“Good boy.” Grisham walked off toward the barracks.
Reuben stared out of the gate across the bridge at the city, but he wasn’t seeing it. Instead he was remembering the feel of Rose’s hands on his arm, the shift of her hips as she moved against him, and the look of her face. No one had ever looked at him like that before. There was admiration, even awe in those wide eyes, as if he were someone important. It felt dishonest to let her look at him that way, to allow her to think he was something other than what he was. Reuben wondered what it was like for her. How awful must it be to sleep with men for money? Part of him was angry. He wanted to protect her. To save her from what he imagined was a horror. She should not be doing that. Whores were supposed to be ugly, dirty, vile women with no morals, no kindness—they were not Rose. This got him thinking that maybe he had no idea about anything. She was a whore, and he was a new castle guard, but in the broader scope of things, Rose was more worthy of respect. She had seen the world and survived on her own. She was free to do what she wanted and as such he imagined she had experienced much more. He admired her and supposed she would be surprised to learn that.
Still, it was nice to be looked at that way—to be noticed, to be seen as something more than a tree, or a door, or a pair of hands. It was outright thrilling to be thought of as a man. That title he was certain was premature, but it sounded wonderful coming from those soft lips. There was more to it than that, more than simple recognition. When she had congratulated him on his success, he felt both happy and empty. Never having known such admiration, or even the support of a real friend, it was as if he’d only realized he was hungry after smelling food.
He liked Rose. Yes, he did.
The idea settled in his head as if it had been flying around the corners of his sight. When he actually bothered to really look, the idea gained substance and became unmistakably solid. He liked Rose a lot. She felt like a friend. Having never had one before, he wasn’t completely sure, but he couldn’t imagine her giving him a helmet and then beating him with wooden swords or getting drunk and punching his face. She was better than that—better than them. When he first spotted her coming out of that window, he thought she was a ghost, but now he thought that perhaps he was the ghost—a ghost that only she could see.
Rose. Is it just a coincidence that she has my mother’s name? That she climbed out of that same window?
“Hilfred!”
Reuben looked up to see the prince and the Pickerings riding horses toward him.
“Hurry. Get the gate open.”
Reuben did not bother with the bow. He grabbed the hand crank and lifted the catch until he could swing the gate back out of the way.
The prince was dressed in heavy wool, a thick cloak with his hood up. Mauvin and Fanen followed suit, each appearing as night riders or mounted monks. They had packs that bulged—a picnic stolen from the castle kitchens or the party tables, perhaps? Reuben wondered how long they planned to stay out and hoped they wouldn’t be as long as their bags suggested. If anything did happen to them, how could he excuse it? And if the sun came up and they weren’t back, what then?
“Back to Edgar’s Swamp?” he asked. Best to be certain he knew where to send the search party before they dragged him to the gallows.
“Yeah, it’s getting cold. Tonight might be my last chance to beat Mauvin and become the new frog-hunting champ so we plan to spend the whole night. When snows set in, we’ll be able to hold races in the castle. Maybe sucker the squires into doing a little betting. Now remember, don’t tell anyone we left. Even if they beat you with whips or set hot tongs to your feet.”
“Yeah, with all that’s going on, they’ll think we’re just off in some remote part of the castle doing something stupid,” Mauvin said.
“Not like chasing frogs in a wet pond in the middle of a cold autumn night,” Fanen said with a smirk.
“Right!” Mauvin grinned.
“Wish you could come, Hilfred,” the prince said.
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“C’mon, slowpokes!” Alric jabbed his heels into the sides of his horse and raced out into the Gentry Quarter followed by the two brothers, their horses’ hooves clattering on the brick.
Reuben closed the gate once more and watched them go, wishing he were with them, disappearing into the night with frog bags flapping.
CHAPTER 12
THE AUTUMN GALA
What is taking so long, woman?” the king roared at the queen.
“I’m brushing your daughter’s hair.”
Amrath entered the bedroom.
Arista sat on a stool facing Ann’s swan mirror, while his wife stood behind peering over her shoulder. They both stared into the mirror’s depths as if watching a riveting battle through a window. The two were dressed in gala finery. Ann had on her infamous silver silk gown. He should never have allowed her that dress; he had lost too many arguments on its account. The delicate silk that so perfectly, and strategically, adorned her body turned out to be more formidable than any armor.
The king leaned against the doorframe and folded his big arms across his chest.
The queen looked up. “Why the rush?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Oh, you aren’t going to get drunk tonight, are you?”
“It’s a party, isn’t it?”
“But you don’t have to…” She sighed. “Do whatever you want.”
The king frowned. He’d been looking forward to a night of revelry, to getting soaked with Leo and possibly introducing the new chancellor to the wonderful world of hard cider. Everyone should make a fool of themselves once in a while, and he wanted to see the proper young gentleman from Maranon fall on his ass. But with that one sigh, his plans were foiled.
“What?” Ann asked.
“Nothing.”
She was still as lovely as the day they had wed, which was also the day they met. He had lucked out there. Leo had had the luxury of meeting Belinda Lanaklin ahead of time. His friend knew what he was getting into. Amrath’s future had been dictated by his father, Eric, and Ann’s father, Llewellyn. Or was it old Clovis who had decided who his granddaughter would marry? Who she would love.
Does she love me? He had asked himself that question dozens of times over the years, never certain why it was so hard to believe. A lot had to do with being an arrangement. She never had the chance to say no. Anyone would make the best of a situation they couldn’t escape by pretending happiness and hoping that one day it would be true.
When his father informed Amrath of the agreement he had reached with Clovis Ethelred for his granddaughter Ann to marry him, the first thing Amrath had asked was what she looked like.
“Look like?” His father squinted at him, puzzled.
“Is she pretty?”
“Ahhh…” He appeared pained. “Hard to say. I don’t remember.”
“You … don’t remember?”
“The last time I saw her was years ago. She was only a child.”
His heart had stopped at that admission. He recalled standing before his father, running all the ghastly girls he’d ever seen through his mind and, yes, he was fairly certain his heart had stopped, if only for a second. He didn’t even know how old she was. Clovis was ancient, so his granddaughter might have been some old maid of thirty or more. This sent new images through Amrath’s head of the rat-haired witch who made the bread, and his great-aunt Margaret who had a face that sprouted warts that had then grown hair. “She could be monstrous. Some vicious badger-like thing.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t have a snout.”