“Yes,” she said. “I’m not even going to be on the line and I’m terrified.”
“Would you think me a miserable coward if I said I was frightened too?”
“I would think you a fool if you weren’t.”
He sighed and let his head rest on his knees.
“What is it?”
“If I tell you something, do you promise to keep it a secret?” he asked, keeping his head down.
“I’m an ambassador. I do that sort of thing for a living.”
“I’ve never fought in a battle before. I’ve never killed a man.”
“I suspect that is the case for nearly everyone fighting tomorrow,” she said, hoping he would assume she included herself in that statement. She could not bear to tell him the truth. “I don’t think most of these people have ever used a sword.”
“Some have.” He lifted his head. “Adam fought with Ethelred’s army against the Ghazel when Lord Rufus won his fame. Renkin Pool and Forrest, the silversmith’s son, also fought. That’s why I have them as leaders in the line. The thing is, everyone is looking to me like I’m a great war hero, but I don’t know if I’ll stand and fight or run like a coward. I might faint dead away at the first sight of blood.”
Arista reached out, taking his hand in hers. “If there is one thing I’m certain of”—she looked directly into his eyes—“it’s that you’ll stand and fight bravely. I honestly don’t think you could do anything else. It just seems to be the way you’re made. I think your innate courage is what everyone sees and why they look up to you—like I do.”
Emery bowed his head. “Thank you, that was very kind.”
“I wasn’t being kind, just honest.” Suddenly feeling awkward, she released his hand and asked him, “How is your back?”
“It still hurts,” he said, raising his arm to test it. “But I’ll be able to swing a sword. I really should let you get to sleep.” He scrambled off the bed.
“It was nice that you came,” she told him, and meant it.
He paused. “I’ll only have one regret tomorrow.”
“And what is that?”
“That I’m not noble.”
She gave him a curious look.
“If I were even a lowly baron and survived the battle, I would ride to Melengar and ask your brother for your hand. I would pester him until he either locked me up or surrendered you. I know that is improper. I know you must have dukes and princes vying for your affections, but I would try just the same. I would fight them for you. I would do anything … if only.”
Arista felt her face flush and fought an urge to cover it with her hands. “You know, a common man whose father died in the service of his king, who was so bold as to take Ratibor and Aquesta, could find himself knighted for such heroics. As ambassador, I would point out to my brother that such an act would do well for our relationship with Rhenydd.”
Emery’s eyes brightened. They had never looked so vibrant or so deep. There was joy on his face. He took a step back toward the bed, paused, then slowly withdrew.
“Well, then,” Emery said at last, “I shall need my sleep if I’m to be knighted.”
“You shall indeed, Sir Emery.”
“My lady,” he said, and attempted a sweeping bow but halted partway with a wince and a gritting of his teeth. “Good night.”
After he had left her room, Arista discovered her heart was pounding, her palms moist. How shameful. In a matter of hours, men would die because of her. By noon, she could be hanging from a post, yet she was flushed with excitement because a man showed an interest in her. How horribly childish … how infantile … how selfish … and how wonderful. No one had ever looked at her the way he just had. She remembered how his hand felt and the rustle of his toes on her bed covers—what awful timing she had.
She lay in bed and prayed to Maribor that all would be well. They needed a miracle, and immediately she thought of Hadrian and Royce. Isn’t that what Alric always called them … his miracle workers? Everything would be all right.
CHAPTER 15
THE SPEECH
Amilia sat biting her thumbnail, or what little was left of it. “Well?” she asked Nimbus. “What do you think? She seems stiff to me.”
“Stiff is good,” the thin man replied. “People of high station are known to be reserved and inflexible. It lends an air of strength to her. It is her chin that bothers me. The board in her corset fixed her back, but her chin—it keeps drooping. She needs to keep her head up. We should put a high collar on her dress, something stiff.”
“A little late for that now,” Amilia replied, irritated. “The ceremony is in less than an hour.”