Bodyguards Boxed Set

by Julianne MacLean

  That was one of the last remaining legacies of his clan. No one had ever accused a Ferrano of being reserved or subdued. He had grown up surrounded by unruly brothers, giggling sisters, parents deeply in love and unafraid to show it.

  And he was still too blasted emotional.

  “I am curious, Your Majesty,” he said, struggling to keep his tone neutral, “to know how you managed the ascent up this peak.”

  “I did not have to. There is another way into the abbey, a secret tunnel through the mountain.”

  Royce set the cup down a bit too sharply. “You might have mentioned that to me.”

  “I could not risk revealing such information in my letter. The missive could have fallen into the wrong hands.” The king paused. “And I needed to make certain you were equal to the task I have in mind. I needed you to—”

  “Prove myself.” He spun to face his former liege lord. “Of course. I am relieved that I did not disappoint you. This time. And now that you have tested both my loyalty and my stamina, mayhap you would tell me what this ‘task’ is. The situation must indeed be desperate for you to stoop so low as to call upon me.”

  “It concerns the peace agreement with Thuringia.”

  Royce choked out a strangled laugh, his mind and memory reeling with disbelief. “Surely you do not intend to involve me in the peace negotiations—”

  “Nay, the agreement was reached soon after the war ended. The arrangements have all been made.”

  He said it with such finality that Royce fell silent for a moment, a seed of foreboding planted in his heart. “And how did the war end?” He searched the older man’s face, seeking some hint of the truth. “Did Daemon finally decide it was too costly, and retreat to spend his gold elsewhere?”

  “Nay, he did not.” Aldric’s voice deepened, as if weighted down by the words he spoke. “He succeeded. It is we who have been forced to negotiate our surrender.”

  Royce flinched and took a step backward, an icy rain of shock washing through him. He tried to steel himself against it, to tell himself this was none of his concern. Tried to convince himself he felt naught for Châlons and its troubles.

  But the pain was undeniable. The word surrender and the images of defeat it brought pierced the wall he had built around his heart.

  “Sweet Christ,” he choked out at last. “That cannot... how...”

  “Mercenaries,” Aldric explained tonelessly. “Daemon must have all but emptied his treasury. He assembled a force of ruthless barbarians hired from every dank hole on the continent. They breached the palace walls—”

  Royce uttered a particularly vivid oath.

  “And there is more. During the battle for the palace—” Aldric halted abruptly, a shadow passing over his face. He shook his head, then finally went on. “I thought you knew of this, Saint-Michel. I would have informed you in my missive, had I known that you were unaware.” His voice deepened even more. “Prince Christophe is dead.”

  Royce felt as if the mountain had just shifted beneath his feet. “Mercy of God, nay!” he shouted in horror and denial. Unable to draw breath, he shut his eyes, images of his old friend—his best friend—careening through his head, only to be cut suddenly short.

  Christophe was dead. The palace had fallen. Daemon was victorious.

  Royce felt behind him for the trestle table and leaned on it with one hand, realizing he was shaking. He raked his other hand through his hair. If he had been here, if he had been able to do his usual reconnaissance, plot strategy with Christophe...

  Aldric continued speaking, his voice quiet. “His death was not in vain. He was killed escorting his sister to safety.”

  “And where is Daemon now?” Royce asked through clenched teeth, murder brewing in his soul.

  “In Thuringia.”

  Royce glanced up, confused. “He did not claim the palace for his own?”

  “Nay. He insists he has no interest in it. He demanded only two-thirds of my holdings, our homage and fealty... and my daughter’s hand in marriage.” The king drew his ermine-lined robes more closely around him and turned away. “He awaits the arrival of his betrothed even now.”

  Royce straightened, stunned by this piece of news. How could Aldric hand over his daughter to a man like Daemon? Especially when Christophe had died trying to save her from the enemy?

  But he held his tongue and did not ask the question. For he knew the answer.

  Duty, crown, and country were everything to Aldric.

  Everything.

  But the older man seemed to sense what Royce was thinking. “She agreed to the match,” he said, answering the question that had not been asked, as he studied a crucifix on the far wall. “And we had no choice. Daemon could have killed every last one of our subjects. He still may.”

  “But you said that a peace agreement had been reached.”

  “Aye, but it is yet fragile. There have been skirmishes between our people and his. The wounds of the past seven years are deep. They will not be quickly forgotten. Tempers are dangerously short.”

  Royce exhaled a harsh breath. “And Daemon’s is no doubt the shortest of all.”

  Aldric nodded. “The wedding must take place soon, to seal the accord between our two countries. To cool the fires of war and make everyone see that”—he halted again—“that Châlons and Thuringia are now... one. In peace.”

  The king fell silent. Royce leaned back against the trestle table, his gaze on the floor as he absorbed all he had been told. Peace. What had seemed impossible for so long now appeared to be within reach.

  But at a price that must be pure torment for the king.

  Royce glanced up from beneath the dark hair that had fallen over his forehead, observing the man on the far side of the chamber: the very picture of a king, so silent and solemn beneath those purple robes that now all but hung on his war-weary frame.

  Aldric always put his subjects’ needs before his own. It was the quality Royce used to find most admirable about him.

  And the most maddening. Because to Aldric, the needs of crown and country also came before the needs of his family. Of those he loved.

  And that, Royce would never comprehend.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I still do not understand.”

  Aldric glanced over his shoulder, silent.

  “It sounds as if all the arrangements have been made, as you said yourself. What is it you want of me?”

  Aldric sighed, the sound barely noticeable even in the empty dining hall. But when he turned, his eyes glittered with a look of determination. “There are those who do not want this wedding to take place nor the peace accord between Châlons and Thuringia to succeed. Rebels.” The silkiness of his voice as he said the word was more potent than venom. “They apparently believe that instead of bringing peace, the agreement will only make Daemon more powerful. Their fear and hatred of him is so great that they will risk anything to thwart his plans.”

  Royce found himself instantly sympathizing with these men, but he kept his opinion to himself.

  “The fools do not understand what they risk in stirring his wrath,” Aldric continued. “This agreement is the last hope I have to save my people from further suffering and death—but these heedless lackwits would destroy it. They have already tried. A fortnight ago, the night before the wedding procession was to leave for Thuringia, my daughter was attacked. In the palace.” His voice remained calm, but the blaze in his eyes bespoke fury. “In my own solar.”

  Royce’s gaze narrowed. “An assassination attempt?” Any sympathy he might have felt for the rebels evaporated.

  “That is how it appeared to Princess Ciara, and to me, though she escaped with only a wound to her arm. Some of my advisers think it may have been a failed abduction. Neither possibility endears these rebels to me in the least. They must be insane to even consider such treachery.”

  “And did you question this man who attacked the princess? Do you know who their leaders are?”
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  “Nay, we could not capture him. The incident occurred during the betrothal feast. A man appeared at the door of the solar, calling out that the princess had been hurt. A throng of people rushed to her aid, and the man blended into the crowd and escaped before we even knew what had happened.”

  “Clever,” Royce murmured.

  “Aye,” the king agreed darkly. “He was gone before anyone could identify him, and the princess did not see his face. All she remembers is what he said—that he meant to stop the wedding.”

  Royce began to see why Aldric had summoned him here. “Are there any other clues as to who these traitors might be?” He started to pace, thinking.

  “Only one. We had guards posted throughout the palace that night, and no one but our invited guests attended the betrothal feast. Which means it was either someone who pretends to be my loyal subject—”

  “Or some of your own guardsmen are lending aid to the rebels.” Royce swore under his breath. Now he understood why the king needed the services of someone from outside Châlons, someone far removed from the palace and its intrigues.

  Someone who gave no pretense of being a loyal subject.

  He stopped pacing, absently rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I assume you have the princess under protection?”

  “The only protection I trust at the moment—my own.” Aldric moved to one of the trestle tables, where he picked up an empty cup and reached for another. “She is here, in the abbey. That is why I chose this place for our meeting. Until she is wed, I fear for her life. I want her kept safe,” he said adamantly.

  Royce watched the king, thinking that only someone who knew Aldric well would detect the concern, the love behind his words. “So you want me to hunt down this assassin. Ferret out these rebels as quickly as possible.”

  Aldric glanced up at him, genuine surprise lightening his somber expression for a moment. “Nay.” He shook his head. “Nay, I have other men pursuing them even now. I have a more vital task in mind for you, Saint-Michel. Come.” He picked up a third cup and motioned for Royce to join him at the table.

  Royce stepped closer, feeling strangely uneasy, wondering what could possibly be more vital than capturing those who had tried to kill a member of the royal family.

  He came to stand on the opposite side of the table, watching in puzzlement as Aldric turned the three wooden goblets upside down and lined them up in a row. The sound of the torch crackling beside the door seemed unnaturally loud in the silence, competing with the monks’ ethereal chants in a way that gave Royce a fleeting impression of hovering between Hell and Heaven.

  The king reached into his velvet tunic and withdrew a gleaming jewel—one of the garnets found only in the mountains of Châlons, renowned for their bloodred color that was almost black. The rare gems were sought after by traders from all four corners of the globe.

  He slipped the gem under one of the cups, then began moving them back and forth and around each other, his pale, gnarled hands surprisingly quick. “You have seen this game played at fairs, have you not?”

  “Aye.” Royce leaned down, bracing his arms against the tabletop. “It is used by tricksters to part fools from their coin.”

  “Indeed.” A smile lifted one corner of the king’s mouth. “With sleight of hand, the wily conjurer hides his precious prize. He confuses his opponents by keeping them guessing.” He paused, and Royce pointed to one of the cups. Aldric lifted it to reveal that the jewel was not beneath it. “I dare not wait for the rebels’ next attack. This time, they might succeed.” He started shuffling the goblets again. “So I have devised a plan to get my daughter to Thuringia, as quickly and safely as possible. A decoy, her lady’s maid, has already taken Princess Ciara’s place in the wedding procession that left the palace five days ago, surrounded by guards.”

  Again he paused, and again Royce pointed to one of the cups, certain he had the right one this time. Aldric lifted it.

  And again the garnet was not there.

  The older man began shifting the cups again, a familiar, cunning tone in his voice. “We have explained that the princess is in delicate condition, still recovering from her injury, and must have privacy. I have also dispatched a band of courtiers to travel to Thuringia by the northern route. But the rebels will not find their quarry among that group, either. Because the real princess...”

  He paused once more, and this time Royce concentrated before making his choice.

  And when the king lifted the goblet, the jewel sparkled beneath it.

  “The real princess,” he repeated softly, picking up the garnet as if it might break, “will journey to Thuringia in disguise and in secret, traveling to the south.” He held the gem out to Royce. “Through the mountains.”

  Royce stared at the garnet, then met Aldric’s piercing blue gaze, suddenly understanding the importance of what the king was asking. If not for the table holding him up, he might have fallen to the floor. “You want me to serve as her escort?”

  “Her escort and her guardian. I need a man who is willing to risk his life in this cause, a man with enough strength, daring, and intelligence to keep her safe. And I cannot trust those in my own court.” When Royce did not take the jewel, Aldric set it on the table halfway between them. “Saint-Michel, the princess survived the first encounter with only a wound to her arm. Those plotting against us—whoever they may be—might take more ruthless measures next time.”

  Royce straightened, then backed away from the table. “They would have to be mad to follow anyone into those passes. Especially at this time of year.”

  “That is why no one will guess that she would journey in that direction. And that is why her escort must be someone who knows those mountains as well as he knows his own—”

  Their gazes clashed, Royce daring him to say “name” when they both knew his had been taken from him.

  “—identity,” Aldric finished.

  Shaking his head, Royce turned his back. “Surely you have other men you would prefer to entrust with this.” A hint of his earlier sarcasm returned. “Noble men. Knights.”

  “None who know those mountains as well as you do. None who would be willing to use whatever means necessary to see her to safety.”

  When Royce turned around, he found the king casting a meaningful glance over the garments he wore: his black, sable-lined cloak, his embroidered gauntlets, the fine belt that cinched his tunic, the gold hilt of his sword. Commoners were forbidden to wear such finery. There were laws about such matters.

  But Royce cared little for rules that made no sense to him.

  He grimaced. ‘Twas his lack of respect for the code of chivalry that had landed him in trouble and gotten him exiled four years ago. Ironic that the king now found such audacity admirable.

  Nay, not admirable, he corrected. Useful.

  He exhaled a harsh, bitter laugh. “So now that you have need of my services, you are suddenly willing to forget the past, and you expect me to forget as well. You expect me to simply lay down my life—and mayhap lose it—in the name of this noble cause you place before me.” His voice rose as his anger deepened. “By God’s breath! Do you think it is so easy to forget that I have been an outcast? Condemned to live without a country? Without even my family name? Do you think I can forget the way you ripped my life to pieces?”

  Though the king stood only a few paces away, he showed not even a flicker of response. “Nay, I do not expect you to forget what happened four years ago,” he said coolly, “because I assure you, I have not. Your exile was entirely of your own making. The discipline you received was naught more than you deserved.”

  “Deserved?” Royce almost choked on the word. “The negotiations were falling apart long before I unsheathed my blade. You were the one who set us an impossible task. Then you refused to tolerate failure. You were looking for someone to blame. I was convenient, so you had me all but spitted and roasted.” His voice dropped to a harsh tone filled with pain. “Without so much as blinking an eye. I had been l
ike a son to you, and you did not care half a damn what happened to me.”

  Aldric faced the accusations without flinching. He stood there, his gaze, his face impassive. And said naught.

  Royce spun on his heel, paced away. Had he actually expected a reply? Arrogant, demanding, unreasonable, unforgiving. Aldric would never explain himself. Never admit that he had been wrong. It was far more important to him to be right than to be fair.

  Some men never changed.

  “I do not ask you to do this for me,” Aldric said quietly. “What I am offering you is a chance to serve your homeland once more. A chance to redeem yourself for a mistake that cost Châlons a great deal—”

  Royce shot him a seething glare.

  “—and to secure a peaceful future for your countrymen. I once depended upon your military skill, your courage, and your loyalty, Royce. And it would seem to me that all of those qualities are still present in the man before me.”

  Royce ignored the accolades, too angry to hear them. “And what will be my payment, if I survive? You will excuse me for asking, Your Majesty, but I have grown accustomed to receiving something more than gratitude in exchange for my blood and my blade. Lords from Paris to Navarre have plied me with riches. What have you to offer?”

  “Something of far more value to you than coin. The moment the princess is safely in Thuringia and wed, I will restore to you all that you lost.”

  Royce’s heart skipped a beat. He fought the astonishment—and the hope—that he knew must be written on his face. “You mean all that you took from me,” he corrected sharply.

  “Your spurs, your title, your name and position.” Aldric could have been reading from a list of foodstuffs, for all the feeling he revealed. “Along with whatever lands you wish that are mine to give. And a generous reward.”

  Eyes narrowed, Royce slowly walked back toward the king, toward the table that held the cups and the glittering garnet, drawn by Aldric’s words like a greedy man toward gold. Until this day, he had expected to spend the rest of his life as an outcast, as a man without a country. For four years, his best hope had been that someday, when Christophe took the throne...