“Sir Roger,” Nightingale said. “The king commands your immediate presence.”
Roger looked down at his sweaty clothes, then shrugged. There was no hurry, as far as he knew, but the king’s orders were not to be disobeyed. If he wanted Roger’s urgent presence–even a Roger smelling of sweat, mud and horse–he’d get it. It was possible, he supposed, that Nightingale had set out to embarrass him, but it wasn’t likely. Abusing the king’s authority would be a good way to get his head on the chopping block. Nightingale knew better than to risk alienating his protector for nothing more than snide amusement.
He passed the horse’s reins to a young man from the stables, then followed Nightingale into the castle and through a dizzying series of security checks. The guards frisked him thoroughly, removing his sword and both of his daggers before letting him into the king’s antechamber. Roger felt a flicker of humiliation at the search, knowing that only his relatively low birth allowed the king to risk treating him so poorly. He wouldn’t have risked searching a baron so thoroughly. But then, it would be a rare baron who was allowed a private audience with the king.
Nightingale indicated the door, his posture indicating that Roger should walk through alone. Roger bit down several cutting remarks–there was nothing to be gained by making an enemy of a man who had the king’s ear–then walked through into the king’s audience chamber. It felt cold, despite a roaring fire in the grate. The king himself sat on his throne, his face so impassive that it could have been carved from stone. There was no sign of the Crown Princess or her husband.
“Your Majesty,” Roger said, taking off his hat as he went down on one knee. “It is a great honor to be…”
“You may stand and face Us,” King Randor said, cutting off the flattery. “We have questions for you.”
Roger stood, carefully. “I am at your service, Your Majesty.”
He studied the king for a long moment. Randor had always been a powerful man–the tales of his martial exploits hadn’t been exaggerated–but now he looked…old. There were streaks of grey in his bushy brown beard. And yet, he wore a sword–it looked to be a charmed blade–at his belt, as well as a suit of golden armor. The runes carved into the gold would make it almost invulnerable to brute force. Randor was clearly expecting attack.
“You opened correspondence with Lady Imaiqah,” Randor said. “Did you come to any…agreement with her?”
Roger blinked. The king had urged him to open communications with Lady Imaiqah, with a view to getting married at some point in the future…clearly, the king was shifting away from that version of events. No doubt the politically-correct version wouldn’t mention the king at all. He’d been unsure how best to proceed when it came to courting a common-born noblewoman who was also a sorceress and close friends with two of the most powerful and dangerous people in the kingdom. No sorceress would accept the role of a traditional noble-born wife.
“No, Your Majesty,” he said, carefully. “We have yet to formally meet.”
The king studied him for a long moment. “The Lady Imaiqah is currently in the Tower,” he said. He didn’t have to say which tower. “Her father was responsible for the attack on Our daughter, on her wedding day.”
“Your Majesty,” Roger said. He was torn between defending Imaiqah’s honor and backing away from her as quickly as possible. There was no way they could get married now. A traitor’s kin were automatically sentenced to death, just for existing. Traitors had to know their families would pay the price if they gambled and lost. “I had no idea.”
“Nor did We,” the king said. “Lady Emily, it seems, was the only one who knew until recently.”
Roger swallowed, hard. “Lady Emily?”
“Yes,” the king said. “She knew and she said nothing.”
He changed the subject with dizzying speed. “How stand the regiments?”
“The first four regiments of musketmen are ready to deploy, Your Majesty.” Roger was finding it hard to think clearly. “I believe the remaining six regiments require more seasoning.”
“We are surrounded by enemies, Sir Roger,” King Randor said. It was hard to tell if he was speaking of the entire kingdom or using the Royal We. “Your regiments may be all that stands between Us and civil war.”
Roger bowed his head. He was a very junior nobleman–and he came from common-born stock–but he’d heard the rumors. The remaining barons were readying themselves for one final joust with the king, while the merchants and peasants were intent on claiming a share of power for themselves. There were stories of taxmen disappearing in the night, of entire communities that slaughtered the king’s inspectors and then fled into the wilderness…the entire kingdom was on a knife edge. And other stories, stories that were completely unbelievable. The war could not be long delayed.
He looked up, meeting the king’s eyes. King Randor was his patron; he’d been his patron since the day he joined the army. He would no more betray his monarch than he’d cut off his manhood. And the king knew it too. He would not have entrusted the musketmen to Roger if he’d had the slightest doubt of Roger’s loyalty. An unscrupulous man could do a great deal of damage with ten regiments loyal to him.
“It is my pleasure to serve, Your Majesty,” he said. “What do you wish of me?”
“Bring your regiments to Alexis,” King Randor said. “And make preparations to move against the barons.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Roger said.
“We will consider the matter of your marriage more fully at a later date,” King Randor added, coolly. “There will be many available heiresses after the campaign is concluded.”
Roger nodded. The king would distribute the heiresses–and their lands–as spoils of war, sharing them with his supporters. No one, least of all the monarch, would care what the women thought about it. He allowed himself a moment of hope–a good match would render his position effectively impregnable–and then dismissed it. He’d have to wait and see what the king was prepared to offer him.
And hope the king survives long enough to reward me, he reminded himself.
“I thank you, Your Majesty,” he said.
“You may go,” King Randor said.
Roger bowed. “I am at your service, Your Majesty.” He glanced around the empty room. Where was the Crown Princess? And her husband? “I live to serve.”
“Exactly,” King Randor said. “And do not forget it.”
Chapter One
“EMILY?”
Emily jerked awake, her eyes snapping open as she brought one hand up in a casting pose. Someone was close to her, far too close to her…she lowered her hand as she remembered, with a flicker of irritation, just where she was. Cat knelt in front of her, his face grim. Behind him, at the front of the covered wagon, Jade was pulling the horses to a stop. Her body ached as she forced herself to sit up. The stories of settlers driving into the Wild West had somehow managed to miss just how uncomfortable it was to ride in the back of a cart.
“Cat,” she managed. She’d slept for…how long? It didn’t look any dimmer outside, so it probably hadn’t been more than an hour or two. “What’s happening?”
Cat stood and held out a hand. “I think you’d better come look at this. It’s not good news.”
Emily took his hand and allowed him to pull her up. He’d shaved his hair, save for a single blonde forelock, and dressed in leathers. A sword, a knife and a small wand hung at his belt. It marked him as a mercenary, a sellsword of no fixed abode, but it still felt odd to look at him. She didn’t think the mercenary look suited him–or Jade, for that matter. Both boys–men, really–looked unsettlingly violent.