“How did Mistress Henley treat you today?” Bennick asked.
Mistress Henley was her etiquette teacher, and the woman was a tyrant. Clare snorted. “I didn’t know there was a wrong way to hold a teacup, but she corrected me for an hour.”
He laughed once, shaking his head. “At least now you can mend your ways.”
“At least for once it’s an easy habit to fix.”
“What else does she have you changing?”
“Apparently my laugh is too harsh.”
He squinted at her, incredulous. “What?”
“That’s what she tells me.” She vented a breath. “Nothing seems to satisfy her.”
Bennick shook his head. “From where I stand, you’re adjusting perfectly.”
A slight hitch in the horse’s step had her strangling the reins and set her heart pounding.
Bennick nudged his horse closer. “Easy,” he murmured. “Relax.”
She tried. She really did. But her knuckles were still white.
“Tell me about your family,” Bennick asked.
Clare cut him a look. “What? Why?”
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m trying to distract you.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, her attention still focused on every shift and clop of the horse beneath her.
Bennick asked the names and ages of her brothers and Clare answered without much thought. But as his questions deepened her tongue loosened, and words began to flow. She hadn’t realized how badly she needed to talk about her brothers until the stories poured out, requiring little prompting from Bennick now. She shared amusing arguments Mark and Thomas had gotten into, her fears of Thomas wanting to become a soldier, and memories of raising the two boys. Pride lifted her voice when she shared Mark’s thirst for learning and Thomas’s excellent memory, and Bennick listened to it all attentively, grinning, laughing, and commenting, sometimes asking her a question which launched her into a new story. The more Clare spoke, the less aware she became of the horse’s jerking steps and the knot in her belly gradually loosened.
Her words stopped only when she realized how much time had passed—her shoulders and legs ached and in the distance, back near the stable, Master Lank was signaling for them to finish their final lap. Color touched her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on like that.”
“Don’t apologize. I enjoyed every moment.”
Bennick’s sincerity was obvious and gratitude warmed her chest. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “It’s clear you love your family very much.”
“My family means everything to me.”
The corner of his mouth rose, but he glanced away.
Sudden curiosity about his family burned. He hadn’t mentioned siblings, or even his parents. She opened her mouth to ask, but Bennick spoke first. “For the record, I don’t agree with Mistress Henley at all. Your laugh is perfect.”
The compliment was unexpected and she flushed as she stumbled over her softly spoken thanks.
Master Lank beamed as they reached the stable and he stopped Jinn with a simple gesture. “Well done, Clare!”
Bennick swung down, passing the reins of his horse to a ready stable hand and Clare gripped the saddle horn, trying to build up enough courage to dismount. Before she could move, Bennick stepped forward and wrapped his hands around her waist. Her breath caught and she gripped his arms with sweat-slick palms, tensing as he carefully pulled her down. She didn’t let go until her feet were flat on the ground, and Bennick’s fingers were slow to lift away. Even after he’d taken a step back, Clare could still feel his hands pressing against her sides.
“Bennick!”
Clare spun with Bennick to watch Venn come toward them at a run. Tension lined his face.
Bennick stiffened. “What’s wrong?”
Venn skidded to a stop in front of them. “Wilf.”
“Fates.” Bennick raked a hand through his hair. “Where?”
“Training yard.”
Bennick cursed again and twisted to Clare, his brows slamming down. “Stay with Cardon.”
Her pulse raced. “But—”
“Stay with him!” Bennick said, already darting off with Venn.
Clare watched them go, biting her lower lip. Wilf was the pox-scarred bodyguard who had knocked her unconscious after nearly crushing her throat that fateful night in the hallway. His name alone made her skin tighten. She’d been lucky enough not to see him since; he and another guard she hadn’t met, Dirk, were usually assigned to Serene.
She glanced at Master Lank. “Do you think Wilf’s all right?”
The stable master grunted. “He’s not the one I’m worried about.”
Clare knew what he meant. That bear of a man would not easily become a victim.
Cardon reached them, a deep frown carving his face as he stared in the direction of the training yard. “Not again,” he muttered.
Unease crawled up Clare’s spine. “Do you know what’s happening?”
Cardon glanced between her and Master Lank. “Wilf can sometimes get . . . out of control.”
Master Lank huffed. “Out of control? Last time it took all four of you to stop him.”
“Yes,” Cardon said, still frowning. “And Dirk is with the princess.”
Which meant Venn and Bennick were facing this—whatever it was—alone.
Clare took a breath. Bennick had helped her today; if he needed Cardon’s help dealing with Wilf, she would make sure he got it.
She began walking.
“Clare?” Cardon asked tightly.
She tossed a look over her shoulder. “I’m going to the training yard. Since you’re supposed to stay with me, you’ll have to follow.”
Chapter 12
Clare
Even though the training yard was filled with soldiers, Wilf stood out. He was every bit as large as Clare remembered. As wide as two men and two heads taller than anyone around him, he was beyond intimidating. His thick limbs bulged with corded muscle and his dark hair and beard were shot with gray. His hair was a tangled mess, his blue uniform rumpled. He wielded a thick wooden staff and was currently using it to beat a man senseless.
Clare approached the field’s edge as Bennick and Venn reached Wilf. She sucked in a sharp breath when Wilf rounded on Bennick, swinging his staff with a monstrous roar.
Bennick dove aside and Clare flinched at the near miss. She pushed through the loose ring of spectators, reaching the front of the crowd as Venn lunged at Wilf’s legs. He tripped the giant, crashing them both against the dirt.
Bennick kicked the staff away and sat on the thrashing Wilf. Clare’s eyes widened when Bennick punched Wilf in the jaw. The man roared anew and tried to slam his head into Bennick’s face. Bennick reared back, barely avoiding the blow.
Clare’s pulse raced. She was shocked by the ferocity of the fight. They were truly attacking each other. Wilf could have broken Bennick’s ribs with that staff.
Cardon shouldered past Clare and jumped into the fray. The spectators remained back, but they weren’t hooting and yelling as observers of a fight usually did. The absence of sound chilled her.
While Bennick, Cardon, and Venn wrestled against Wilf, a couple soldiers darted to the man Wilf had been beating and dragged him to safety. Clare edged forward, wincing as she got a closer look at the man pulled from the field. Blood and drool dribbled down his chin and he held his crooked arm carefully, panting jaggedly. From what Clare had witnessed, he was lucky to be alive, let alone conscious.
Her attention cut back to the field, heart in her throat. The three guards had managed to keep Wilf on the ground. Bennick talked in hurried, low tones, his nose only a breath from Wilf’s snarling face. But the huge man was no longer bucking against them—that was something. Her view became blocked when the crowd shifted forward, perhaps hoping to get close enough to hear Bennick’s words.
Clare was frozen, but her hands shook at her sides. Bennick trusted that raging monster to be one of
Serene’s bodyguards?
“He’s insane,” a soldier muttered. “Totally mad.”
“Why does Markam tolerate him?” another asked.
“It’s the commander!”
Clare was elbowed in the side by a soldier who snapped to attention, and everyone around her stilled.
The commander stepped into view, his bearded face hard. His eyes flicked to her, narrowed, then cut to Wilf, who was still pinned on the field. A muscle ticked along the commander’s jaw. He stepped up to the beaten soldier, still lying on the ground.
The man cringed as he tried to get up.
“Stay down,” the commander ordered. He eyed the crowd. “Has someone fetched a physician?”
“Yes, sir,” a soldier said. “He should be here soon.”
The commander focused back on the bleeding man. “How did the fight begin?”
Blood smeared the man’s lips and chin. When he spat out a gob of blood, a tooth came, too. “He wanted to spar.”
“And you agreed?”
“Yes.”
The commander’s eyebrow lifted. “Did you think that wise?”
The man’s mouth twisted, his face swollen and bruised. “He was insistent and . . . With respect, sir, I wanted to test myself.”
“Your behavior was beyond idiotic—it was suicidal. You know his reputation.” The commander scanned the gathered crowd. “No one is allowed to spar with Wilford Lines. Is that understood?”
Mumbled replies sounded around Clare.
The commander looked back at the soldier. “Was Lines inebriated?”
“Yes, sir.”
The commander’s mouth thinned.
Clare bit her lip, sending a furtive glance back to the field. Bennick no longer leaned over Wilf, but he still sat on his chest, talking rapidly. Venn rubbed one eye, his other hand braced on Wilf’s knee, and Cardon was crouched on his other side.
The physician arrived to tend the soldier and the commander scanned the faces around him. “I hope you’ve all learned from this man’s stupidity. As for Sir Lines . . . I’ll discuss disciplinary actions with Captain Markam.”
A soldier near Clare grunted. “Disciplinary actions? Anyone else would be dismissed.”
The commander looked over his shoulder. “Do I hear disagreement?”
“No, sir,” they all chorused.
“Good.” The commander brushed past Clare without a glance, making his way toward Wilf.
Once he was out of earshot, a soldier snorted. “Nothing will happen. Captain Markam won’t punish Lines, and the commander won’t go against his son. He never does.”
Clare stared, the man’s words not making any sense. Her eyes cut to Bennick and she studied his profile, denial spiraling through her even as she searched for proof.
As if he could feel her gaze, Bennick glanced at her. And when his blue eyes met hers, she knew the soldier’s words were true. Impossible, but true.
Bennick was the commander’s son.
Clare and Venn sat in a deserted corner of the royal library. Light filtered through the dusty window that stretched up the wall beside them and bookshelves towered around them, the old wood bearing thousands of leather books. The dark wood table they sat at was solid, worn smooth with years of use. Maps of Devendra and Mortise were spread out, but Clare couldn’t focus on them.
“Venn?”
“Hmm?”
The wooden chair creaked when she shifted. “The commander. Is he . . .?”
Venn glanced up from the book he held—Zennorian Weaponry and Battle Strategy. “Is he what?”
“Is the commander Bennick’s father?” The question had burned in her chest since yesterday afternoon. She hadn’t dared voice it until now. It felt like prying. Which, admittedly, it was.
Venn laid his open book on the table, his gaze suddenly narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
She fingered the edge of the table. “I heard some soldiers on the field yesterday, while you were busy with Wilf.”
“I do recall the moment,” he said dryly, fingering the purple bruise surrounding his left eye.
She pursed her lips. “Is he Bennick’s father?”
Venn sighed. “Yes.”
Though expected, the confirmation still hit her hard. She’d seen Bennick and the commander together—watched them exchange words—and nothing in those interactions hinted at a familial relationship. She’d known the commander had a son. That sad room, long abandoned with the fabric panther and the chipped wooden blocks had clearly belonged to someone. But Bennick? It seemed impossible. She couldn’t reconcile that the man who had forced her to become the decoy was also Bennick’s father.
“Why is it a secret?” she asked.
“It’s not.”
Her forehead creased. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m asking something wrong, or . . .”
Venn lifted a brow. “Private?”
She flushed, but didn’t look away. “Yes. Something personal.”
Venn nudged the book closed and folded his arms atop it, his elbows resting on the table. “Because for Bennick, it is personal.” He expelled a breath. “You’ll hear rumors, I’m sure. I only ask—as his friend and yours—that you don’t pursue them.” He hesitated, but then reopened his book, clearly ending the conversation.
Clare turned back to the maps and rested her palm over the pulse in her neck, trying not to focus on the curiosity still beating through her. She tried to concentrate on the task at hand—memorizing the geography of two kingdoms—when Venn suddenly came to his feet.
Clare lifted her head and blinked as she saw Prince Grandeur round a corner, headed straight for them. She lurched to her feet and dipped into a bow along with Venn.
“Good day, Miss Ellington.” Prince Grandeur came to a stop beside the table, a bodyguard on either side of him. In his hands was a small leather-bound book so worn Clare couldn’t make out the title. He quickly waved Venn and Clare up from their bow, his focus on her. “I must say, I’m grateful our paths crossed. I’ve been meaning to seek you out.”
Surprise flitted through her. “You have?”
He nodded. “I wanted to make sure you’re settling in all right.”
“That’s very kind, Your Highness.”
“Please, call me Grandeur. And it’s the least I can do, considering the great service you’re doing for my family. Fates know we’re not the easiest to get along with.”
“The king and princess can be a little overwhelming,” she admitted.
“That’s a delicate way of putting it.” He glanced at his men and gestured for them to step back. They did without hesitation. Venn, on the other hand, remained beside the table until the prince eyed him. “I only wish a brief word with Miss Ellington,” Grandeur said. Venn glanced at Clare but deferred to the prince and retreated down the row of shelves. He kept in sight, but wasn’t close enough to hear the prince’s soft snort. “Bodyguards.” Grandeur shook his head. “They never give us a moment’s peace.”
“It is their job to remain close,” Clare said.
“True. But sometimes I wish for a moment of privacy.” Grandeur lowered himself into the chair Venn had vacated and Clare resumed her seat, watching the prince as he looked over the maps. “Enjoying your studies?”
“Sometimes.”
“A diplomatic answer.” He grimaced. “I could never stand Ramus, or his cluttered, smoke-filled office.”
Her mouth quirked. “I’m grateful for the days he lets me study here.”
“The library has always been a sanctuary of mine, too.” Grandeur set his book on the table and drummed his brown fingers on the leather cover. “How are things going with Serene?”
Clare lifted a shoulder. “I don’t see much of her.”
“How did that breakfast go?” he asked. She winced and Grandeur’s fingers stilled, his expression both uneasy and sympathetic. “I don’t know if I dare ask.”
Clare shook he
r head and looked down at Devendra’s capitol city—Iden—marked in gold ink on the map. “She was quite vocal about her feelings toward me, and I don’t think they’re going to change.”
Grandeur exhaled slowly. “My sister isn’t always rational. When our mother died, Serene became extremely demanding. She spat out orders, and my father acquiesced to every desire. One of her wishes was to go to Zennor and mourn our mother’s death with King Buhari—our uncle—and his family.” Grandeur’s mouth pursed. “She didn’t give any thought to the support our father might need, or the help she could be to our people. She just left. For a year.”
Clare’s voice was a whisper. “She left you.” She knew what that felt like. When Eliot had left, it had hurt something deep inside her.
Grandeur’s brow furrowed, still looking at the map. “I remained with Father and his rages, and she did fates knows what in Zennor.”
“I’m sorry.”
He blinked up at her. “Thank you. But I tell this story only so you can understand. Serene doesn’t consider the feelings of others. Her rudeness . . . You can’t take it personally. It’s been her way since our mother’s death and I believe she only strengthened the habit in Zennor. She became the darling of my uncle—of Zennor, really. He allowed her to join him in court meetings and she became known for her skills in politics and diplomacy.”
Clare snorted.
Grandeur flashed a half-grin. “She can be diplomatic, when she wants.” He shook his head and straightened in his chair. “Studying for an exam?”
She blew out her breath, looking over the maps as she spread her hands on her lap. “Yes, and I’m going to fail.”
“Surely not. Especially if I help you study.”
She shot him a look. “Aren’t you busy?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I came to the library to disappear for a while. I’m in need of the distraction. So—what’s the focus of the exam, Miss Ellington?”
Grandeur’s kindness was at odds with the rest of his family, but she was grateful to have at least one royal on her side. Her mouth curved into a smile. “Call me Clare.”
Royal Decoy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 1) Page 11