Jared smiled, shook his head and sped off in hot pursuit.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Stables, the Palace, Archenfield
AXEL WATCHED AS LUCAS TENDED TO HIS HORSE. The Captain of the Guard stood in the shadows on the other side of the stable door, observing with scant interest as the Groom cleaned out each of the horse’s hooves.
Lucas’s movements were precise. First, he slid his hands down the foreleg, then squeezed the back of the leg between the hoof and the fetlock and said “Up,” which prompted the horse to raise the hoof under scrutiny. Next, Lucas employed a pick to pry out the grit and mud lodged in the sole of the horse’s foot. After each excavation, he carefully placed the foot back down on the straw-covered floor and moved on to the next.
“I need to talk to you,” Axel said. “This is important. Perhaps we could go somewhere else?”
Lucas shook his head, dropping the hoof pick into a wooden pail and retrieving a comb. “Cleaning this beauty is important to me. We can talk here.”
Axel glanced over his shoulder.
“If you’re concerned for our privacy,” Lucas resumed, “you have no need. We’re all alone. Why don’t you step into the stall with me?”
“I’m quite comfortable standing here,” Axel assured him.
Lucas smiled softly. “You always were a little nervous around horses, weren’t you? One accidentally kicked you when you were a boy, didn’t she?”
Axel stroked the faint scar above his eyebrow. He remembered how, when it had happened, there had been so much blood pouring down his face that he had feared he might drown in it. Even though the wound had soon healed—helped along by the stitches and ointments applied by Elias—he had suffered blood-soaked nightmares for months afterward.
“To your credit, it never stopped you from riding,” Lucas observed, bringing the comb to the horse’s shoulders. “You’re one of the best horsemen in court. Still, it’s a shame you’ve never quite succeeded in overcoming your fear of horses.”
“I have no fear of horses,” Axel said crossly. “I’m not frightened of any creature, whether two-legged or four. I wonder how many of my fellows in court—or on the Twelve, indeed—can give you the same assurance.”
Lucas knew he had jabbed at Axel’s pride. “Nonetheless, I’m sure there are places you would far rather be at this time of night… others you would prefer to be with.” He paused. “Well, spit it out. What is it that you want to talk to me about?”
Axel set his gloved hands on the stable door. “I am instigating a vote of no confidence in Prince Jared. I assure you it is not something that gives me any pleasure, or that I have undertaken without a great deal of thought. The Princedom is in a heinous state and it is my duty to act. It is time for someone other than a Wynyard to take the throne.”
“Someone like you, perhaps?”
Axel did not flinch at the challenge. “I am the chosen Edling.”
“Chosen by Prince Jared, whom you are now preparing to betray, even as he risks his life trying to secure an alliance for us.”
Axel shook his head. “He should never have set out on this mission, Lucas. We all agreed that it was to be Queen Elin’s job. The Twelve expressed their feelings very clearly, as I remember. Neither the Prince nor the Captain of the Guard should depart the Princedom while the threat of invasion hovers over us.” He gripped the ledge in front of him. “I took those feelings on board. Don’t you think I’d have welcomed the opportunity to ride off heroically? It wasn’t an option—I stayed to do my duty, but the same cannot be said of Prince Jared.” He paused, then his voice became softer. “There are those on the Twelve who feel Jared’s actions have been reckless.”
Lucas shrugged. “There are those who might deem the Prince’s actions noble.”
“Noble,” Axel echoed. “It’s a powerful word, isn’t it? But one I personally struggle to apply to the Wynyard family these days.”
“Really?” Lucas glared at Axel. “Explain yourself.”
“I’m thinking of Silva,” Axel said, noticing the change in Lucas’s demeanor at the mention of her name. “You were quite close to her, I believe?”
Lucas nodded. “We were… friends.”
Axel smiled pleasantly. “I’m glad of that, Lucas. She needed friends in court.” His eyes met Lucas’s. “In my view, poor Silva was betrayed by the Wynyards—first in life and then a second time in death. Perhaps you agree?”
“What do you mean she was betrayed?”
“She was a sweet, intelligent young woman, who entered into a marriage with a foreign Prince. She committed herself wholeheartedly to that marriage, while he betrayed her by pursuing Nova like a dog chasing after a bitch in heat.” He watched Lucas recoil at the thought. “Prince Anders did not just humiliate Silva—he took her pure heart and trampled on it in his hunting boots. He hadn’t a care, as long as he possessed the alliance with Woodlark on the one hand, and the sultry embrace of the Falconer on the other.” At last, Axel drew breath, observing how pale Lucas had become.
“I don’t disagree with anything you have said.” The Groom’s increasingly firm ministrations on the horse provoked a whinny of protest from the beast and, with an effort, he gentled his strokes. “But surely these are Prince Anders’s crimes? They have nothing to do with young Prince Jared.”
“It was Anders who betrayed Silva in life, yes—but, after she died, both Jared and Elin treated her with the same disrespect. When Queen Francesca and Prince Willem came to retrieve Silva’s broken body, did they tell them the truth—that their daughter had been murdered? Of course not—they were too intent upon preserving the alliance, whatever lies they had to conjure up to do that.”
Lucas looked queasy. “No,” he said. “I can’t believe they’d do that.”
“You weren’t there, Lucas,” Axel said gently. “But I was. I heard the two of them tell those grieving parents that their precious daughter had taken her own life. Now, you tell me, Lucas—does that strike you as fair treatment?”
“No,” Lucas stammered. He moved the comb through the horse’s mane. “Of course not! But I understand that they needed to protect the alliance—”
“The alliance crumbled in any case,” Axel continued. “Maybe that was fate’s way of telling Jared and Elin Wynyard that they should have accorded those grieving parents the respect of telling them the truth.”
Lucas was trembling. If his feelings for Silva had ever been in doubt, they were no longer. He stumbled closer to Axel, standing just on the other side of the stable door.
Axel did not wait for the Groom to compose himself. “This is just one instance of the way the Wynyards have abused their right to rule,” he resumed softly. “I fear that they have held the throne in their grasp so long, they have consistently abused the trust and faith we have all placed in them. That’s why I’m going to call this vote, Lucas. That’s why I hope I can count on you.”
He reached a gloved hand across to Lucas’s shoulder, but Lucas shrugged it away.
“Thank you for telling me about the vote,” he said. “But I’ll make up my own mind about Prince Jared.”
Axel could not excise the impatience from his voice. “I’d have thought his deeds alone would have made up your mind by now.”
Lucas looked at Axel. “Sometimes people think they can manipulate me, because I speak softly and I don’t throw my weight around in the Council Chamber.”
“I would not make that mistake,” Axel said.
“You already did,” Lucas said, turning away and walking back toward his pail of equipment. “I think you had better go now. We have nothing more to discuss.”
Axel smiled to himself. He had barely gotten started.
“I’ll take my leave, shortly, Lucas, and leave you to finish your work. But before I do, let’s talk about your friendship with Silva.”
Lucas shook his head. “I don’t care to discuss my relationship with Silva with you.”
“Relationship? Yes, it’s interesting that you wou
ld choose that word. Because I fear, Lucas, that ‘friendship’ is not quite adequate to describe the true closeness—the intimacy—of your dealings with the Prince’s Consort.”
“Don’t try to twist something good and innocent—”
Axel smirked. “Again, an interesting choice of vocabulary, my friend. ‘Innocent,’ for instance—not exactly apropos in this case, I fear.”
Lucas seemed about to respond, his comb raised as Axel might lift a dagger.
Axel shook his head. “I think our fellows on the Twelve would be very interested to know the full extent of your relationship with Silva.” He smiled again. “The things you two got up to down here in the stables… Or,” he proceeded relentlessly, “as if that wasn’t insulting enough to the Prince and his marriage, climbing up into her bedchamber—the chamber next to that of her sleeping husband.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “These are lies! Vindictive, wicked li—”
“I have informants, you see,” Axel continued smoothly, fingering his scar. “I have informants in the Prince’s quarters and informants in these very stables. So I have a pretty good idea what was going on, and equally what was not going on.”
Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’m glad you ask,” Axel said. “Because that’s the question it all boils down to. Since my spies in the Prince’s quarters assure me that, before his assassination, Anders and his Consort hadn’t… consorted for some time… it does lead to one particular question, doesn’t it?” He paused before going in for the kill. “Who was the father of Silva’s baby?”
Lucas tried to protest but seemed to struggle to find the words.
“It’s quite a thought, Lucas, isn’t it? That if Silva hadn’t been clubbed to death beside the river, she might have put the bastard child of the Chief Groom on the throne of Archenfield.” Axel grinned. “Why, the little bastard might have inherited that rather particular dimple in your chin—the one that sends all the women of court into a tizzy. Imagine the chatter that might have provoked! No, when all is said and done, it was probably best all round that Logan Wilde took her out of the picture.”
“You disgust me!” Lucas spat.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Lucas. Especially since I have always had the utmost respect for you.” Axel smiled. “Setting those awkward emotions to one side, I’m sure I can count on your support. At least that way, we can keep this whole sordid business hidden, rather than sharing it with the rest of the court.” He tapped the stable door with his gloved hand. “I fear I’ve taken up more of your time than I intended,” he said briskly. “You have your work to do and, as you observed before, the company of others is far preferable to me than that of an adulterer and a hypocrite.”
TWENTY-NINE
The Border Camp, Paddenburg
LYDIA BROUGHT HER HORSE TO A STANDSTILL AT the top of the hill, catching her breath as she gazed down at the glimmering lights in the crook of the valley. Exhaling, she could trace in the dark night air the pattern of her own breath, blending with the thicker spirals rising up from the nostrils of her mount. She brought a hand to the horse’s mane and stroked it gratefully. She had ridden him hard, she knew, but he had not flinched; together they had led the second tranche of troops here to the border camp in excellent time.
Below was illuminated the temporary camp created by the two Princes of Paddenburg and the troops that had ridden out with them, ahead of her. The war machine, though vast, looked strangely peaceful from this distance, its array of tents glowing softly in the moonlight.
Within the hour, she would be reunited with the two Princes who were now—thanks to her and her alone—the legitimate rulers of Paddenburg. Lydia scanned the hundreds of tents, attempting to pinpoint the one where Henning was likely to be waiting for her. It was strange to think that they had been apart for only two nights. It really did seem an eternity since he and Ven had ridden out from the palace.
The first of those two long nights apart from him, she had lain awake in the sleigh bed, missing his body lying next to her. She had even missed his nocturnal grunts. Alone in the vast bed, having failed to persuade Prince Leopold to sign the decree, Lydia had fretted through the small hours, wondering how on earth she was going to change the old man’s mind.
The second night had been spent in a far less salubrious setting—a roadside camp. But while those in her party had drifted easily to sleep after the long hours of riding, driven by her own cracking pace, she had sat alone by the open fire, deriving little comfort from the flames. Tasting the smoke on her tongue, it had seemed to her like the fires of hell as she gazed into it, through it, seeing only the thing she had done earlier that day.
In the dancing light, she had watched herself—over and over—leading Prince Leopold out of the maze and up the palace stairway to his bedchamber. She had seen her own fingers clasp the pillow, at first gently, then rigid with intent. She had seen the pillow press until it entirely masked the Prince’s confused face, then watched as his frail hands had flailed about in a pathetic effort to claw back his life, even as it was slipping ever further from him.
She had killed the father of a man she now realized she truly loved.
Her brooding was interrupted by the voice of the captain of the First Regiment, at her side. “Lady Wilde, do I give the command to ride on?”
She did not move her gaze from the tent city as she nodded. “Ride on!” she cried. She jabbed her heels into the sides of her horse. Together, they flew down the hillside, the thronging second army of Paddenburg flowing in their wake like a dark and treacherous river.
There was a hubbub of noise and excitement as those already in the border camp welcomed their fellows. Lydia dismounted and passed her horse to a waiting groom, feeling the weight of her body encased in its golden armor.
As she moved through the camp, the voices around her hushed, but she was scarcely aware of the movement of men and women on either side. Instead, it was as if she moved in a bubble of air, utterly separate. Unsure of whether to attribute this to her status or to the terrible thing she had done, Lydia felt she had been marked out to wander alone, not just through that camp but through the rest of her life.
She was, she suddenly realized, not just tired but exhausted. So exhausted, she felt she could simply fall down there on the wet soil. It wasn’t merely the question of two long days of riding, cushioned by far too little sleep, nor even, in isolation, the events of the day or two preceding. No, she was exhausted from a journey that had begun long ago.
“Lydia,” Henning said, suddenly at her side. “Darling Lydia. You cannot imagine how much I have missed you.” He could only achieve the semblance of an embrace as she was still clad in her armor, his own body wrapped in thick furs.
Lydia’s heart beat with so many powerful emotions, she found it impossible to speak.
“I watched you lead the riders down the hill,” he told her in a voice full of pride and wonder. “You looked so glorious in your armor—like a goddess from ancient times bringing fire to the world for the very first time.” He smiled again, lifting his hand toward the nearest tent. “Come inside, my love. Let us unburden you from your golden shell.”
He led her into a several-roomed tent. Encountering a maid, Prince Henning sent the servant off to fetch hot water for Lydia to wash. When the two of them were alone, the Prince himself began removing her armor piece by piece.
She must have flinched as he removed her gambeson, for now he stopped his labors and drew her into his arms. He had removed his outer coat when he began his labors and now their bodies fitted together again in a way that was reassuringly familiar.
“You’re trembling,” he said. “We will bathe you, and then you must eat before you rest.” The maid arrived with a cauldron of hot water. Prince Henning nodded. “Thank you. You may leave us.”
The maid seemed surprised but knew better than to offer any protest. After she had gone, Henning began to lift the final layer of Lydia’s clothing
from her body.
She shook her head. “No, wait. There is something I have to tell you.” She placed her red-raw palms on either side of his face. “My darling Henning, I have sorrowful news. For you and your brother.”
His eyes met hers but he did not speak.
“Your father is dead,” she told him. “Prince Leopold is dead.” She was surprised by the hot tears welling in her eyes.
Henning’s remained dry, trained carefully on her face.
“He seemed to be on the verge of recovery,” she said, “on the morning you and Ven departed. We thought—Nikolai and I—what a cruel trick of fate it was that he should recover just at the point when his beloved sons were riding away.” She sighed. “We took him the decree. We told him how you had run the Princedom during all the months of his sickness and that it was best for him to sign.” She waited for Henning to speak. He remained silent. She felt him bidding her to continue. “He would not sign,” she told him. “Not that day.”
“Go on,” he said.
She could not bear the coldness in his voice. He had utterly withdrawn from her.
“The next morning, yesterday—” She broke off. Was it really only yesterday? It seemed so long ago now. And yet the vision of his face—the pillow, his arms… all so fresh, so present.
“Yesterday?” Henning urged her on.
“He took it upon himself to explore the maze. I found him there, exhilarated to be out in the air after such a long time. He was singing to himself!” she said, desperate for Henning to say something, anything, further.
“I must go and tell Ven,” he said finally—and she found this was the last thing she wanted to hear. The very last thing she wanted was to be left alone—and for this conversation to finish.
“Wait!” she pleaded. “I need to tell you exactly what happened.”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, Lydia, I do not think I could bear to know the details. You understand, I am sure. He was my father. To know that he had this moment of recovery and then—”