His sharp words struck like daggers through the fog of anguish surrounding her. Oh, Papa. Papa . “Of course not,” she muttered. “He must be made beautiful. But I don’t wish to leave him. I’ll help the devouts, Helfred. I’ll escort his body to—”
“Highness, be sensible!” Helfred begged. “You know that’s impossible. Prolate Marlan would never permit it. Please. You need some fresh air and time to compose yourself. Let me escort you into the garden. After that you must pray, then dress yourself in mourning. The council wishes to see you at four o’clock.”
Her head snapped up. “Today? The council expects me to dance attendance on them today ? Mere hours after my father’s death? Are they deranged, Helfred? Are you deranged, to give me such a message now ? Touch the king’s face, you fool! There’s a little warmth to him still! My God, you’re outrageous !”
If her furious accusations hurt him, he didn’t show it. “The summons came from the prolate, Highness.” Helfred’s voice and expression were neutral. “Do you suggest I should’ve told him he was deranged?”
Some venerable or other had mercifully closed her father’s eyes. She was grateful for that much. The thought of walking into this chamber to see them empty of his spirit, his soul …
She leaned forward and kissed him, kissed each eyelid, his cool lips. His hands. “Forgive me, Papa,” she whispered. “They won’t let me stay. But I’ll see you again soon, I promise.”
She could’ve slapped Helfred, he looked so relieved.
In the antechamber beyond her father’s room hovered a gaggle of devouts and four po-faced venerables and a scattering of wet-cheeked, red-eyed courtiers. She swept past them all, her head high, Helfred scuttling at her heels. As she made her way through the castle’s corridors, down the flights of stone stairs leading outside, staff and more courtiers bowed to her, weeping. She nodded but couldn’t bring herself to speak.
If I speak, I’ll lose control. I can’t lose control. I am Rhian, Eberg’s daughter. I am Ethrea’s rightful queen.
Helfred herded her outside and into the castle’s privy gardens, closed the wrought-iron gate behind them and stared at her, uncertain. Then he folded his hands unctuously before him and opened his mouth to deliver a lecture.
“I warn you, Helfred!” she snapped, her voice grating. “Dare to tell me this was God’s will and I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp!”
He gaped in shock. “Your Highness ! I—”
“You think I won’t do it?” Her hands were tight fists, aching to strike him. “You think I can’t? I had two brothers, remember? And we all sparred together! I could knock you down with a single blow and you could never hope to stop me, Chaplain!”
Helfred took a prudent step back. “Princess Rhian, you are clearly distraught. I will forgive your inappropriate outburst. I must make allowances, for—”
She flung herself away from him. “Oh, Helfred! Shut up! ”
They were the only two people in the privy garden. Of course, it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun mellow. A light breeze coaxed perfume from the rioting flowers. There were birds in the trees, singing without a care in the world.
Fetch me my bow, someone. I’ll shoot them all dead.
Her chest was a vast ice cavern, freezing and hollow. If she closed her eyes she’d hear the cruel wind, howling through it.
How could you leave me, Papa? How could you go? Don’t you realise I’m all alone now? Can’t you see I’m at Marlan’s mercy? Of no value to him or your precious council, except as a broodmare? Did you know of the prolate’s former ward, Lord Rulf? Did you plot with Marlan to see me married to him, this unsophisticated country bumpkin? Did you? Did you? Was I never more than a broodmare to you?
Close behind her, Helfred said, “Perhaps, Your Highness, if you could weep …”
She turned on him. “Really? Why? Because it’s womanly , Helfred? Because weeping is what a weak female should do?”
A fresh crop of pimples had broken out on his chin. His hair needed cutting. His habit was limp. “Because you loved him, Highness,” he said simply. “And he’s gone.”
His unexpected words were nearly her undoing. The garden blurred and her throat closed tight. She pressed a fist to her mouth, biting her knuckles hard. When she could trust her voice she clasped her hands behind her back and said, “Yes, Helfred. He’s gone. And if the council has its way the shoes I wear to his funeral will do for my wedding as well.”
Helfred frowned, censorious. “Highness. Consider your position. It’s not seemly to—”
“How much care do you think I have for seemly, Helfred?” she demanded, and snapped her fingers under his nose. “ This much? No, not even so little! Stupid man. If you can’t be useful I wish you’d go away.”
Again, he refused to react to her temper. “Highness, you don’t know the council wishes to discuss your impending marriage,” he said, so reasonable he made her teeth ache. “They could wish only to tender their formal condolences.”
She snorted. “You think so? You’re generous.”
“I try to be,” he said, after a moment. “Rollin encourages generosity.”
“Why are you a chaplain, Helfred?” she said, considering him closely. “Is it your wish to emulate your uncle and be prolate one day?”
“No!” he said, horrified. “Such a thought has never entered my head, Highness. God called me to serve in the Church, and I answered the summons.”
“You had another career in mind?” It was hard to imagine him as anything but a chaplain. Or possibly … a swineherd. Lecturing the pigs.
“What I did or did not dream of in my green days, it hardly matters now,” he said, pretension returned. “Highness, this conversation is not—seemly. I suggest we return to the castle, where you can collect yourself in your privy chapel before your meeting with the council.”
She glared at him, aching anew to punch him silly. What should I pray for, Helfred? An unexpected fever, to carry me off? Now there’s a notion …
“Chaplain—” she began, teeth clenched, then stopped. Over his shoulder she could see a face peering through the wrought-iron garden gate. It was familiar. Completely unexpected. And possibly, oddly, the only face she could bear to look at in the midst of her pain.
“Highness?”
She took a shuddering breath, let it out, and turned her attention intently to her chaplain. Helfred mustn’t see me looking at my visitor. They’ll throw him out of the castle and never let him return . “You’re quite right, Helfred. Forgive me. The king’s death has—I am—”
“I understand, Highness,” he said, nodding.
She let her fingertips rest on his arm. “But I need a little time alone first. The garden is so beautiful. It brings me close to God, and to my parents. My mother in particular. It was her favourite retreat. Please. Leave me. You must have duties, I don’t want to keep you from them.”
Helfred frowned. “Your spiritual wellbeing is my most important duty, Highness. I’m not sure I should—”
Damn. Why, for once, couldn’t he make things easy? “I am, Helfred. You’re dismissed.”
He had no actual authority to disobey her. She wasn’t giving him an unlawful command and she was the king’s daughter, after all. That still counted for something, even if to the council it meant as a broodmare.
“Highness,” he said, and reluctantly withdrew.
No sooner had the garden gate closed behind him than it opened again and her surprising visitor slipped in.
“Mr Jones ?” she said as he bowed untidily. “What in Rollin’s name are you doing here?”
“Oh dear,” he said, his expression anxious. “It’s a long story, Your Highness.”
“You might want to condense it,” she advised. “I don’t have much time.”
“Of course. But first, Your Highness—” Mr Jones bit his lip. “I’ve heard about King Eberg. I’m so, so sorry.”
To her complete surprise she burst into tears.
A
comforting arm went round her shoulders. A rough hand stroked her aching head. “There, there,” said the toymaker, softly. “There, there, you poor young thing.”
She didn’t weep for long. She’d never been much for crying, it had long since been a point of honour—and an essential survival trait. Tears meant her tormenting brothers had beaten her.
“Mr Jones,” she said, embarrassed, stepping out of the warm, safe shelter of his embrace. “Forgive me.”
His smile was a benediction. “What’s to forgive, Your Highness? If a loving daughter can’t grieve for her father what’s this world coming to, that’s what I’d like to know.”
She blotted her face dry with a lace hanky. “And what I’d like to know is what you’re doing here.”
His smile vanished. “Princess Rhian, you’re in trouble.”
She folded her arms, perilously close to hugging herself. “You’ve come a long way to tell me what I already know.”
“But it’s not just you,” the toymaker added. “It’s Ethrea as well. Terrible things are brewing, Your Highness. There’s danger on the horizon and it’s sweeping in fast.”
There was something almost … fevered … in his eyes. Abruptly uneasy, she took another step back. “Mr Jones—”
“Is Prolate Marlan trying to bully you, Highness?” he asked. “Is he … I don’t know … trying to force you to marry against your will?”
The sun was warm but she felt suddenly cold. “How do you know that? How can you possibly know—”
“I didn’t,” he said, a peculiar expression on his face. “At least, not exactly. It’s complicated. Let’s just say I put two and two together. More or less. And if I guessed right …” He shook himself. “Princess Rhian, do you trust me? Do you believe I’m your man, loyal and true?”
Dreamlike, she nodded. She did believe it. He was an ordinary toymaker, without rank or wealth, but she knew in her bones she could trust him implicitly, her unlikely childhood friend. “Yes.”
He looked so relieved it was almost comical. “Your Highness, you can’t stay in the castle. You can’t even stay in Kingseat. As long as you’re here Prolate Marlan and the others will browbeat you until you give in to what they want. And if you do that, I’m here to tell you: Ethrea will be lost.”
“Lost?” She shivered. “What do you mean?”
Mr Jones stepped closer. He looked, she realised, very tired. There were shadowed circles beneath his overbright eyes and his gingery hair was more wildly unkempt than ever.
“Princess Rhian, the prolate wants you to marry a man of his choosing. What do you want?”
She lifted her chin. Either I trust him or I don’t . “Mr Jones, I want to be Ethrea’s lawful ruling queen.”
Mr Jones blinked. “Oh dear. That’s awkward.”
“Why?”
“Because Ethrea’s not in the habit of crowning queens.”
“Then Ethrea’s going to have to get in the habit, isn’t it?” she said, belligerent. “I’m the king’s true daughter. I’m his sole living heir. I’ve a right to the crown, Mr Jones. As much of a right as my late brothers ever had. If I’d been born male I’d be a year into my majority and crowned already. I refuse to accept I’m unfit because I’m female. I refuse to have my life run by Prolate Marlan or the council or anyone but myself.”
“An admirable ambition, Highness,” said Mr Jones. “But, let’s be honest, not easily attained. How long before you must choose a husband? Do you know?”
She frowned. “There’s the funeral … the ambassadorial delegations of condolence … the official mourning period lasts one month. I can’t think they’d try to force an answer from me before then.”
“So we have a month to plan your escape,” said Mr Jones. “That’s something.”
Something, yes. But where could she go? She couldn’t flee the kingdom. She couldn’t turn to another nation for help. That would surely destroy Ethrea’s independence forever. It might even be against the law. And anyway, if she left Ethrea it would be as good as admitting defeat. Marlan would say she’d abandoned her inheritance. He’d say she’d abdicated her right to be the queen consort, never mind ruling monarch. Which meant the ambitious dukes would tear Ethrea apart, like dogs with a sheep.
No. If she was to fight for her inheritance she had to fight for it in Ethrea. So where must she go? Into hiding? Into exile, within her own kingdom? A terrible prospect …
But I have no other choice.
“Your Highness?” said Mr Jones, diffident. “Do you know of somewhere you’ll be safe, until this business of the succession is settled in your favour?”
Somewhere for certain? No. But …
“Duchy Linfoi,” she said. “I have a … friend … there.” I hope. Oh Alasdair … Alasdair … please God you’re still my friend .
The toymaker swallowed. “I see. That’s a long way from Kingseat, Highness. Do you have any idea how we’re going to get there?”
She stared. “ We? Mr Jones—”
“Princess Rhian, you can’t do this alone. And even though I know it sounds ridiculous, and I can’t explain it just now, I’ve been tasked with the duty of helping you. So yes. You and I and—” Mr Jones hesitated, and seemed to change his mind. “You and I will be running away to duchy Linfoi.”
“You’ve been tasked, Mr Jones?” She frowned. “Tasked by whom? Tell me. I think I’m owed an explan—”
“Of course you are,” he said hastily. “But do we have time for explanations right now, Your Highness? I don’t think we do.”
He was right. She’d stayed out here too long already. Helfred would surely return at any moment, complaining and chiding and herding her indoors.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll wait. But not forever. And the next time I ask I expect you to answer.”
“I will. I promise,” said Mr Jones, fervent. “Do you have any idea how we can reach the north safely?”
“Actually,” she said slowly, inspiration stirring, “do you know, Mr Jones … I think that I might.”
“Oh, good,” he said. “Because I have no idea whatsoever.”
But she did. Oh yes. She had an excellent idea … one that not even Marlan or the council could protest. Not without laying bare the baseness of their greedy ambitions.
I’ll thwart them yet, Papa! And yes, I’ll thwart you too. Not because I’m an undutiful daughter … but because I’m the daughter you raised me to be.
Despite the grief that devoured her she smiled at the toymaker. “You’d best go, Mr Jones, before you’re discovered. I’ll find a way for us to stay in touch. Don’t come here again. I fear it would be too dangerous, for both of us.”
Mr Jones bowed. “Your Highness—Your Majesty —I’m yours to command.”
Your Majesty . She felt a fresh rush of tears. “God bless you, my friend. I won’t forget this. I’ll be in your debt the whole of my life.”
She watched him slip through the garden gate, torn between relief and terror.
The whole of my life. But if this doesn’t work … if Alasdair fails me … I fear the whole of my life won’t last very long.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rhian stood back from her full-length dressing-room mirror and considered her reflection. There was no question, scarlet and gold brocade suited her admirably. And the style of this gown, with its severe lines and uncompromising modesty, was unquestionably elegant, while the stiffened collar rising from the neckline shrieked with royal authority. Every inch of her looked like a queen.
She smiled grimly.
Be careful what you wish for, my lords.
The council—led by Marlan, of course—had forbidden her to wear mourning for longer than the traditional month. Sunrise had marked one month exactly since her father’s death … therefore she could no longer dress in black.
“Once your public grieving is ended you must assume your proper place in the world,” Marlan had told her when she met with the council the awful, blurred day that Eberg died. Around the
table the councillors had nodded, even Henrik, like a group of Mr Jones’ obedient stringed puppets. “The ambassadors will be lining up to see you, Rhian. What they see must not alarm them.”
And a daughter mourning her lost father was alarming? Apparently so, if one could believe Marlan.
If he told me water was wet I’d doubt it.
Unfortunately, though she disliked him intensely, he wasn’t wrong. Not about this, at least. Until now, protocol had kept the other nations at bay. She’d not been forced to meet with any of their ambassadors except at her father’s lavish funeral and during the formal presentations of condolence.
But that was about to change. She was the face of Ethrea; being a minor in law didn’t alter that. She knew the great men of the world’s trading nations, Ethrea’s partners in prosperity and peace, gathered in shadowed corners and speculated on the future. Hers, and theirs: they were inextricably entwined.
If they knew I plan to run away I think they’d be frightened. I know I am … but I don’t have a choice. Now the push for me to choose a husband will begin in earnest. My official mourning is over and I have no more excuses. Ethrea must have a king.
If she had her way, that king would be Alasdair.
If he’s prepared to accept my sovereignty over him. If he still wants me. If he doesn’t turn me away from his door …
He hadn’t even written to her on the death of her father. Just sent a brief message through Henrik. Yes, his own father was dying. That might excuse him … or perhaps, with distance and time between them, he’d undergone a change of heart.
Please God, don’t let him have changed his heart. If I can’t marry Alasdair I’ll have to marry one of the others. One of the men named on that damned list.