Hadrian could see his own breath and pulled the collar of Dunwoodie’s jacket up and the sides of the driver’s pheasant-feathered hat down. In his years of military service, Hadrian had faced worse conditions, but he usually had something more to do than just sit around. Before a battle there were swords to sharpen and armor to don. He had a hard time imagining a lifetime of sitting on a cold bench waiting for customers.
Hadrian never sat idle in one place for very long. Most of his life was spent in motion. Over the past six years, since leaving home, Hadrian had wandered and never spent more than a few weeks in any one place. He’d seen a lot of the world, but not the details. He marveled at how much went unseen except by patient carriage drivers and their silent horses. There was just a small hint of a breeze, which, combined with the colder air, had a way of letting sounds carry. He heard the distant crack of someone splitting wood and the inevitable curse when the blade clipped. There were random bursts of laughter that echoed between the buildings and unintelligible shouts that Hadrian attributed to the wandering bands of recent alehouse visitors having trouble finding their way home or perhaps to the next alehouse. He could tell which homes were most affluent by the number of servants fetching water and wood and which public houses were the most popular by the number of times their doors opened and closed. The Broken Helm was doing considerably better business than either The Wild Barrel or The Iron Ogre. He actually had not seen a single person enter The Iron Ogre and was not certain if it was even an alehouse. Places in the Gentry Quarter were so neat and ordered that The Iron Ogre might actually have been the nicest-looking smithy he’d ever seen, or judging by the name, perhaps it was a moneylender. He watched individuals walk briskly to alehouses only to leave hours later in packs that meandered aimlessly. Sheriff patrols also wandered in packs. He guessed quite a few were deputies, as they lacked uniforms. He had seen five such patrols pass by, usually three or four to a bunch.
All things considered, there weren’t that many people around. Maybe they were all at the castle for the party, and the sudden invasion of colder weather was keeping the uninvited inside. Or it could be that they were frightened off by the sheriff patrols, who seemed to be accosting everyone they passed.
The later it got, the quieter the street grew, which suited Hadrian just fine. The work that lay ahead would best be done in the hours that men shunned. The closer the time came, the more miserable Hadrian felt. He agreed with Royce that no matter his position, the man who had beaten Gwen should be punished, but Royce’s methods never meshed well with his own. Hadrian would prefer to meet him sword to sword on a well-lit field—not that such a pairing would be fair, but at least it would have the illusion of such. Certainly the high constable, a marquis, would not agree to such an arrangement, so Royce’s less-honorable techniques were necessary. He still didn’t like the idea of sneaking up and…
Hadrian hopped down and leaned against the side of the coach. “Exactly what do you plan on doing with him when he comes out?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Hadrian looked at the delicate rose whose stem was stuffed in the latticework of the carriage lantern. There was one on each of the four corners. Royce had purchased them from a street vendor. He was in a poetic mood, and that was never good.
CHAPTER 14
TRAITORS
I don’t care, young lady.” Queen Ann argued with her daughter. Richard Hilfred stood in the corridor of the royal residence watching through the open doorway. Nora, the handmaid with the lazy eye, was helping the queen with Arista, who was straining to be free of them.
“I’m nearly thirteen!” the princess shouted. “I could be married and having my own children, and you’d still be sending me to bed before the moon has peaked.”
The girl was red-faced, furious, and had fought with her mother ever since he had delivered the princess to her bedroom as per the queen’s orders. Royals.
Hilfred never understood this nightly ritual. A man who stole an apple to stave off death would have his hand severed by the greats with hardly a thought, but they indulged their children recklessly. If Arista were his daughter, she’d never speak to him that way twice—not while keeping the same number of teeth.
The queen, with hands on hips, leaned in, her tone harsh. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Arista. When you’re married and have your own children, I won’t tell you what to do anymore. That will be your husband’s job. And you’ll do what he says then just as you’ll do what I say now.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Like you said, you’re nearly thirteen—practically a woman, right? Then it’s about time you understood what it means to be a woman. And fairness doesn’t play any part in that. You’ll curtsy, obey, smile, and keep your mouth shut.”
“That’s not what you do. You and Father—”
“I was lucky. Your father is … well, he’s very kind, but I also know to do what he says when his voice turns into that growl. You’ll learn that, too, and tonight is good practice for the future.”
“Then I’ll never get married.”
“That’s really not your decision.”
“It should be.”
“You and all your ‘should bes.’ You aren’t becoming a woman, Arista. You’re becoming a brat. Now get to bed.”
The queen whirled and stepped out in the hallway, closing the door harder than necessary. She stood rigid for a moment, her hands in fists, jaw clenched. “Stubborn, combative, never willing to accept the inevitable,” the queen grumbled.
Hilfred wondered if she was speaking to him. Sometimes they just talked to themselves. He felt awkward. If she had spoken to him, he must offer a reply or risk offending her—not something he wished to do in her present state, as he was certain the queen would not offer him the same degree of leniency and patience that she extended to her daughter.
“A bit like her father,” Hilfred offered.
Queen Ann nodded without looking at him. Then she turned to look at the door. “That’s what I love about her.”
“Would you like me to escort you back to the party, Your Majesty?”
“Hmm?” She looked up. “No. I’ve had enough party for one night. I’ll get Arista to bed and then retire as well. I won’t be needing your services for the rest of the evening, thank you.”
“Then I will take my leave.” He bowed formally. “Good night, Your Majesty.”
“Good night, Sergeant, and thank you.” The queen looked at the door to her daughter’s bedchamber and sighed before going back inside.
Richard was alone in the corridor.
He’d thought the nonsense with the princess might never end. Any other time he could have stolen away, but the party was as much a help as a hindrance. If only Reuben had told him about Rose sooner.
Richard needed to speak with the bishop; he needed guidance. The king would be downstairs getting drunk with Count Pickering. Safe enough in his own castle with Bernie and Mal on duty as body men. With the queen and princess in their quarters, all he needed to be concerned about was the prince. Nora always put the boy to bed first, but he’d still have to check the kitchens. Alric, along with the Pickerings, had a habit of sneaking down and gambling with the older squires.
But where was Saldur?
He’d last seen the bishop with Amrath in the chapel. Being as it was on the way to the stair, it was worth a look. He stopped outside the chapel door, reached out to knock, but stopped when he heard two familiar voices.
“…because I was concerned,” Bishop Saldur was explaining.
“But why were you there?” There was no mistaking the voice of Lord Exeter, crisp and accusatory.
“Is there a rule against a bishop fraternizing with castle guards? I will apologize to the king at once if I’ve inadvertently breeched some line of etiquette—but I assure you I was unaware of any restriction.”