The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (5 page)

“I did not have to. There is another way
into the abbey, a secret tunnel through the mountain.”

Royce set the cup down a bit too sharply.
“You might have mentioned that to me.”

“I could not risk revealing such information
in my letter. The missive could have fallen into the wrong hands.”
The king paused. “And I needed to make certain you were equal to
the task I have in mind. I needed you to—”

“Prove myself.” He spun to face his former
liege lord. “Of course. I am relieved that I did not disappoint
you.
This
time. And now that you have tested both my loyalty
and my stamina, mayhap you would tell me what this ‘task’ is. The
situation must indeed be desperate for you to stoop so low as to
call upon me.”

“It concerns the peace agreement with
Thuringia.”

Royce choked out a strangled laugh, his mind
and memory reeling with disbelief. “Surely you do not intend to
involve me in the peace negotiations—”

“Nay, the agreement was reached soon after
the war ended. The arrangements have all been made.”

He said it with such finality that Royce
fell silent for a moment, a seed of foreboding planted in his
heart. “And how
did
the war end?” He searched the older
man’s face, seeking some hint of the truth. “Did Daemon finally
decide it was too costly, and retreat to spend his gold
elsewhere?”

“Nay, he did not.” Aldric’s voice deepened,
as if weighted down by the words he spoke. “He succeeded. It is we
who have been forced to negotiate our surrender.”

Royce flinched and took a step backward, an
icy rain of shock washing through him. He tried to steel himself
against it, to tell himself this was none of his concern. Tried to
convince himself he felt naught for Châlons and its troubles.

But the pain was undeniable. The word
surrender
and the images of defeat it brought pierced the
wall he had built around his heart.

“Sweet Christ,” he choked out at last. “That
cannot … how …”

“Mercenaries,” Aldric explained tonelessly.
“Daemon must have all but emptied his treasury. He assembled a
force of ruthless barbarians hired from every dank hole on the
continent. They breached the palace walls—”

Royce uttered a particularly vivid oath.

“And there is more. During the battle for
the palace—” Aldric halted abruptly, a shadow passing over his
face. He shook his head, then finally went on. “I thought you knew
of this, Saint-Michel. I would have informed you in my missive, had
I known that you were unaware.” His voice deepened even more.
“Prince Christophe is dead.”

Royce felt as if the mountain had just
shifted beneath his feet. “Mercy of God,
nay!
” he shouted in
horror and denial. Unable to draw breath, he shut his eyes, images
of his old friend—his best friend—careening through his head, only
to be cut suddenly short.

Christophe was dead. The palace had fallen.
Daemon was victorious.

Royce felt behind him for the trestle table
and leaned on it with one hand, realizing he was shaking. He raked
his other hand through his hair. If he had been here, if he had
been able to do his usual reconnaissance, plot strategy with
Christophe …

Aldric continued speaking, his voice quiet.
“His death was not in vain. He was killed escorting his sister to
safety.”

“And where is Daemon now?” Royce asked
through clenched teeth, murder brewing in his soul.

“In Thuringia.”

Royce glanced up, confused. “He did not
claim the palace for his own?”

“Nay. He insists he has no interest in it.
He demanded only two-thirds of my holdings, our homage and fealty
… and my daughter’s hand in marriage.” The king drew his
ermine-lined robes more closely around him and turned away. “He
awaits the arrival of his betrothed even now.”

Royce straightened, stunned by this piece of
news. How could Aldric hand over his daughter to a man like Daemon?
Especially when Christophe had died trying to
save
her from
the enemy?

But he held his tongue and did not ask the
question. For he knew the answer.

Duty, crown, and country were everything to
Aldric.

Everything.

But the older man seemed to sense what Royce
was thinking. “She agreed to the match,” he said, answering the
question that had not been asked, as he studied a crucifix on the
far wall. “And we had no choice. Daemon could have killed every
last one of our subjects. He still may.”

“But you said that a peace agreement had
been reached.”

“Aye, but it is yet fragile. There have been
skirmishes between our people and his. The wounds of the past seven
years are deep. They will not be quickly forgotten. Tempers are
dangerously short.”

Royce exhaled a harsh breath. “And Daemon’s
is no doubt the shortest of all.”

Aldric nodded. “The wedding must take place
soon, to seal the accord between our two countries. To cool the
fires of war and make everyone see that”—he halted again—“that
Châlons and Thuringia are now … one. In peace.”

The king fell silent. Royce leaned back
against the trestle table, his gaze on the floor as he absorbed all
he had been told.
Peace.
What had seemed impossible for so
long now appeared to be within reach.

But at a price that must be pure torment for
the king.

Royce glanced up from beneath the dark hair
that had fallen over his forehead, observing the man on the far
side of the chamber: the very picture of a king, so silent and
solemn beneath those purple robes that now all but hung on his
war-weary frame.

Aldric always put his subjects’ needs before
his own. It was the quality Royce used to find most admirable about
him.

And the most maddening. Because to Aldric,
the needs of crown and country also came before the needs of his
family. Of those he loved.

And that, Royce would never comprehend.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he cleared
his throat. “Your Majesty, I still do not understand.”

Aldric glanced over his shoulder,
silent.

“It sounds as if all the arrangements have
been made, as you said yourself. What is it you want of me?”

Aldric sighed, the sound barely noticeable
even in the empty dining hall. But when he turned, his eyes
glittered with a look of determination. “There are those who do not
want this wedding to take place nor the peace accord between
Châlons and Thuringia to succeed. Rebels.” The silkiness of his
voice as he said the word was more potent than venom. “They
apparently believe that instead of bringing peace, the agreement
will only make Daemon more powerful. Their fear and hatred of him
is so great that they will risk anything to thwart his plans.”

Royce found himself instantly sympathizing
with these men, but he kept his opinion to himself.

“The fools do not understand what they risk
in stirring his wrath,” Aldric continued. “This agreement is the
last hope I have to save my people from further suffering and
death—but these heedless lackwits would destroy it. They have
already tried. A fortnight ago, the night before the wedding
procession was to leave for Thuringia, my daughter was attacked. In
the palace.” His voice remained calm, but the blaze in his eyes
bespoke fury. “In my own solar.”

Royce’s gaze narrowed. “An assassination
attempt?” Any sympathy he might have felt for the rebels
evaporated.

“That is how it appeared to Princess Ciara,
and to me, though she escaped with only a wound to her arm. Some of
my advisers think it may have been a failed abduction. Neither
possibility endears these rebels to me in the least. They must be
insane to even
consider
such treachery.”

“And did you question this man who attacked
the princess? Do you know who their leaders are?”

“Nay, we could not capture him. The incident
occurred during the betrothal feast. A man appeared at the door of
the solar, calling out that the princess had been hurt. A throng of
people rushed to her aid, and the man blended into the crowd and
escaped before we even knew what had happened.”

“Clever,” Royce murmured.

“Aye,” the king agreed darkly. “He was gone
before anyone could identify him, and the princess did not see his
face. All she remembers is what he said—that he meant to stop the
wedding.”

Royce began to see why Aldric had summoned
him here. “Are there any other clues as to who these traitors might
be?” He started to pace, thinking.

“Only one. We had guards posted throughout
the palace that night, and no one but our invited guests attended
the betrothal feast. Which means it was either someone who pretends
to be my loyal subject—”

“Or some of your own guardsmen are lending
aid to the rebels.” Royce swore under his breath. Now he understood
why the king needed the services of someone from outside Châlons,
someone far removed from the palace and its intrigues.

Someone who gave no pretense of being a
loyal subject.

He stopped pacing, absently rubbing a hand
over his stubbled jaw. “I assume you have the princess under
protection?”

“The only protection I trust at the
moment—my own.” Aldric moved to one of the trestle tables, where he
picked up an empty cup and reached for another. “She is here, in
the abbey. That is why I chose this place for our meeting. Until
she is wed, I fear for her life. I want her kept safe,” he said
adamantly.

Royce watched the king, thinking that only
someone who knew Aldric well would detect the concern, the love
behind his words. “So you want me to hunt down this assassin.
Ferret out these rebels as quickly as possible.”

Aldric glanced up at him, genuine surprise
lightening his somber expression for a moment. “Nay.” He shook his
head. “Nay, I have other men pursuing them even now. I have a more
vital task in mind for you, Saint-Michel. Come.” He picked up a
third cup and motioned for Royce to join him at the table.

Royce stepped closer, feeling strangely
uneasy, wondering what could possibly be more vital than capturing
those who had tried to kill a member of the royal family.

He came to stand on the opposite side of the
table, watching in puzzlement as Aldric turned the three wooden
goblets upside down and lined them up in a row. The sound of the
torch crackling beside the door seemed unnaturally loud in the
silence, competing with the monks’ ethereal chants in a way that
gave Royce a fleeting impression of hovering between Hell and
Heaven.

The king reached into his velvet tunic and
withdrew a gleaming jewel—one of the garnets found only in the
mountains of Châlons, renowned for their bloodred color that was
almost black. The rare gems were sought after by traders from all
four corners of the globe.

He slipped the gem under one of the cups,
then began moving them back and forth and around each other, his
pale, gnarled hands surprisingly quick. “You have seen this game
played at fairs, have you not?”

“Aye.” Royce leaned down, bracing his arms
against the tabletop. “It is used by tricksters to part fools from
their coin.”

“Indeed.” A smile lifted one corner of the
king’s mouth. “With sleight of hand, the wily conjurer hides his
precious prize. He confuses his opponents by keeping them
guessing.” He paused, and Royce pointed to one of the cups. Aldric
lifted it to reveal that the jewel was not beneath it. “I dare not
wait for the rebels’ next attack. This time, they might succeed.”
He started shuffling the goblets again. “So I have devised a plan
to get my daughter to Thuringia, as quickly and safely as possible.
A decoy, her lady’s maid, has already taken Princess Ciara’s place
in the wedding procession that left the palace five days ago,
surrounded by guards.”

Again he paused, and again Royce pointed to
one of the cups, certain he had the right one this time. Aldric
lifted it.

And again the garnet was not there.

The older man began shifting the cups again,
a familiar, cunning tone in his voice. “We have explained that the
princess is in delicate condition, still recovering from her
injury, and must have privacy. I have also dispatched a band of
courtiers to travel to Thuringia by the northern route. But the
rebels will not find their quarry among that group, either. Because
the
real
princess …”

He paused once more, and this time Royce
concentrated before making his choice.

And when the king lifted the goblet, the
jewel sparkled beneath it.

“The real princess,” he repeated softly,
picking up the garnet as if it might break, “will journey to
Thuringia in disguise and in secret, traveling to the south.” He
held the gem out to Royce. “Through the mountains.”

Royce stared at the garnet, then met
Aldric’s piercing blue gaze, suddenly understanding the importance
of what the king was asking. If not for the table holding him up,
he might have fallen to the floor. “You want
me
to serve as
her escort?”

“Her escort and her guardian. I need a man
who is willing to risk his life in this cause, a man with enough
strength, daring, and intelligence to keep her safe. And I cannot
trust those in my own court.” When Royce did not take the jewel,
Aldric set it on the table halfway between them. “Saint-Michel, the
princess survived the first encounter with only a wound to her arm.
Those plotting against us—whoever they may be—might take more
ruthless measures next time.”

Royce straightened, then backed away from
the table. “They would have to be
mad
to follow anyone into
those passes. Especially at this time of year.”

“That is why no one will guess that she
would journey in that direction. And that is why her escort must be
someone who knows those mountains as well as he knows his own—”

Their gazes clashed, Royce daring him to say
“name” when they both knew his had been taken from him.