She pressed her unbruised cheek against his chest and a sob escaped her, muffled by his tunic.
“It is over, Daemon.” Mathias came to stand between his brother and the two of them, as if to prevent Daemon from trying to reclaim his lost prize. “I have told our retainers everything.”
Royce drew Ciara a safe distance from her furious groom and noticed that the Thuringian lords and ministers had followed Mathias upstairs. Many of them, along with members of the guards, crowded into the royal bedchamber.
“I told them where I have been,” Mathias continued, “and who put me there.”
Daemon straightened, his eyes filling with rage and the beginnings of panic as he saw the nobles, saw the looks on their faces.
“And I told them what happened on that night four years ago, after the peace negotiations failed. When I came to your chamber and told you that I had decided not to return to my studies at the monastery after all—because I had realized what a mistake I made when I stepped aside in your favor. A mistake I wished to correct by taking my rightful place on the throne. So that I might bring an end to the war.” Mathias’s voice grew heavy with sadness. “My one error that night was in trusting you.”
“I let you live,” Daemon spat, as if that should forgive everything else he had done. “You always wanted a monastic life. I merely gave you what you wished.”
“There is a difference between a monastery,” Mathias bit out, a flash of anger showing for the first time, “and a dungeon.”
“And how in the name of Hell did Ferrano locate you?” Daemon demanded, slicing a murderous glance at Royce.
“With the help of the rebels,” Royce told him. “They have been working for Prince Mathias’s return all along. Members of your own guards supplied them with information, after a bit of careful eavesdropping.”
“A certain piece of glass that did not come from Rome supplied the rest,” Ciara finished, nodding toward the reliquary.
Daemon looked from Ciara to the silver box, his expression changing to one of disbelief and white-hot fury. “You were in league with the rebels? I was betrayed by my own bride?”
“Nay, by your own fear and greed,” she shot back.
“And by your cruelty,” Mathias added, “to our people and to those of Châlons. Accept your fate, Daemon. Your reign is ended.”
Daemon backed away from him, from everyone, toward the windows, shaking his head. “Nay, you will not take my crown from me! All my life, I had to settle for my older brothers’ leavings. I will not go back to existing on mere scraps—”
“You had everything,” Mathias countered angrily, “but that was not enough for you. Everything you had only made you want more. More riches, more power, more prancing minions to surround you and shower you with praise. It would appear you have had all that since you stole the throne from me.” He gestured at the luxuries piled around the room. “Tell me, Brother,” he challenged, “has it made you happy?”
“I had to take the throne,” Daemon sneered, not answering his question. “You were too soft to rule—wasting all your time on your books and your prayers. You are weak. You have always been weak.”
“Am I truly, Daemon? If that is so, how did I survive the last four years in that pleasant little dwelling you built for me in the Gunlaug?” Mathias’s voice took on a hard edge. “A man does not have to be a vicious killer to be a king. I am strong enough to rule.”
“Then prove it.” Daemon reached behind him to grab a sword displayed on the wall beside a tapestry. “I should have killed you four years ago. Step aside or I will remedy my mistake here and now.”
Royce and the guards instinctively moved forward, but Mathias held up a hand to stop them. “I will deal with him,” he insisted calmly. Without taking his eyes from Daemon, he backed toward Royce and extended his hand, palm up. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your blade, Ferrano.”
“Prince Mathias,” Ciara whispered in concern.
Mathias glanced down at her, his gaze meeting hers for the first time. “Fear not, Your Highness.” He smiled warmly. “I thought this moment might come one day. I have no intention of being killed.” The smile faded as he turned back toward Daemon. “I stepped aside once before—and my subjects paid the price. Innocent people lost their lives because I refused to accept the responsibilities I was born to.” He shook his head, his voice resolved. “I will not step aside again.”
Royce drew his sword—his father’s sword—and silently handed it to him.
Mathias accepted it and moved toward the center of the huge bedchamber. He unfastened the homespun cloak he wore and threw it aside … and the muscled frame revealed beneath drew soft murmurs of surprise from those gathered in the room.
Including Daemon. “It would appear you did not suffer too terribly during your stay on the Gunlaug.”
“There is little to occupy one’s time in a cold mountain prison other than exercise to keep warm.” Mathias lifted the heavy sword easily. “And as I said, I thought this day might come.”
The two brothers faced each other, neither backing down.
“Then come,” Daemon hissed, “and let us see how this day ends.”
Bringing up his blade, he lunged forward. The two locked in battle with a clash of steel on steel.
Royce tensed but forced himself to stand fast. This was Mathias’s fight. Every man in the room understood that. No one interfered. Royce’s arms tightened around Ciara as she buried her face against his chest with a sob, apparently certain of the outcome.
But he was not so sure. Daemon had the advantage of experience, but he was also attacking at an emotional fever pitch. Mathias remained cooler as they parried back and forth, deflecting every blow, defending himself without drawing blood.
Royce understood his strategy. Mathias meant to wear his brother down. Tire him, mayhap wound him—force him to admit defeat without killing him.
“I am not so weak as you thought, little brother,” Mathias gritted out, dodging a blow that might have cost him an arm.
“And I am not so little anymore!” Daemon shot back, hacking and slashing, driving Mathias toward the windows.
Royce clenched his jaw, half afraid that Daemon meant to send his brother crashing through the panes to his death in the courtyard below—but Mathias seemed to realize the danger at the same time, moving aside, following the length of the carved chest.
They were both sweating and breathing heavily now. For long, tense minutes the combat wore on, silent, grim, each man soon bleeding from numerous cuts.
Royce held his breath, for it seemed Mathias was the one who was becoming fatigued. God, please, help him. The elder prince had to understand that he was fighting for his life. He could not miss any chance to strike a mortal blow.
With Daemon’s next thrust, the point of his blade sank into Mathias’s shoulder. Mathias’s cry of pain brought an exclamation of triumph from Daemon’s lips—and shouts of alarm from everyone in the room. Daemon yanked the blade free, quickly whirling it upward as if he would take off his brother’s head.
But Mathias caught him off guard by dropping to his knees.
And thrusting his sword forward, straight through Daemon’s right side.
Daemon shouted in agony and looked down in shock. Mathias wrenched the sword backward and staggered to his feet, dripping with sweat, jaw clenched. He was shaking. Mayhap with fatigue or loss of blood—or horror at what he had been forced to do.
It was a mortal wound. His face going slack, Daemon stumbled aside, toward the chest in front of the windows, his own blade still gripped in one hand. Then he snarled a curse and raised the weapon again, his features contorted with fury. He hurled himself toward Mathias.
Only to trip on something in the rushes and fall headlong to the floor. He landed facedown—and there was a sound of something cracking as he hit. His face froze in a mask of shock.
Gasping a choked cry, he pushed himself up with one hand and fell again, rolling onto his back.
Royce could see the thick stem of a jeweled glass goblet protruding from the center of his chest at an awkward angle.
And near his feet—it was Ciara’s crown that had tripped him.
With a sound of grief and regret, Mathias knelt beside his brother. “Daemon …”
Daemon lifted one trembling hand.
Instead of reaching for his brother, he grasped at the jeweled stem of the goblet that had delivered the final blow to his plans and his life.
His expression was still one of stunned disbelief.
“Mine …”
The word took the last breath from his body, and his eyes went sightless.
Mathias bent his head, made the sign of the cross, and gently closed his brother’s eyes. He remained silent a moment, as if in prayer, and no one in the room moved or uttered a word.
Then he stood, Royce’s sword still gripped in one hand, his other palm coming up to staunch the bleeding at his shoulder. “My lords,” he said hollowly. “Prince Daemon is dead.”
“Long live Prince Mathias!” one of the nobles called as they all surged forward to surround and congratulate their new ruler. Two of the guards bent to cover Daemon’s body with Mathias’s discarded cloak.
Royce realized that Ciara was trembling in his arms, her cheeks wet with tears. “Shhh,” he soothed as he gently tilted her head up. “It is over. You are safe now, and free. You have just become a widow.”
She did not say anything for a moment as he tenderly examined her bruises. Then her words came out in a rush. “Royce, I was so afraid when you did not come back from the Ruadhans. I thought—”
“I made you a promise, remember?” Satisfied that her injuries were not serious, he let himself relax enough to smile. “We encountered some trouble on the mountain, but Thayne—”
He cut himself off abruptly, glancing around, seeing none of the rebels in the room.
“God’s mercy, Thayne.” Holding Ciara’s hand, he turned and ran for the door, pushing his way through the crowd, into the corridor, down the twisting staircase.
He found the rebels in the great hall gathered around their fallen leader. They had moved him to one of the trestle tables and bound his wound with strips of fabric torn from Daemon’s expensive tablecloths. As Royce and Ciara approached, Karl looked up.
There were tears in his eyes.
With an oath, Royce released Ciara and leaned over the dark-haired man who lay bleeding from the deep gash in his side. He was deathly pale.
Despite the help of his comrades, his life was seeping from him.
Thayne’s eyes fluttered open. When he saw Royce, a hint of a crooked grin curved his mouth. “Always was better with a crossbow … than a blade,” he said weakly.
“Summon the royal surgeons,” a voice commanded from behind them, forceful enough to send the servants in the hall scrambling to do as they were ordered.
Royce turned to find that Mathias, heedless of his own injury, had followed them down the stairs. His lords and ministers were close at his heels.
Thayne reached up to grip Royce’s tunic, reclaiming his attention. “Did you …” His green eyes were glazed with pain. “ … get to your lady … in time?”
“Aye.” Royce glanced at Ciara, who stood back from the group, a hand over her mouth to hold in a sob. “She is safe. Princess Ciara is all right. She is here with me.”
The crooked smile appeared again. “Then that is … all that matters.”
He dropped back against the table beneath him, his eyes closing, his body suddenly limp.
“Nay!” Ciara cried.
With an anguished shout, Karl bent over his brother, pressed an ear to his chest.
But then the young man exhaled shakily. “He lives. Thanks be to God, he lives.” He glanced up as the surgeons pushed their way through the crowd that had gathered around the table. “But his heartbeat is weak.”
“Take him to one of the bedchambers above,” Mathias ordered, shaking his head when one of the surgeons tried to examine his wounded shoulder, nodding toward Thayne. “This man is to have the best of care. I owe him a great deal. We all owe him a great deal.” He turned to the servants. “Fetch bandages, hot water, whatever the surgeons may need. Quickly.”
The hall became a flurry of activity as the servants hurried to do their prince’s bidding, the rebels lifted the unconscious Thayne and carried him up the steps, and a score of ministers and lords surrounded Mathias again, all of them talking at once.
In the middle of the chaos, Ciara elbowed her way to Royce’s side. He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair as they comforted each other.
“He will be all right,” she said fiercely. “He has to be.”
“Aye. And what about you—are you sure you are all right?”
She nodded, her arms gripping him as if she would never let him go.
He lifted his head, gut clenched at the thought that he had almost been too late to save her. “When we first came into the great hall and I did not see you—”
“You were just in time,” she reassured him, smiling tremulously.
“Daemon did not—”
“Nay, you were there to protect me, exactly when I needed you most. As you always are.”
He threaded his fingers through her hair. God, how he wanted to kiss her. But he did not want to hurt her injured lip.
So he settled for dusting a kiss across the tip of her nose, just as he heard someone nearby clearing his throat.
Tearing his attention from Ciara for the first time in several long minutes, Royce saw that the hall had almost cleared. Mathias stood alone beside them.
“I persuaded my lords that their questions could wait until morn.” He sighed in exhaustion, glancing down at the bandage someone had hastily wrapped around his injured shoulder, then nodded in the direction Thayne had been taken. “You have my word that your friend will be well cared for. Our surgeons in Thuringia are renowned as some of the best. We will fight for his life as he fought for mine.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” Royce said gratefully.
“Nay, it is I who should be thanking you, Ferrano. You and Thayne and the others risked everything to save me from that prison. I owe you much more than my thanks. And so do the people …” He paused. “My people,” he amended, pronouncing the words as if for the first time, his expression one of wonder as he adjusted to the idea. “My subjects.”
Royce smiled. “Let me be one of the first to say welcome home, Your Highness.”
Mathias returned his smile, then shifted his attention to the lady in Royce’s arms. “Now then, do you not think an introduction to Her Highness is overdue?”
Ciara dipped into a curtsy. “I am very pleased to meet you, Prince Mathias.”
Mathias bowed. “I have heard a great deal about you, Princess Ciara” He slanted a wry glance at Royce. “Though you neglected to mention that she was such a beauty, Ferrano.”
“Did I?” Royce cleared his throat. “It must have slipped my mind.”
Mathias chuckled, his gaze returning to Ciara. “I doubt this lady could slip any man’s mind.”
“Indeed, Your Highness.” Royce tightened his arm possessively around Ciara’s waist.
Still grinning, Mathias gestured for them to sit at a nearby table. “There are matters we need to discuss, milord, concerning the peace agreement. It occurs to me that if I am to be king one day,” he said slowly, his eyes on Ciara as they claimed their seats, “I will be in need of a queen.”
Chapter 21
The western mountains sparkled like massive diamonds in the midday sun as Ciara rode across the lowland plain, the wind in her hair, spring’s warmth scenting the breeze with the fragrances of flowers and earth, her gray mare galloping through the fields.
As Châlons’s royal palace came into view at last, its towers and walls little more than dots at this distance, she reined her horse to a walk, then to a halt. She could not seem to catch her breath, watching while the sun painted that fam
iliar keep with streaks of gold. The sight of home filled her with longing, with love. And with uncertainty.
She prayed this would not be the last time she ever saw it.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply of the sun-warmed air, of the beauty all around her, and held fast to her hope. Her father had to agree to Mathias’s offer. He had to.
Surely he would see that he had every reason to give his consent. Her country was free. Her people were free. Free from war, from the tyrant who had so abused them. As the news had spread, cheering crowds had turned out in every town and village on the way home from Thuringia.
But she herself was not entirely free.
Not yet.
She heard hoofbeats behind her and glanced over her shoulder as Royce came across the field at a gallop, catching up with her at last. He pulled Anteros to a rearing halt.
Laughing, Ciara tugged on the reins to control her skittish mare. “Keep that great black beast away from my little Merlin,” she chided. All the commotion brought a growl from the basket tied to Merlin’s saddle. Hera poked her head out from beneath the lid, barking excitedly.
Undaunted by the protective puppy, the stallion pranced nearer, towering over the mare, tossing his head and nickering impatiently.
“It is impossible to hold him in check, my love.” Royce laughed. “I think he believes we bought that little beauty just for him. He does not like to let her out of his sight.” His voice turned husky. “I know how he feels.”
As Anteros nuzzled Merlin’s neck, Royce bent down in the saddle and cupped Ciara’s chin in his hand, lifting her mouth to his. With a soft moan, she reached up to grasp the edge of his cloak as their lips met in a kiss that was slow and soft and deep. The first kiss they had been able to steal in days.
The satiny invasion of his tongue sent desire shivering through her, but it was all too brief.
Groaning, he lifted his head, and they both glanced back at the entourage of riders not far behind them—Karl and the other rebels, the emissaries Mathias had sent to speak with her father, and the guards and serving maids and other retainers who had been in the wedding procession.
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