by E. D. Walker
They were deep in a small forest, but he could hear the river somewhere away to the east. Anutitum was to the south. It was enough to be going on with. “That way.” There were no paths cut through this forest, and it was slow going, having to clamber over bushes and under hanging limbs.
“Bahhh.” The high-pitched sound made them both jump with its suddenness. And then, “Bahhh, Bahhh,” sounded again.
Aliénor laughed. “Sheep?”
Thomas craned around, but he couldn’t see the animals. He heard more muted bahhhs now that he was listening for them. “There must be pasturage up ahead.” He kept an ear cocked, listening to the sheep. Perhaps, if they ever found the others, they could then find this shepherd and buy a few of his flock for dinner. Thomas was getting ever so sick of hard biscuits and dried meat.
After a little while longer of trudging and grunting effort, Princess Aliénor asked, “May we speak or do you think we ought to keep quiet?”
“It is all right to speak, I think. It might help the others find us faster.”
“What about the Tiochene? Or…or Godric and the blood witch?”
“This forest is quiet enough that we’ll hear anyone’s approach. Don’t worry. I’ll see Godric and the blood witch coming if they find us. The Tiochene—well, if they’re near enough to hear us, we have larger problems anyway.” He smiled at her, trying to be reassuring.
She grimaced a smile back at him and huddled deeper into his cloak. She had the hood up, shadowing her face, but her posture was slumped with defeat.
He slowed his pace a little so they could walk side by side, and so he could see her profile. “What troubles you, Princess Aliénor?”
She gave a bleak little laugh. “Oh, many things, King Thomas.” Her fine brown eyes darted up to meet his gaze. “I was just thinking about…well… You were married once, weren’t you?”
“Yes, a long time ago. Before I was even crowned king. She and I were childhood sweethearts. She was a good woman and a wonderful queen.” Was he trying to remind himself? To use the memory of Rosamund to shield him from Aliénor?
“Your father let you marry for love?”
“My elder brother was alive then. My father didn’t know he would need me for a strategic marriage. He didn’t know my bride would become queen, so he let me have my way. Did your father not ask what you wished before arranging your marriage?”
“My father might have let me pick, but he died too soon and left me a ward of the old Jerdic king. King Bernard.” Aliénor sighed. “And King Bernard rather fancied my lands and treasury for Philippe, who is—was—the second son. Poor Philippe Lackland, the nobles at court used to call him before our marriage. One of the last things King Bernard did before he died was marry me off to Philippe.”
“That was a monstrous abuse of the king’s power. You were his sacred charge. He should have at least tried to arrange a respectable match for you outside his family.” He grunted. “I never did like Old Bernard.”
Her lips pinched with anger, perhaps, or remembered despair. “I was scared and alone after my father died, vulnerable. If I’d kicked a little, the king might have called it off. I think he believed Philippe and I could do well together. But then, King Bernard didn’t know me very well when he arranged the marriage. Otherwise he might have hesitated to chain his son to such a harpy. No matter how rich I am.” She hugged her arms around her stomach. “Silly girl that I was, I liked the idea of being Princess of Jerdun. It seems such a foolish reason to take a husband now.”
“You’d just lost your father. It’s understandable that you’d want protection. Security.”
“Family.” She bit her lower lip.
Cursing himself for a fool, still he reached out and caught her hand. He wore his leather gloves, so he felt no slide of skin against skin, and he missed that warmth. He’d missed this. Missed the kindling heat of feelings like this. Aliénor was clever like his first wife. Kind. Beautiful. Brave. But there were rougher edges to Aliénor, brittle places that his sweet, soft Rosamund had not had.
Perhaps it was the hurt in him attracted to the hurt in Aliénor. She knew loss and bitter disappointment as he did. That gave them a common ground that he’d lacked with all the other sunny-souled ladies his courtiers had thrown his way over the years. No, he didn’t need another sweet-voiced Rosamund in his life. He’d had her and lost her. This…thing, this awareness between himself and Aliénor, was entirely different. And wonderful. And terrifying.
Having lost something so precious once, how could he willfully turn away from his feelings now? He knew how rare this connection was, how precious. He’d never thought to have this again. How could he throw this unexpected gift back at Fate like an ungrateful child?
She faced him, tilting her chin so the soft morning sun caressed the contours of her features. Her skin was still pale from the chilly morning air, and her freckles stood out like constellations on her skin. He wanted to trace them, learn their patterns. He wanted to trail the pad of his thumb across her mouth and see if her lips were as pillowy soft as they looked.
She caught her breath and leaned, ever so slightly, toward him. “Thomas…” There was a question in her voice, perhaps an invitation too.
Before he could do anything, before he could decide, a drop of water splashed against her face, making her flinch. Another dropped onto his head, cold and hard. He turned his face up, and more rain broke through the screen of branches above to splatter like ice against his face. The rain plopped against the leaves all around them and wet the ground at their feet.
“We shall be soaked.”
“Bahhh.”
Thomas took a tight grip on her hand. “Maybe not.” He towed her in the direction of the calling sheep.
Chapter Fifteen
In the end, Thomas led her unerringly toward the grassy hill where a flock of sheep were grazing, as well as two miserable-looking guard dogs. Just in time too, for her boots had begun to slide in the new mud. Her skirts were an inch deep in the muck, heavy and dragging against her legs when she walked. The king’s cloak, at least, kept her nice and warm, which gave her a pang of guilt. Without his cloak he was wet through, hair plastered to his head and little runnels of water coursing down his nose.
As they drew close, Aliénor flinched at the sight of two muscular brown dogs amongst the sheep. The hounds wore fearsome spiked collars round their necks. Both beasts’ heads lifted to attention when Aliénor and Thomas broke from the tree line. A small shepherd’s hut lay up ahead, more of a lean-to, really, with no door, only a small opening. Nevertheless, it had a roof, and it looked dry inside.
Aliénor wiped the streaming water off her face. “Are you sure we should go closer, King Thomas? The dogs don’t look quite friendly.”
“As long as we make no move toward the sheep, I think it will be fine. They are here to guard against wolves. See the spiked collars?”
“Yes.”
“Those are to keep a wolf from getting a good grip on their necks. Come on.” He gave her hand a friendly tug. Strange that her hand seemed linked to her heart now, for when he tugged on her arm like that, she felt a similar pull in her chest, a quick jolt of excitement.
Thomas approached the dogs warily, and fumbled for the pouch at his waist. He drew out two strips of the dried meat they’d all been eating for weeks and held them out in his palm.
One of the dogs hesitated with a small whine in the back of his throat, but then he popped to his feet and padded over to the king. Thomas stayed crouched down and watched the dog out of the corner of his eye, slowly easing forward a step at a time. Eventually, he was close enough that the dog sniffed his hand, then took one of the strips of meat. The animal walked away to chew on it happily, its skinny tail wagging in spite of the rain.
The other dog was more standoffish, and though it stood and came closer, it would not come near enough for Thomas to touch. Thomas set the meat on the ground and backed away. The dog darted forward and snatched it up, then scuttled away ag
ain with its tail down. Still, it chewed on the treat happily enough. Neither dog made a move to stop them as Aliénor and the king ducked inside the small hut.
As soon as she swung inside the little wooden structure, Aliénor let out a groan of relief. She was wet, aching, and miserable, but there was no more rain pounding against her shoulders. The shack was warmer, with a pile of straw and blankets on the floor. Aliénor threw herself down with a thump.
Thomas did not duck inside but hesitated, staring at her. Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away. There was space enough for two in the small room, maybe even three, but somehow being alone together inside felt more intimate than being alone together out in the woods.
“Oh, do come inside, King Thomas,” she said at last, without looking at him. “My reputation is in tatters already, and I don’t wish to start another war with Lyond by letting you drown out there.”
He leaned against the hut’s narrow doorway and looked out.
“You’re not going back to look for Godric, are you? Or the others?” She did not want him to. She wanted his solid, comforting presence beside her.
“No, I don’t like to leave you alone. Besides, I’m an old fool, but I’m not stupid.” He sighed. “Much as it shames me, I truly don’t think I can take on a bespelled Godric by myself.”
“You did before.”
“No. I had you.” His voice was soft, grateful.
Heat pooled in her belly, and she looked away.
“We’ll linger here—see if we can wait out the rain.”
“All right.” Aliénor took off his heavy cloak and laid it out on the straw to dry. She lifted one of the musty—but delightfully dry—blankets off the floor of the hut and wrapped it around her shoulders instead. Her skirt was still soaked and heavy with mud, but her shoulders and chest were instantly warmer. She cast a glance over at the king, watching as his muscles quivered and twitched with the cold. “What if I were to close my eyes, King Thomas? Then you could take that drenched tunic off at least, and wrap up in one of these dry blankets.”
He cast a mischievous glance her way from under his lashes. “No peeking.”
“I would never.” She grinned at him and held her hands up before her eyes like a child.
He laughed, and she heard the sounds of wet cloth slapping against the ground. Something tugged under her hip, upsetting her balance, and she accidentally opened her eyes and looked up at him.
The blanket he’d chosen had had a corner resting under her hip that he hadn’t noticed. “Beg pardon.” He dropped the cloth at once. For a moment his arms bobbed up in the air as if he were unsure whether to cover his chest or brazen out this moment.
Aliénor could be no help to him—she could only stare. He had a marvelous body, a soldier’s body, tall and strong, with broad shoulders and tightly corded muscles in his arms. Something uncurled in her gut, a small feeling almost like the vibration of a cat’s purr. Mmmmm. She bit her lower lip to keep a laugh back and finally tore her gaze away from him. Shifting uncomfortably, wobbling her hips back and forth, she tugged the edge of the blanket out from under her bottom and blindly tossed it toward him.
“Thank you.” He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and collapsed into the straw beside her.
He sat as far away as he could in the little hut, and yet Aliénor felt his presence with an almost throbbing intensity, as if every beat of her heart came from his body. She felt over-hot and all tingly along her arms and chest with a heady kind of anticipation.
Perhaps if the threat of her normal world had seemed more real, Aliénor could have controlled herself better—kept her distance, kept to what was proper and expected. But she had stared death straight in the eye so many times, and that black terror seemed to stalk her now each night in the darkness.
Hard to care what tomorrow might bring. Hard to tell herself no when every moment felt like the edge of a precipice. Each second felt precious now, finite. She didn’t want to waste them in gray mourning for her bitter past with Philippe or this dark fear of the unknown. She wanted to coax high that kindling warmth she felt whenever she was with Thomas. If her life was to gutter out like a flickering flame, then she wanted to burn now like a lightning strike, like a falling star.
She tucked herself deeper into her blanket, hunching into its warmth. “Will you think me presumptuous if I ask something, King Thomas?”
“No.”
“Were—were you happy in your marriage?”
“Very.” His voice was rough. “For the little time we had.”
“Was she?”
“I think so. I hope so.”
“With one successful marriage to your credit, why did you never marry again?”
He shifted on the rock, and the edge of his blanket fell across Aliénor’s lap. He didn’t notice. “I never…there’s never been anyone who made me feel the way Rosamund did.” His gaze flicked toward her, and their eyes caught. Until you.
Aliénor hissed in a startled breath, her pulse thundering. He had not said the words, and yet the tender warmth in his eyes said everything for him anyway, whether he meant it to or not. He looked away again, but she had seen, indeed she had felt those unspoken words deep inside. She studied the line of his cheekbone, the soft curve of his mouth. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Her tongue felt heavy with the words, but she swallowed them back.
When he spoke again, his voice had a hearty cheerfulness she could tell was forced. “Anyway, I was quite spoiled by my love match, you see, and anything less than that, anything based on practical or political considerations, just doesn’t tempt me.”
“Hmm. You seem to be an anomaly.” She kept her voice friendly as she said this so he would know she was teasing. “Most men I know of, who have had one happy marriage, are eager to try their luck again. ‘If I had it once, I can do it again.’ Whereas women, widows, they are usually the ones reluctant to try their luck again, to let go of the past to try for present happiness.”
“Or perhaps I’m too old now and set in my ways.”
Aliénor snorted. “Oh yes. That’s probably it. You being so wizened and decrepit with age and all.”
“Anyway, there are women exceptions to your rule. Like your Lady Noémi. Didn’t you say she’d been married twice?”
“Well, yes, but Noémi says she hasn’t yet managed a really good marriage, so she must keep trying her luck until she does.”
“And you?” His gaze flicked all over her face, studying her, a notch between his brows. “What about you?”
She swallowed, her heart hammering. Just the thought of another marriage made sweat pop out along her hairline. To belong to a man again, to be under his rule. No, to try that again would be to break herself utterly. “No. Never again. I am the Duchess of Catarlia once more, and well-contented with what I have. I have no need to marry again.”
King Thomas was quiet for a good long while. She even began to wonder if she should stay silent and leave him in peace, if she had offended him. A black despair loomed at the thought, but then he spoke, and his voice was quiet, sad. She realized he’d only been silent so long because he hadn’t known what to say. “I think your husband did love you, my lady. In his way.”
She winced. “Yes. I think that was our greatest problem. If he’d loved me less, he might have been able to see how miserable we made each other. If he’d loved me less, he might have been able to let me go.”
“Let you go?”
The rain pounded with renewed fury against the roof, and the world seemed dark outside, even though it was midmorning. The two of them were in almost total darkness together in this stormy world. In this quiet, intimate darkness, divorced from real life, it was easy to say these things. Aliénor blew out a slow breath. “I was going to leave Philippe when we reached Anutitum. I was ready to admit my failure as a wife even if he could not. So you see, King Thomas, how unfit and unwomanly I am. No proper wife for any man.”
He shifted in the straw beside her with a small sound of
denial. “I do not find you unwomanly. Not in the least.”
His voice felt like a caress against her skin, and she shivered, imagining his touch—his fingertips tracing her skin, his hand against her jaw, his breath stirring on her cheek. The gentle pressure of his mouth against hers. Aliénor exhaled a ragged sigh. “I wish I were a dairy maid.”
“What?”
“And you a simple page or a man-at-arms. A groom in the stable.”
“I don’t understand—”
She let herself lean against him, resting her head against his shoulder, and her skin seemed to catch fire at the contact. A sweet fire, though. Cozy. Caressing. Warming instead of burning. She lowered her voice too, until she was barely breathing the words out. “I wish we were anyone but who we are. I wish I was not the Princess of Jerdun. I wish you were not the King of Lyond.”
He tensed, but he did not push her away. “This is foolishness, Aliénor. We cannot stop being who we are.”
“I know. And yet…” She followed the strong cord of his neck with her fingertips up to his jaw and ran the back of her hand against his cheek, listening to the rasp of his stubble.
“Aliénor.”
“You don’t wish we could be other people? Just for a minute? An hour?”
The silence between them lengthened, pulsing in the air as if it were a living thing with a heartbeat she could count. When Thomas finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “An hour wouldn’t be enough. I’m not sure even a year would be.” He turned toward her. “But yes, you make me wish I were the lowliest cowherd, and you a simple milkmaid.” His dragged her closer to him, and she lamented the great tangle of blankets between them.
His hands carded through her hair, and his fingertips tickled against her skull. He cupped her face in his large hands, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. She made some needy noise and fought her other arm free of the blanket so she could touch him better. Her skin felt alive under his touch. A strange fluttering started in her gut, and her lips ached, burned. Touch me, hold me. She curled her hand around his neck and tugged him closer. “Please,” she breathed against his mouth.