The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (4 page)

“Easy, Anteros,” Royce murmured, patting the
animal’s dark flank. “It would appear you are staying behind,
unless you sprout wings.” He swung one leg over the destrier’s
broad back, adding under his breath, “This is one skirmish I must
face alone.”

He dismounted into the ankle-deep snow,
every tired, sore muscle in his body protesting painfully. His
movements slowed by the bone-chilling cold, he began unfastening
the saddle and the supplies he had brought along, cursing himself
for coming here. For having too little restraint and too much
curiosity.

For responding to a missive that, by all
rights, he should have torn into bits and burned into cinders.

He still carried it in his tunic—badly
wrinkled from having been crumpled into a ball and smoothed out
several times.
Your country has need of you
, it said.

That was all. No explanation, naught but
those six words, followed by directions to this place. He would
have thought it a jest, if not for the wax seal affixed to the
parchment scroll.

He had thought never to see that mark again.
Not as long as he lived.

It was the mark of a man who had once, long
ago, been his commander and his liege lord. A man who had been like
a father to him after he lost his own.

The man who had later turned on him and
taken from him all he held dear.

Royce spat on the ground, but the taste of
bitterness had been with him too long. It would not be chased from
his tongue. Or from his soul.

Jaw clenched, he focused his attention on
his task, his fingers nearly numb, his motions quick, angry. He
removed Anteros’s saddle, then opened the pack of supplies he had
hastily assembled in France, withdrawing the items he would need
for the climb: ropes; a special pair of boots he had designed, old
and worn but still useful; a pickax; and a flask of wine—for
warmth, he told himself, not for courage.

He also took out a pair of slender, curved
Persian knives to accompany the Spanish sword at his waist. He
never went anywhere without a concealed weapon or two. Especially
when walking into a situation that held so many unknowns.

What could his former liege lord want with
him? Why meet in this isolated place, in such a remote corner of
Châlons?

And why the urgency? The note, though terse
and mysterious, had been explicit on one point: if he was coming,
he was to hasten with all speed and arrive within a se’nnight. An
impossible task, to complete such a journey in so short a time.

But Royce had done it.

And now he faced an equally impossible
climb.

Still exactly the same, the old cur
,
Royce thought, his mouth curving downward as he glanced up at the
steep path.
Demanding, unreasonable
.

After a second, his memory added a third
word:
unforgiving
.

Some men never changed.

Tying the pack of supplies closed, Royce
straightened and led Anteros to a sheltered place behind an
outcropping of rock, away from the wind. He scattered a small
sackful of oats across the snow and dropped the reins to the
ground. The well-trained destrier would need no other urging to
stay here until his master returned.

As he changed into his old climbing boots,
Royce tried not to notice how the air seemed clearer in these
familiar mountains, the sky above a brighter blue, the scent of
pine sweeter. All day, he had tried to ignore how right it felt to
be here. To be
home
.

He swallowed past the lump that filled his
throat. It would do no good to torment himself with hopes of
returning. His homeland had become forbidden ground to him.

On the day he was banished in disgrace.

And if Aldric had meant to offer pardon or
reprieve, he would have said as much in his missive. Instead, he
had issued orders. Demands. And cunningly used six simple words he
knew Royce could not ignore.

Your country has need of you.

Slinging the rope over his shoulder, Royce
set off toward the path that led upward into the clouds, rubbing
one gloved hand over his stubbled jaw. After seven days of travel,
with little sleep and less attention to his appearance, he was
hardly fit for an audience with royalty.

But that pleased him. ‘Twould do well for
Aldric to know from the start that he was not the same brash youth
who had left four years ago, at the age of three-and-twenty. Being
forced to make his way as a commoner, to live by his wits and his
blade, to eke out a living as a mercenary or guardsman had a way of
changing a man.

Slowly, Royce’s frown curved upward into an
unrepentant grin. In truth, some part of him was eager for this
meeting, had longed for it during the years of exile. He had a few
things to say to his former king.

And he looked forward to something else as
well.

Mayhap, if the prince had accompanied his
father to this isolated abbey, Royce would have the chance to see
his old friend Christophe again.

***

His boots made no sound on the worn stone of
the abbey’s courtyard, since he wore no spurs; ‘twas an honor
reserved for knights alone. Even after all these years, Royce had
not grown used to the absence of that sound, the familiar
ting
that had once accompanied his every step.

The monks awaited him, appearing out of the
mist like a gaggle of small brown geese. They had no doubt seen him
battling his way up the ice-slick mountain. He had made the ascent
in a little less than three hours, despite his fatigue, earning a
few bruises and a cut in his palm along the way.

The brothers gathered around him, one of
them taking his climbing gear while the others ushered him through
a battered oak door. He had to duck to follow them, straightening
to his full height inside a cramped entry hall that smelled of
incense and dampness and age. The door slowly creaked shut behind
them, cutting off the sunlight. And the rest of the world.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. A
clutch of candles flickered on a table to one side, huddled beneath
a statue of some saint or other, offering little light and less
warmth. From a distant chamber, the sound of monotone male voices
filled the frosty air with ethereal music.

The entire place seemed steeped in holiness,
purity, virtue. He felt as out of place as a fire-breathing dragon
among soft, fluffy sheep.

One of the brothers came forward with a
pitcher of water and a strip of cloth to tend his injured hand, but
Royce waved him away impatiently. “Where is the king?”

None of the half-dozen men around him
answered. Apparently this was an order devoted to silence, for they
used gestures rather than words to indicate that he must first
remove his weapons before they would allow him farther into their
sanctuary.

He complied without argument. In a matter of
minutes, his sword and knife, used in countless battles against
faceless enemies, nestled on the table amid the neatly arranged
candles, as if seeking some sort of benediction from the holy
relics. He also surrendered his flask, though a bit more
grudgingly.

He saw no reason to mention the second
Persian dagger hidden in his boot.

Satisfied, the placid-looking men nodded
among themselves, then led him through a door at the far end of the
entry hall. He trailed them down one dark, cool corridor after
another, the low music of the chants following everywhere, mingling
on the air with the scent of bread baking for the evening meal.

Finally, they brought him to what appeared
to be a large chamber, motioning him to enter, nodding pleasantly
before they slipped away to go about their silent business.

Royce paused a moment, assaulted by memories
of the last time he had seen Aldric. And by the sudden twisting of
the knot in his stomach.

But he was not a man to give in to second
thoughts. He gripped the iron ring, drew a deep breath, and pushed
the door open.

It was the monks’ vast dining hall, dark but
for a single torch by the door and a scattering of candles that
glimmered on tables here and there, empty but for a solitary figure
standing on the far side of the chamber. A man half concealed by
shadows. Tall, imposing. Familiar.

Royce took a single step forward. It
occurred to him that he should bow. The old training, instilled
from childhood, was so much a part of him that he nearly did. But
he stopped himself, quelled the impulse.

He owed no man homage and fealty. Not
anymore.

Especially not this one.

“Your Majesty.” His voice echoed strangely
across the stark, undecorated chamber. “Against my better judgment,
I have come in answer to your summons.” He kicked the door closed
with his heel.

Aldric remained in the shadows. “So I see.”
The deep, regal voice held an edge of affront. Or anger. “And I see
also that your time away has made you forget your manners.”

Your time away.
The pretty phrasing
made Royce’s jaw clench. “In many of the places I have been, a man
has little use for manners.”

“You are in Châlons now. Men here know the
proper way to address a king.”

“You are no longer my king,” Royce shot
back. “And if you think I will fall to my knees and kiss the hem of
your robes and beg forgiveness, you are mistaken.”

“If your anger has cooled so little in four
years, why did you come at all, Ferrano?”

Royce fell silent, the name and Aldric’s
attitude striking a sharp double blow. How could the old cur expect
years of exile to
cool
his resentment? And how could Aldric,
of all people, address him by the old title? “Saint-Michel,” he
corrected. “That other name is old and forgotten. And I almost did
not
come. Your missive said little.”

“Yet in spite of that”—a familiar, cunning
tone crept into Aldric’s voice—“here you are.”

“What have I to lose?” Royce demanded hotly.
“A man who possesses naught risks naught. I could turn and walk out
that door anytime. Mayhap now.” He clenched his fists, ignoring the
pain in his slashed palm. “But first I would know what purpose you
had in asking me here.”

Aldric came forward, slowly, closing the
distance between them one measured step at a time. Royce saw no
welcome in the old man’s eyes. No sign of relief, no
thank-God-you-are-here expression.

And certainly no hint of forgiveness.

By nails and blood, had he truly hoped he
might
see any of that? Was he that much a fool? How could he
have expected aught but this: disapproval.

Yet the old wound opened. And old questions
struck like a hail of arrows. What right did Aldric have to judge
him so harshly? To hold him to impossibly high standards and then
find him lacking? Royce was merely a man like other men. Flawed and
imperfect—

All thought of himself abruptly stilled as
the king came fully into the light. Royce could see him clearly at
last.

And what he saw hit him like a war
hammer.

Old
was the word that leaped to his
mind. Old and haggard and spent. Too many years of war had taken a
horrible toll. Aldric’s frame looked almost gaunt beneath his royal
robes. His face, once as craggy and solid as the mountains he
ruled, and tanned by Châlons’ bright sunlight, had become pale,
deeply lined, his skin sagging loosely from his cheekbones. Naught
remained of the man Royce remembered—except the regal bearing and
the fierce blue eyes.

It was almost enough to make him bow, grant
the courtesy that he had denied. Saints’ blood, it was almost
enough to send him to his knees.

But he instantly quelled that impulse as
well. Aldric would loathe pity even more than he loathed defiance.
Any gesture of respect now would be met with scorn.

Besides, he reminded himself, any respect
they had felt for each other had been demolished four years
ago.

So he fought to keep his face impassive and
merely dropped his gaze, unable to bear looking at this man he had
once so admired.

Aldric stopped a few paces away. “You ask my
purpose in summoning you here. Does that mean you have not heard
that our war with Thuringia ended?”

Royce shrugged. “I have heard that it ended,
naught more. I have not made it my habit to seek out news of
Châlons.” That was an understatement. “And it is not
my
war.” He lifted his head, shot an accusing glare into those blue
eyes. “I have no family left here. No lands. No position. No
connection at all. Châlons and its battles are no longer any
concern of mine.”

“If that were true, you would not be
standing before me. You endured a brutal journey and an ascent up
this peak that would have killed many men. Even men of Châlons.” A
certain satisfied gleam came into Aldric’s eyes. “And I said naught
of reward or pardon, only that your country has need of you.” He
glanced at Royce’s injured hand. “It would appear you are still
willing to spill your blood in service to your homeland,
Saint-Michel. You cannot pretend that you do not care.”

Royce turned away, hating that he had no
skill at hiding his feelings, despising the twinge of hope that
went through him upon hearing the word
pardon
.

He picked up a battered wooden goblet from a
nearby trestle table and turned it round in his fingers,
wishing—not for the first time—that he possessed Aldric’s stoicism.
He usually found it impossible to tell what the king was thinking
or feeling. He himself, on the other hand, tended to be as
transparent as glass.

That was one of the last remaining legacies
of his clan. No one had ever accused a Ferrano of being reserved or
subdued. He had grown up surrounded by unruly brothers, giggling
sisters, parents deeply in love and unafraid to show it.

And he was still too blasted emotional.

“I am curious, Your Majesty,” he said,
struggling to keep his tone neutral, “to know how
you
managed the ascent up this peak.”