long sucking noise.

  Her eyes glowed like a candle flame as she wiped her blade clean and resheathed it. All the tension of his body left him as she stripped away even his ability to resist. She made a small come along gesture with her hands, and he hopped to his feet as if tugged by an i
nvisible rope, leaving his snares behind.

  “We’ll ride hard, Sir Godric. I have surprises I want to leave for your king along the road.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Godric followed behind the witch like a trained dog at heel. His face was calm, still, almost lifeless. Inside was different. Inside he was screaming.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the grim aftermath of the battle, Violette and Aliénor might have walked off in only the clothes they stood in, but Noémi had insisted they linger on that field of horrors long enough to scavenge supplies for themselves: food, weapons, even some extra clothes. They didn’t have much, but it was still some salve to Aliénor’s pride that she and her ladies were not wholly dependent on Lyondi generosity. Although their Jerdic food rations looked just as unappetizing as the ones the Lyondi were eating. Difficult to embellish upon hard bread and dried meat, after all.

  Once she and her ladies had forced themselves to choke down a small meal, they took themselves off to wash. Aliénor had never been more grateful to be clean than when she was finally able to drag off her soiled gown, which had gone stiff with drying blood. She scrubbed her skin raw in the chilly river, liking the clean bite of its water. Trading pain for pain felt right. It should hurt as she scrubbed her husband’s blood off her skin.

  Violette helped Aliénor into a fresh chemise after her wash. Noémi had pinned Aliénor’s hair around her head like a silken crown. Violette usually did everyone’s hair, but her injured wrist had created difficulties. Aliénor returned the favor next for Violette, carefully finger-combing out the tangle of Violette’s tight, tiny black curls once Noémi had shown her how.

  Aliénor knew that they could not stand on ceremony in this place. Not anymore. She was a princess, but that did not mean she was too fancy to help her friends. After some fumbling, she managed to put Violette’s hair into two serviceable braids. Violette gave her head a small shake to test if they would fall out, then grinned at Aliénor. “Well done, my lady.”

  Aliénor smiled, probably more proud of herself than the simple task warranted. Still, she’d finally been useful to someone. Noémi had moved away to start cleaning all their brave red breastplates—a task neither Violette nor Aliénor had had the stomach or the heart to face themselves.

  Their armor was too uncomfortable to wear for riding—another irony with symbolic bite to Aliénor—but the ladies all agreed they would keep the breastplates for now. Aliénor privately vowed that, if she were ever in a position to again, she would get real armor for her ladies. Not the pantomime version they were stuck with now.

  In her shift and shivering, Aliénor rifled through the one bag of clothing they had managed to pack. Her ladies’ dresses had weathered the battle all right, but Aliénor’s was ruined—torn and stained with Philippe’s blood.

  She pulled out her one remaining garment and winced. She had a plain brown skirt left, but the only top she still had was a daring dark purple jerkin with a low-cut bodice and slashed sleeves to tug her linen chemise through.

  Aliénor shivered but still felt foolishly reluctant to don these clothes, even though they were the only ones she had.

  “Princess?” Violette murmured. Noémi, perhaps hearing something in the other handmaid’s voice, left the riverside to stand beside Aliénor too.

  Aliénor shook her head. Tears stung her eyes as she looked down at the bodice, and she wasn’t entirely sure why. “Philippe hated this jerkin. He forbade me to wear it.”

  Noémi sighed and looked away.

  “And now I must wear it in mourning for him.”

  Violette pressed Aliénor’s shoulder, her eyes shining with wetness. She had lost her husband John in the battle too. “Your husband would want you to be warm. Cared for. We can cover the jerkin with a cloak or something. It’ll be all right.”

  Aliénor shook her head, a bramble bush of emotions tumbling through her, pricking at her heart.

  “Violette, you look tired. Why don’t you sit a moment over there?” Noémi jerked her chin. “I’ll tend the princess.”

  Violette narrowed her eyes, looking suspiciously back and forth, but then she tromped off to the shady trees, pouting only a little and cradling her wrist.

  Noémi watched her go, then turned back to Aliénor with raised eyebrows. “Well?”

  Aliénor shook her head and shivered, hugging the fabric of her chemise closer to her bare skin. “I don’t want to cover the jerkin. I love it. I’ve always loved it. But…”

  “Philippe is dead.”

  Aliénor winced, her chest hurting. “He’s barely been dead a day. Shouldn’t I honor his wishes? Now?” Emotion clogged her throat. “I was such a horrible wife to him. I couldn’t be obedient while he was alive. Shouldn’t I—”

  “Shh, shh.” Noémi flung an arm around Aliénor’s shoulders and drew her close for a tight, comforting hug. “This isn’t about a jerkin, my lady.”

  Aliénor pressed her eyes closed and turned away. A tear slipped free to slide down her cheek in a chill drip onto her chest. “What sort of woman am I?”

  “A lonely one. A frightened one. You cared for your husband, didn’t you? You were sorry to see him killed?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you were never in love with him.”

  Aliénor swallowed, the brambles tugging at her heart, making her insides sting with shame. “No.”

  Noémi eased her back to sit on a boulder with her, her arm still a comforting weight around Aliénor. “My second husband died barely a month before I signed up for this journey.”

  “Oh?”

  “He would have hated this. Would have forbidden my going. And never mind it was my own money we were living off all the time we were married.” Noémi snorted.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you can’t lock yourself up for Philippe’s memory. You didn’t let him have that power over you while he lived. Don’t do it now he’s dead. Not out of pity. Or guilt.” Noémi met Aliénor’s gaze with a directness that made Aliénor squirm. “You have the power to do what makes you happy, what feels right to you. So do it.”

  The brambles shifted in Aliénor’s heart, scratching, but maybe breaking apart too. She let out a small laugh. “What I want is not so very wise, Noémi.”

  “Well.” Noémi shifted off the rock and stood. She plucked the purple jerkin out of Aliénor’s hands and shook it out, holding it up for Aliénor to slide her arms through. “Come on, my lady. We shouldn’t linger.”

  “No.” Aliénor wet her lips as the soft leather of the jerkin slid her over her shoulders. “No lingering.” And no hesitation. Not now.

  ***

  As the three ladies walked over the hill, it was to find a camp in chaos. King Thomas’s men were furiously packing their supplies and distributing them among their too-few horses. Thomas glanced up at her arrival and walked briskly toward her. “Good, I was about to send for you. We must ride at once. One of my men has gone missing. Sir Godric.”

  “Missing?”

  “There was no sign of a struggle. We found only his snares in the forest. No sign of him.”

  “The blood witch.”

  “That was my thought as well. But we can’t take the risk that it might be the Tiochene catching up to us, either.”

  Aliénor wrapped her arms round her middle. “Set a guard on your magician and yourself. Let none of your men go out alone again.”

  “You think she is that dangerous?”

  “Yes.” Aliénor took a deep breath, then let it out, trying to calm her racing heart. “She tried to convince my husband to let her use her powers on you. To control you and take the kingdom of Lyond under Jerdic control.”

  He jerked back in surprise, and his brows lowered in rage. “After killing all my men, no doubt.”

  “Philippe did not agree to the plan.” King Thomas sent her an assessing look from under his lowered brows, and Aliénor felt her cheeks warm in a blush. “She is a powerful witch and ambitious. I do not like to thin
k what she might do if she were to get yourself or your magician under her control.”

  “All right.” King Thomas called out instructions to all his men to pair up. As soon as he’d spoken, Llewellyn jogged over to stand beside King Thomas. The magician gave Aliénor a friendly nod in greeting, but she walked away without speaking to him. She found it hard to trust magicians at just that moment.

  ***

  The next several days passed in a blur of riding and exhaustion. Their path was circuitous but well-kept, and the river seemed content to behave itself for the moment. No winter storms had troubled them yet. They did lose half a day when one of their scouts spotted a Tiochene raiding party farther downriver.

  King Thomas’s troops split into two and hid in the nearby forest, keeping quiet and still as the Tiochene warriors moved past. The Tiochene remained oblivious, laughing and joking with each other as they rode along on their furry little ponies.

  Aliénor huddled in the shadows of the forest, and her gut roiled as she spotted several of the Tiochene in Jerdic surcoats and others with stolen chain mail. Spoils. Brow knit, she cast a glance over at her two ladies. Noémi stared on stone-faced, lips pursed into a thin white line. Young Ned had his arms round Violette, helping to smother the sound as she sobbed into her hand. Maybe with fear or rage. Or simple grief.

  Soon enough, the raiders had passed them by, but King Thomas waited another half hour before he let any of them move, his face calm, his steady gaze assessing their situation. Aliénor’s admiration for the Lyondi king grew with every moment. He seemed to her like a rock along the seaside—solid, immovable. Centered in himself and sure. How desperately she envied his certainty, his calmness.

  Everything inside her felt like a luggage trunk with the contents tossed all about. She was sad for Philippe’s death, relieved to be out from under his thumb, guilty to be relieved, grateful to be alive, drawn to King Thomas but hesitant, scared, exhilarated, exhausted, worried, fascinated, giddy. Most of the time, she felt like the wreck of her wagon—something once elegant and ordered that’d been smashed all to pieces. And she wasn’t sure if she could put herself back together or not. Certainly, even if she did, she would never be quite the same Aliénor again.