“Nieve, what did you say?”
“Your majesty,” she whispered, barely able to force out the words, “I only meant—”
“You meant that you don’t care for the name I’ve given you.” He said it lightly, almost teasingly. “You prefer that vulgar, plebeian name your mother gave you when you were born.”
“It is all I have left of her, your majesty. All I have to remember her by.” She spoke softly, but still, everyone heard. The remaining court was eavesdropping with fearful fascination.
“But, Nieve,” replied Brannon, false kindness dripping from every word, “your mother was a whore. Why would you want to remember your whore of a mother?”
Dead silence reigned. Bianca felt tears standing in her eyes and tried to hold them back. The king waited, anticipation lighting his face. He wanted to see her cry, wanted to enjoy the tears she shed for the mother she’d lost.
“Your majesty?” The tense moment was broken by an elderly courtier. He had been a member of the peerage since Bianca’s grandfather, Andras Lodney, ruled Toldas. Under King Lodney he had been an influential figure at court, but Brannon didn’t care for the same honest discourse that Lodney had treasured. Marquise Barclay, and others like him, had lost much of their standing, but they were too well placed to be forced out altogether. Still, there was little they could do to influence Brannon’s rule of the realm. The marquise tried to choose little moments when he could make a difference.
Apparently he thought this was one of those moments.
“Your majesty,” Barclay repeated, “may I have the pleasure of escorting your daughter to her quarters? I wish to ask her advice on my granddaughter’s upcoming season.” He gazed guilelessly at the king, for all the world as if he had not just come to Bianca’s rescue.
Brannon’s eyes narrowed, and his face flushed red. He opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again, glaring at the realm’s peers. Bianca knew that the presence of such witnesses was all that kept him from lashing out at the old man. Once, Brannon would have covered his rage with a glib tongue and smooth diversion, but his self-control was slipping. He didn’t hit the marquise, but he leveled a look of such malice at the man that Barclay retreated a step, anyway.
“You may do whatever you wish with my daughter.” Brannon’s voice was a whipcrack, and Bianca flinched. “After I am done speaking with her. In private.” He punctuated his last words with another glare around the room. “All of you, you are dismissed. I wish to speak with Nieve alone. And then,” he said, oozing foul innuendo, “she will be utterly at your disposal, Marquise, for whatever small service you may require.” His downward flick of the eyes left no doubt as to what he was implying.
Barclay turned red at the king’s insinuation. With his back ramrod straight he made a short, choppy bow, and then turned to leave with the rest of the nobles. The only softening in his mein came when he looked at Bianca. Regret and pity flashed briefly across his face, and then he was gone, along with everyone else.
The door thudded shut behind the last pair of prying eyes, and Brannon was released from his only constraint. His hand flew through the air, smashing into Bianca’s face. Her blood pounded in her ears and her cheek throbbed, but there was no time to react to the pain. Her father’s hands closed with bruising force around her upper arms, and yanked her forward so that he could snarl in her face.
“How dare you?” His voice was harsh, and his eyes wide and wild. “Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing?”
“I… I’m sorry, father… I won’t ever use that name again.” Bianca stammered, trying to placate him. He had never reacted so violently about her name before.
“Do you think I care about your foolish little rebellion concerning your name?!” He thundered at her, then sneered in disdain. “Rest assured, all you do when you insist on that base, common name is remind everyone of your heritage. Of that slut who carried you in her belly.” He yanked her around and held her chin so that she was forced to look up at the dais. His fingers bit cruelly into her jaw, while his voice hissed in her ear. “I sit on that throne, certainly, but no one forgets where the rest of your blood came from. You will never sit there. Never.” He jerked her back around to face him. “No matter how many courtiers you cozen.”
He threw her violently aside, and she collapsed against the marble floor. Then the king strode away, his boot heels clicking on the shining black surface, without ever looking back to see where his daughter fell.
Chapter 3
Robin watched through half-lowered lids as Marquise Barclay helped Bianca stumble down the hall, back to her quarters. He could see that the girl hadn’t been badly hurt; she seemed more stunned and upset than anything. Thank the moon and stars. If Bianca had been seriously injured during her private audience with the king, he’d have gotten an earful from the Dame.
That thought made him grit his teeth. His position here was pointless. He let his feet carry him towards the mews as his mind worried at the issue. A huntsman was excellently placed to help Bianca outside of the castle, but the greatest danger to her was from the man who sat on the throne. In his current guise, Robin could almost never be there when Bianca was in the king’s presence. The best he could do was lurk outside the throne room and hope to be able to intervene if Brannon lost control completely.
Worse yet, he still had no idea why the girl was so important. The Dame had told him to come, and so he came. She told him to protect Bianca, and so he did, to the best of his abilities. But she wouldn’t tell him why, and Robin was growing frustrated. He had been trained to guide monarchs, manipulate events, and set the course of history, not to babysit some meek mouse of a girl. His skills could be put to use in so many places; why was he lurking in palace halls and arranging hawking expeditions?
The mews were boisterous at feeding time, and the noise of the hungry falcons was raucous. Robin nodded a brief greeting to the boys tossing meat scraps and climbed the stairs to the upper levels, where the messenger birds were kept along with any injured hunting birds. He threw seed to the pigeons, and then took up a heavy leather glove and allowed Soar to hop over to his fist.
Soar was a beautiful peregrine falcon. She had been injured on the last hunt, fighting over prey with a wild gyrfalcon. Robin had been impressed by Soar’s spirit as he watched her dive repeatedly at the much larger raptor, shrieking and clawing at its eyes until at last the wild bird fled. He had cared for her personally while the large gash on her right leg healed enough for her to hunt again. In the first few days after her wounding she had attacked him more than once, but Robin was patient with her, until they developed a wary bond of trust. In a way they were alike, he thought, both trapped behind walls, instead of flying free to do what they were born to do.
Now he gently stroked the back of one finger across her feathered breast. She cocked her head in interest at the dove cages, and he laughed at her clear thoughts. She was hungry. Doves were prey. Time to hunt.
He hooded her before she could attempt to take wing out of eagerness, and settled her back on her perch. His eyes strayed back to the doves, cooing in their cage. They reminded him of Bianca. Fragile little prey, timid and quiet, trying to avoid the raptor’s notice. Soar let out a squawk, and the doves shuddered nervously, batting their wings in the air—desperate to escape, but helpless to do so. Robin suddenly felt the urge to open their cage, and let them all fly free, but he stifled it. It would draw attention, and he could never explain why he’d released them. He was as powerless to free them as he was to help Bianca.
He sighed, his thoughts returning to his constant obsession. Why had Merriweather sent him here?
Robin heard a heavy tread on the stairs. He cocked one eyebrow—the boys who fed the hunting birds knew better than to ascend to this level of the mews—and opened his mouth to rebuke whomever was trespassing in his domain. Then his visitor strode up the last few steps, and Robin shut his mouth so fast he almost bit his tongue.
Brannon had come to call.
&
nbsp; The king strode into the mews and cast a disparaging glance at the pigeons, still pecking and scratching for the seeds that Robin had scattered.
“Nasty little things.” Brannon’s eyes glittered, much like Soar’s when she spotted prey. “What are you doing up here, Goodfellow?”
“Caring for one of your injured falcons, your majesty.” Robin nodded his head towards the peregrine, hooded on her perch. “We keep the hurt ones away from the other hunting birds.”
Brannon nodded. He understood predator behavior. “I see.” His curiosity satisfied, the king settled his cold eyes on Robin. “I’m just as pleased to find you here. It’s rather isolated.”
Robin felt his breathing slow down, and fought to keep his expression pleasantly servile while his body prepared for action. Perhaps Isabelle wasn’t the only poor fool who’d been found out.
“I have an errand for you.”
Or, perhaps not. He let his puzzlement seep into his face. “An errand, your majesty?
“Yes, Goodfellow. An errand of a delicate nature.” The king settled one hip against the pigeon cage. “I’m sure you’re the man to do the job.”
“I will certainly try, your majesty.”
“Oh, you’ll do better than try, Master Goodfellow. You’ll succeed. You see, I’ve been watching you, these past months, ever since this idea first came into my head. I’ve been watching all my huntsmen. I wanted one that was skilled, certainly, but more importantly, I wanted one that was ruthless.” The king’s smile held something nasty in it. “And, most important of all, I wanted one that didn’t seem to like my daughter in the slightest.”
Robin felt his guts go cold, but he raised one eyebrow, as if in interest. “Oh?”
“Yes. You see, Nieve has become something of a problem for me.” Brannon pushed up to his feet and paced in the narrow aisle between the cages. “I hear whispers among my nobles, muttering about my rule, and their dissatisfaction, and how treason can be patriotism under the right circumstances.” The king’s voice was harsh with anger, and his face was growing red. “They talk about my daughter, in these whispered conversations,” he hissed. “About her sweetness, and biddability, and what a charming queen she’d make.” Brannon’s head snapped up, and he stared at Robin with eyes full of rage. “All they want is a puppet they can control, but I won’t allow it. They cannot have her, and she cannot have the throne. It is mine.” Behind the fury, the bright glint of madness was showing in Brannon’s eyes.
“Do you want me to take her away, your majesty?”
Brannon let out a cruel chuckle. “In a manner of speaking, yes. That is exactly what I want you to do.” He leaned closer to Robin, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the cries of the hunting birds. “More precisely, I want you to take her out into the woods, and slit her pretty throat.”
Silence fell on the mews. Robin stared at the king, keeping his face still, while his mind raced. Brannon waited, his face vulpine, poised to see what reaction his huntsman would give. Finally Robin took a deep breath, and replied.
“Very well, your majesty.”
The king let out a crow of laughter, and the sudden noise set all the birds to screaming. “I knew you were the right one for the job. There’s something about you, Goodfellow, that reminds me of myself.”
Robin swallowed his bile at that comparison, and spoke with cold courtesy. “How flattering, your majesty.”
“Calm and collected, even when discussing murder. I like it, Master Goodfellow. I like it very much.” Brannon smiled with a sickening cheer. “Just one more small thing. To prove she’s dead,” he paused and licked his lips, “bring me her heart. Maybe I can have the cook prepare something special for dinner.” He laughed again, a thick, choking sound that echoed off the ceiling of the mews.
Robin bowed low. “As you command, your majesty.”
“Excellent!” Brannon turned to go, but paused and looked back. “Oh, give me that falcon, Goodfellow.”
“You want Soar, your majesty?” When the king nodded, Robin quickly transferred the peregrine to him. “She is not ready to fly just yet.”
“I know.” The king descended the stairs, calling back up them. “But I have no use for my hunters, if they cannot bring down the game I set them on.”
From the floor below, Robin heard an unsettled squawk, and chirps of interest from the other raptors. He heard the sharp metal clink of the leads being unfastened from their legs. Then he heard the king at the door, whistling the hunt command to the room full of birds.
He had no choice but to listen to Soar’s frantic shrieks, as the king’s falcons attacked their prey.
Chapter 4
Bianca was curled in a ball in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. She’d taken a bath once she’d regained her quarters, but no matter how she scrubbed she couldn’t wash this awful feeling away. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her legs and her chin was nestled between her knees, and she still felt like she was going to fly apart. The flames seemed to show her everything she remembered of her life thus far.
Her mother: healthy, laughing, tweaking her nose and whispering that the prince might have been worthless, but his daughter was a treasure.
The first time she met King Lodney, how his face was so unexpectedly kind. Then the MacTíre family home, where she and her mother saw new luxuries every day, and whispered about them before bed each night.
Her mother sickening, growing weak and tired, but so slowly that at first they didn’t notice. The last days, when Lady MacTíre would sit with her all day long while she kept vigil at her mother’s bedside.
Days of feverish half-recollections, after her mother died. The morning she woke, weak and tired but clear-eyed, to find her foster-brothers looking down at her, solemnly. Fain was the eldest, and Liam the loudest, but it was little Jamie who found the courage to speak.
“Don’t die, Bianca. We ain’t got any other sisters.”
Her slow but steady recovery. The love of that wonderful family, which never made her miss her mother less, but helped her to go on despite her loss. Years of being one of the MacTíre children: the adored daughter, the pesky sister, the “little mother.”
And then Thomas.
She shut her eyes and refused to look. She didn’t think she could stand watching Thomas in the flames.
When she opened them again she saw her life after that, here at the castle, living under her father’s thumb. So many days, but all the same. All holding that dull, ever-present terror. That pain. That guilt.
Tears ran down her face. The terror, the pain—those were things she could live with. What hurt more was the longing. The ache, like a hole in her chest, for the time when she had a mother, a family—people who loved her.
It was why she clung so hard to Isabelle. The Albian queen knew what it was to lose a family. Bianca and Isabelle were friends, yes, but more than that, they understood each other’s pain.
Isabelle was all she had, anymore. And Bianca was desperately afraid the king was going to kill her.
There was a pounding on her door, and Bianca startled out of her thoughts. She dashed the tears from her face and threw a heavy, high-collared robe over her flimsy shift before going to the door and cracking it open.
“Master Goodfellow?”
Robin Goodfellow pushed his way into her chambers. It was hideously intrusive, but Bianca knew from previous encounters that it would do no good to complain of his behavior. He seemed oblivious to his own poor manners, and the king only laughed when Bianca had asked for him to speak to Robin. Like it or not, the huntsman was apparently allowed free access to her, night or day. It would have worried her more, if he’d showed the least interest in her as a woman. As it was, his rudeness was merely an irritating fact, not another terror.
“You need to pack.”
“Excuse me?” She stared at him, confused.
“The king has given his permission for you to go hunting. We are leaving immediately. You need to pack.” He didn’t
look at her as he spoke. Instead he headed for her writing desk and began rifling through the papers there until he found a blank sheet and the ink pen. “The weather may change, so bring something warm.” He scratched a few lines on the paper, and then handed it to her.
The king means to have you killed. You need to flee.
Bianca looked up, shocked. Robin looked at her intently, urgency written on his face.
“You need to pack.”
***
Bianca just stood there, staring at him. Robin ground his teeth in silent frustration. What was wrong with the girl? She wasn’t moving, she wasn’t questioning him—she wasn’t even crying! Her large dark eyes flicked back down to the paper in her hand, and then up to his face. Finally, some hint of emotion escaped her. It looked like… resignation.
“I can’t.”
“You cannot pack?”
“I can’t go hunting.” There was just the slightest hesitation before the last word, as though she’d almost forgotten there might be listeners.
“Do not be silly, girl. If the king wants game he shall have game.” Robin jabbed one finger at the paper. “You have to go hunting.”
She shook her head, sadly. “I can’t. Isabelle is injured. I have to keep caring for her, as long as I…” She took a deep breath, then finished quietly. “As long as I can.”
Robin stepped closer to Bianca, leaning in so he could whisper in her ear. “You are a fool, Bianca. You cannot help Isabelle.”
She closed her eyes, and he saw tears gathering on her thick black lashes.
“It seems I cannot help anyone. But I will not leave her alone, injured, and friendless. I will not.” She opened her eyes, and he saw the stubbornness on her face.
“While you stay, you are nothing but a pawn that can be used against her.”
He expected to shock her, but she gave a bitter laugh. “I am used to being a pawn. Besides,” she paused while she glanced down at the paper she held, “if you’re right, that won’t be an issue for long.”
Once Upon a Romance 03 - With True Love's Kiss Page 2
