by Lily Blake
He crossed back to Champion and pulled the few meager supplies he had out of his saddlebag. They were left over from the last ride he’d had on this horse—a hunting trip he’d taken over a week ago. There was a piece of bread that was now rock hard, and a flask of wine that now more closely resembled vinegar.
He settled Champion, combing out the horse’s mane. Then he sat against the back wall of the shack, pulling his coat around him, trying to stave off the chill. He couldn’t help but think of the irony of it. This morning, he had awoken in a palace. And tonight, he was sleeping on the cold ground.
High above, beyond the trees, shooting stars were streaking across the sky. He settled down on his side, trying to get comfortable. The ground was covered with dead leaves and branches. He suddenly saw his situation for how absurd it was. He was starving, while in his palace a feast was being prepared. He was the king, sleeping not in his royal chambers, but on the forest floor. He had thrown himself headfirst into a perilous situation, one that might put his life—and his country—at risk. Was this too dangerous? Had Mary been right, was it foolish of him to go to Lola now, in the midst of a plague?
He closed his eyes, but he only saw Mary’s face. Those deep, chocolate-brown eyes. Her fair skin. It was the thought of her, smiling beside him in bed, that eventually pulled him to sleep.
Hours later, Francis woke with a start. He blinked in the darkness, trying to figure out what had stirred him. There were two silhouettes between the trees, hovering above him. A man and a woman. They both wore rough peasant clothing—burlap and linen, with crude drawstrings for belts. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could even draw breath, their hands were upon him.
The man forced a rag into his mouth, gagging him. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t. He reached for his sword just as the woman pulled his hands behind his back and bound them with rope.
Francis struggled against his bonds, crying out against the gag, kicking his feet with all his might. But it was no use. They grabbed him, each one taking an arm, and dragged him into the night.
CHAPTER THREE
The screams rose up from outside the gates. A woman could be heard over the rest of the crowd, her voice shrill. “Please, Your Majesty! Help us! There are children dying! We beg you to have mercy on our souls!”
Kenna stood by the balcony, looking down at the people, their faces lit by the torches along the palace walls. All day it had been like this. She had cried, she had prayed. She had talked to Mary, talked to Greer, considering what could be done. It was too dangerous to send anyone to the gates. Even if they could give them supplies, there wasn’t enough for all the surrounding villages. The palace had a limited amount of food to keep them through the coming weeks, and no one knew how long it would be until the portcullis was raised.
Kenna pulled the heavy wood doors shut, feeling relieved when the locks were in place, the room now quiet. “Bash… how long do you think it can go on like this? It’s horrible. They’re in so much pain.…”
Bash didn’t respond. She turned, noticing him sitting on the side of the bed. He stared out at the wall in front of him, his eyes glassy. Any other person might have assumed Bash was lost in thought, but Kenna had studied him since they had been married, and she’d learned to decipher those subtle changes in his mood or expression. She knew which things he liked and didn’t like. Which dish would be his favorite at dinner, which of his riding boots he would pick when he was venturing into the woods. She knew what he was thinking when he gave her one of his half smiles (he wanted to kiss her, he wanted to hold her), and she could predict the exact times he would hum folk songs, not realizing he was doing it (always as he dressed in the morning, always as he undressed in the evening).
So she knew him now, in this moment, as he sat on the edge of the bed. She noticed his fists were clenched on the duvet. His brows drew together, the way they always did when he didn’t want to show the emotion he was feeling. “What is it?” she asked as she started across the room to him.
Only the day before, he had killed the madman who had called himself The Darkness. Bash had been hunting him for months, with growing fear about what he would find when he came upon him. The pagans thought him a god, a fearsome supernatural creature, but Bash had never believed that lore. He knew he was looking for a man… but a man turned monster, a man who murdered and tortured and fed on the blood of innocents. But he hadn’t encountered him in the wood, where he’d been tracking him. He had fought him in their home, as The Darkness threatened Kenna and Pascal, the sweet boy who had been one of The Darkness’s victims.
Pascal’s family had been slaughtered, but he had survived… at a cost. The boy was only now beginning to speak, to communicate his feelings with them. As The Darkness was dying from the wound Bash had dealt him, he had warned them that Pascal needed to take on his role. That unless there was someone sacrificing innocents to the gods, unless he had another to take his place, a plague would follow. He’d warned that it would sweep over the land.
“Bash… talk to me,” Kenna said as she sat down on the bed beside him. She touched his arm through the fine linen of his shirt, rested her cheek against his shoulder. She breathed in the distinct smell of him—a delicious mixture of pine needles and beeswax soap.
Bash looked down at his wife and let out a long breath. He was not adept at talking about his feelings. But in this as with so many things, Kenna was hard to say no to. She always seemed to get her way in the end, and he never really seemed to mind.
“I can’t go to the banquet tonight—it’s too much to be around so many people. It’s just… I was thinking about my father, about what happened,” he said quietly. He saw Kenna draw back, an uncertainty in her expression at the mention of King Henry. “I know. He doesn’t deserve my love now, I shouldn’t be grieving… but…” He shook his head and wiped his hand roughly over his eyes.
His father had been so different this year, so changed. He had been terrible in ways great and small. But Bash wasn’t mourning that changed man. He was mourning the father he’d known before. Bash had been his father’s favorite, the one Henry had chosen to accompany him on hunting trips and excursions, to practice his jousting and fencing with. Bash had loved the king dearly once, and it was for that man—the father he chose to remember—that he felt his eyes growing hot with tears.
“I suppose I miss the person he was,” he said, turning his head so Kenna wouldn’t see him so close to crying. “I was always hoping that Henry would return to us someday. That things would go back to how they used to be. That things would be better. Now that can never happen.”
“I know what you mean,” Kenna said. “He was a good man once.” She thought back to the Henry she’d met during those first days she was at court. She thought of the candles he’d had placed on the south lawn, the ones that spelled out her name. She’d loved him once too. Every time he’d enter the room, she would feel her skin awaken, every inch of her body come alive in a way it never had before. He’d held her as they fell asleep. He’d loved kissing her collarbone, rubbing his thumb tenderly over her brow. She’d been so dazzled by him then. She’d had no idea of the cruelty that was to follow.
Bash stood and started across the room. “And now the plague…”
Kenna put her face in her hands. Even through the closed doors, she could hear the muffled sounds of the villagers screaming. Bash turned to face her and she saw the worry in his expression.
“Do you think… Am I to blame for this?” he asked, his voice breaking on the last word. “Is it possible The Darkness was right?”
“Bash, no. You can’t let yourself think like that,” Kenna said as she crossed the room to him. She took both his hands in hers and looked up at him. “You saved my life. You saved Pascal’s life. It was the only thing to be done. You can’t question that. Promise me you won’t.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?” Bash studied Kenna’s expression, those warm brown eyes. There was so much comfort in her gaze. H
e wished to see himself the way she saw him, to know himself only as strong, true, and brave.
Kenna took a step closer, threading her fingers through his. Her hands were so warm. “I know the plague is out there and it’s real,” she said. “And I know what The Darkness warned us of. But what were you supposed to do? Let him murder us there, in that house? Let him take Pascal?”
Bash held her hands, knowing she was right. “I know… but…”
“But nothing,” Kenna said. “We can’t worry and wonder what we’ve done wrong. I’m just thankful that we’re together and we’re safe.”
Bash reached down and brushed aside a piece of golden-brown hair that had come undone from her braid. He felt a swell of gratitude for her, this girl who’d grown into a woman in front of him. “I love you so,” he said, and he could hear the wonder in his voice. It seemed impossible, somehow, that they could have found their way to love after such a beginning.
Their union had been an order of the king’s. Marriage had been forced upon them in a rushed midnight ceremony. They had both resented the match at first. But as the weeks passed, he discovered that he liked Kenna. And before long, he felt much more than that. She was… unexpected. Unlike the other girls at court, Kenna was never shy with her opinions. She was quick to get angry and quick to forgive. She was funny and smart and so beautiful sometimes that it was too much for him—he had to look away.
He felt himself smile. Kenna tilted her head back and raised an eyebrow at him. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I was just thinking that, in the end, my father gave me something wonderful after all,” he said, running his thumb over her cheek. “He gave me you. And it’s the best gift I ever could have received.”
“Bash… I don’t know what to say,” Kenna murmured. She pressed against him, pulling his hands to her heart. He looked down at her in the flickering candlelight. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were a deep pink. He noticed now that she was wearing the dress that he liked her best in—a deep yellow velvet that brought out the gold in her eyes. He remembered the last time she had worn it… and then when he’d taken it off her… and the lace garments she’d worn underneath.
Bash cradled her face in both his hands, and leaned down and kissed her. The kiss started off gently, his lips just barely touching hers. He let his fingers roam through her hair. They rested at the nape of her neck as the kiss became deeper… hungrier.
Kenna kissed him back, meeting desire with desire. His lips were on hers, then they trailed down, kissing her throat. He worked hard against her skin, enjoying the smell of her lilac perfume, the way she arched her back, pushing closer to him. He kissed that spot under her ear that he had discovered only last week… the one that always made her shiver in the very best way.
Kenna let out a small, helpless sigh. She held on to his shoulders as his lips tickled her skin. She ran her hands down his shirt, finding the hem and pushing under, up against the bare skin of his back. She kissed him again. Her tongue found his, her lips working urgently, making him forget.
Bash wound his hands through Kenna’s hair and pulled her closer to him, feeling her heart beating against his. He reached down and untied the sash of Kenna’s dress, undoing the knot right below her breasts. Remembering the buttons that had taken an agonizingly long time to undo the last time she had worn it, he instead pulled the dress over her head. As the fabric lifted off he heard a rip and a few quick pops. A shower of buttons rained down around them.
“Was that really necessary?” Kenna teased, a hand on her hip.
“What’s that? I couldn’t hear a word you said.…” Bash laughed, staring down at her. She was now wearing only her corset. Her waist was cinched tight. Her skin like satin in the candlelight.
Kenna smiled, then reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt. “I said, was that really necessary? You ruined my gown.”
“I’ll have it fixed for you,” he said as he tossed the dress onto a nearby chaise lounge. Then he reached around her back. He was already working on undoing her corset, his impatient fingers pulling at the strings that wound up her spine.
“I’ll say you will.” Kenna tried to sound stern, but the words gave way to a sigh of pleasure as he kissed her neck. She pulled Bash’s shirt over his head and threw it on the floor. Then she traced her hands over his broad shoulders, feeling the hard, knotted muscles beneath the skin. She loved his arms best. When he held her, she felt protected, safe.
“I can do anything. I’m the Master of Horse and Hunt,” Bash said, arching an eyebrow. Then he spun her around, holding on to her shoulder so he could get a better look at the corset strings. The top of her back was exposed. Half the lacing was undone. He reached down with his other hand, threading his fingers through, pulling the strings out to loosen them. He worked feverishly. As he undid the final string, he pulled the corset apart, taking it off over her head.
Kenna turned to him, resting against his bare chest. She smiled up at him. Bash pulled her closer, running his hands over her shoulders, the curve of the small of her back, her skin warm against his hands.…
He picked her up with both arms and carried her to the bed. She wrapped her hands around his neck. She felt so small, so light, as he held her. Then he eased her down onto their bed. She fell back. Their kisses were urgent. They were breathing in sync, their bodies pressed skin to skin, lost completely in the moment, in each other.…
Creak…
Kenna froze. She could have sworn she heard something. It was probably just a servant passing in front of the door, maybe the wind as it rattled the windows. She closed her eyes, pressing her lips against Bash’s again, but she couldn’t forget it. She propped herself up on her elbows, surveying the room in the candlelight.
“What?” he murmured, confused. His eyes were still unfocused with desire.
“I thought I heard…” Kenna mumbled. She looked at the windows, but they were still locked. The candles were still. Then she turned to the hall. Pascal was standing in the doorway, the door open just an inch. He was staring right at them, his expression a mixture of confusion and horror.
“Pascal!” Kenna gasped. Bash scrambled off the bed, and Kenna hurried to cover herself, grabbing the sheet and pulling it up in front of her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. How long had the boy been standing there? What else had he seen? Did he know what they were doing? She took a step toward the door and saw that the boy didn’t look embarrassed—he looked frightened.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” Kenna said, trying her best to sound calm and composed. She glanced around the room, noticing Bash’s shirt on the floor. She picked it up and quickly pulled it on over her head, making sure to keep her front covered.
When she looked back, Pascal had tears in his eyes. Kenna hated seeing him this way, hated knowing she had been the cause. She knew from her time with the boy that new things were too much for him. He had suffered so much in the past months, ever since he’d watched his family being slaughtered in front of him. He’d survived alone in the woods for days. He desperately needed order and stability—it was the only chance he had to recover from all that had happened.
“Please, don’t be upset,” Bash tried. “It’s all right.…”
But Pascal just shook his head. He turned, taking a step away. Then he started into a run, his footsteps echoing in the stone hall.
“Pascal!” Kenna called after him, grabbing her dress from the floor and stepping into it. She tried to pull it on, but it was no use; the buttons were all torn off. “It’s all right! Please come back!”
But when she finally got to the door, Pascal was gone, the sound of his footsteps growing fainter as he turned down another corridor.
CHAPTER FOUR
More wine, my queen?” Mary studied the steward who was holding out the cask of red wine to her. She scanned his dark eyes, watched his mouth for any uncertainty. It was impossible to know whom to trust.
“No, thank you,” she said. She was fair
ly sure the steward’s name was Thomas, though she wasn’t certain enough to call him that. She knew that he would never correct a royal, even if it meant he was called by the wrong name. Possibly-Thomas nodded, and took a step back, but didn’t withdraw. Mary realized a moment too late that he was waiting on her instructions. Because you are the queen here now, she reminded herself. It had been less than a day, but she still wasn’t used to it. And while she’d been a queen herself since her sixth day of life, she’d never had a palace that was hers to command. At least not until now.
“But please make sure that the rest of the guests have all they could want,” she said, trying to pretend that there hadn’t been a pause as she remembered her responsibilities. “Especially my uncle.”
She looked across the table at the Duke de Guise. Her mother’s brother was a solemn man, prone to bursts of anger. It was best to stay in his favor and she figured that some wine could only help their relationship. The steward nodded, then backed away, heading for the other end of the table.
Mary glanced around the hall. She hated to admit it, but Catherine had done a spectacular job organizing the dinner on such short notice. It was a memorial feast for the king, and clearly no expense had been spared. Garlands hung from the rafters. The tables were bedecked with bouquets of roses, and all the finest silver had been polished and laid out. She’d heard servants gossiping about the astonishing spread of food that would soon be brought out—nine courses—including pheasant, roast suckling pig, and grilled prawns.
Despite the sad occasion, the room was alive with conversation. Greer was sitting next to her fiancé, Lord Castleroy, and talking about their upcoming move to Castleroy’s quarters in the South. Lord Castleroy turned the conversation to the pepper trade, as he always did, and Mary recognized at once the bored expression on Greer’s face. She looked that way whenever her fiancé mentioned the spice business, which had already happened in Mary’s presence more than she would have ever thought possible.
