by Aron Lewes
“Do you like her?”
“Does it matter?” Jonah crossed his arms and stalked around his father's room. He couldn't wait to leave. His mandatory visits with King Aldous were always his least favorite part of the day. “I have to marry her either way, do I not? It isn't as if dissatisfaction would save me from my fate.”
“True,” Aldous agreed. “It was always my intention to see you married before I die, Jonah. Strengthening bonds with our allies and leaving you in the care of a good woman... these matters are of the utmost importance to me. This marriage will accomplish both.”
His father's days were almost certainly numbered. He had more health problems than Jonah had lofty opinions of himself. Most recently, the doctors predicted Aldous' death within a matter of weeks. At seven and twenty, Jonah would become the second youngest king in his country's history, and he didn't look forward to having the weight of a nation on his shoulders.
“I called you here because there is something else I wish to discuss with you, Jonah.” As the king spoke, a silent servant entered with a bowl of porridge. The woman wore a lacy white veil, so when she stood in front of Aldous, she could barely see him. No one in the castle was permitted to see the king's twisted visage. He hid the evidence of his disfiguring disease from everyone, even his own sons.
When the veiled woman proceeded to spoon-feed his father in the middle of their meeting, Jonah rolled his eyes. “Does she have to feed you now? It's... distracting.”
“I'm hungry,” Aldous croaked. “Would you let your old father go hungry?”
“She looks like a ghost!” his son whined. “It's eerie.”
“Look away, if she truly bothers you.” The hooded king leaned forward to meet the woman's spoon. “As I was saying, I had something to discuss with you, Jonah. Tomorrow, as you know, you'll be crossing the ocean to Drakesley. You and Findlay will embark on the princess' ship with only a smallish company of guards. Our own vessel is under repair, or I would send it with you.”
“We'll be fine.” Jonah leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and stared at the ceiling. He couldn't stand to watch his father's awkward feeding time. “The journey will be over in a day or two.”
“Still, it pains me to send my eldest son across pirate infested waters without adequate protection,” Aldous continued, then he paused to take another bite of porridge. “That is why I've decided to employ a bodyguard for you.”
“A bodyguard for me, or a bodyguard for Findlay?”
“A bodyguard for you. I don't care about Findlay. I need to protect the heir, not the spare.” Aldous welcomed the spoon into his mouth a third time. After swallowing, he added, “That might sound harsh, but it's true. You are the one I must keep safe. You are the one who's prepared to be king. Findlay isn't.”
“This is ridiculous! I don't need a bodyguard!” Jonah sputtered. “I think we both know I'm quite capable of taking care of myself!”
“Against enough opposition, even you would fall. No... you need someone at your side who would protect you at all costs. You need someone who would be willing to lay down her life for you, someone who--”
Aldous' speech was interrupted by a snide cackle from his son. “Her? Do you mean to tell me my bodyguard is a woman? Are you serious?”
“She's one of the best bodyguards in the world, Jonah. She is--”
“She's female,” Jonah interrupted again. “That's all I need to know to feel thoroughly insulted.”
Ignoring his son's complaints, Aldous instructed the guards at the door to send her in. The woman who entered was tall, nearly as tall as Jonah, and she looked old enough to be his mother. She wore a leather patch over her left eye, and a lengthy scar extended beyond the patch's reach. When he saw the lines around her remaining eye, he assumed she was somewhere close to fifty. Her short brown hair was shaved on the sides and longer on top, with a subtle hint of gray above her ears. A pair of matching swords were sheathed at her hips, and judging from the way she carried herself, she was quite capable of using them.
Despite being secretly impressed with her appearance, Jonah wanted his displeasure to be known. “If it wasn't bad enough that she's a woman... she's old!” he shrieked. “What other insults do you have planned for me, Father? Tell me now so I might prepare myself.”
The woman started to speak, “I'm sorry you feel insulted, my lord, I--”
She was interrupted by a sneering Prince Jonah, who corrected her with a snort. “I prefer Your Highness.”
“Very well, Your Highness,” the woman continued undaunted. “I can tell you feel insulted by my gender, but I assure you, I am just as skilled as any man. I have over ten years of experience as a mercenary, and two as a bodyguard. I've trained with some of the top arms instructors in the world, and I was once an instructor myself. I have--”
“I don't need your resume. I'm not interested,” Jonah cut her off again. “I am, however, wondering if and when you're going to bow to me.”
The woman immediately sank to her knees and muttered apologetically, “I'm sorry, Your Highness.”
“It's alright. You may rise.” Jonah's eyes rolled toward the heavens. He needed divine strength to see him through such a mortifying moment. “What's your name, woman?”
She answered in the clearest possible voice, “Brunhilde Wilder. You may call me Hilda.”
“I'll call you whatever I like.” For the next few seconds, Jonah unblinkingly glared at her. “But Hilda's fine, I suppose.”
“You'll be well-protected with Miss Wilder, son, I assure you,” insisted his father, who continued to eat from the veiled woman's spoon. Before taking another bite, he added, “I know you have reservations, but she really was the best candidate. To earn this job, she had to beat many men in single combat.”
“And what sort men were these? Children? Were they young boys, barely big enough to hold a sword?” Jonah asked. “I can't imagine this aging woman could beat anyone with any substantial skill.”
“I like to think I'm not so old, Your Highness,” Hilda quietly defended herself.
“Oh? And how old are you?”
“I'm forty-seven, Your Highness.”
“Hmm. Well, you must admit, you're not particularly young. In fact, you have twenty years on me, Hilda. I have to wonder if you'll be able to keep up.”
“Oh, I can more than keep up, Your Highness,” his bodyguard promised him. “I just might surprise you.”
“I'm already surprised. Now that my father's decided to saddle me with a lady bodyguard, no other surprises could possibly compare.” Jonah haughtily raised his chin. “What else can I expect of you, Miss Wilder? May I put you to work, or is your only purpose to hover beside me, pretending to look threatening?”
“I will do whatever is required of me, Your Highness.”
“Even if it means being my personal servant?” Jonah's nostrils flared as he studied her tired face. “Are you willing to wait on me, hand and foot?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“If I asked you to dump my chamber pot at three o'clock in the morning, would you do that?”
Hilda repeated her answer as firmly as possible. “Of course, Your Highness.” After the king hired her, she didn't expect to be subjected to a second interview, but she decided to indulge the prince. She needed her new job.
“If I asked you to remove a stain from my shirt, would you scrub it until your hands were sore... until it was absolutely spotless?”
“I'm sure I would, Your Highness.”
“Good.” Jonah decided to test the truth of her words. He held out his right hand and wiggled his fingers. “I had cake at supper. The icing left a sticky residue on my fingers. Remove it.”
Brunhilde didn't quite know how to fulfill his ridiculous request, nor was she prepared. With few options available, she pulled out a handkerchief, spat in the center of it, and used her saliva to scrub his fingers.
Jonah immediately pulled back his hand. “Are you serious? Father?” An affronted gas
p flew from his lips. “Father, Miss Wilder just washed my hand with spit! Like a barbarian, she attempted to clean my fingers in the most vile possible way. Are you sure this is the woman you intend to hire? This is the woman whose company I'm expected to endure?”
His father gave him a cold, firm answer. “It is, Jonah.”
“Do I have no say in this?”
“No. You don't.”
Jonah's neck dejectedly sank between his shoulders. He didn't know why he still expected his opinions to be respected. After all, King Aldous was already forcing him to marry against his will. Turning to Hilda, he whispered, “My father won't be alive much longer.”
Hilda raised a thick, dark, unplucked eyebrow. “Oh?”
“No. As much as I hate to say it, it's true. His days are numbered.” Leaning closer to Hilda's ear, Jonah quietly finished his thought. “And as soon as he's gone... I'm firing you.”
CHAPTER THREE
On the overnight voyage to Drakesley, Prince Jonah grew more intolerable by the minute. He complained about the smell of the sea air and ordered someone to follow him with oranges. He hoped to smell citrus instead of fish, but the trick didn't work. He complained about the wrinkles in his clothes, removed his coat and demanded ironing. Every few hours, he would complain about being hungry—then, of course, he would complain about the quality of the food.
His company was unbearable to his fiance, who went to great lengths to avoid him. In her most desperate moment, Arienne climbed halfway up to the crow's nest to avoid an encounter, despite being afraid of heights. To say she couldn't stand him would be too kind.
“Two days...” Arienne sighed to herself. “In two days, that man will be my husband.” It was almost impossible to fathom.
Her aversion to Prince Jonah was only part of the problem. Arienne's heart craved the company of another man. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make herself stop caring for Sir Oliver. For the last half-hour, she had been standing on the deck, secretly watching as he trained his men. Every time the handsome knight dragged a hand through his close-cropped chestnut locks, she heaved a dreamy sigh. He was gorgeous.
Arienne's most recent sigh was noticed by Jalen, who followed her friend's gaze to the handsome knight.
“You should talk to him, Ari,” Jalen encouraged her. “I don't understand why you don't tell him how you feel.”
“Because it would be mortifying!” Arienne shrilled. “What would you have me do? Walk up to him and tell him I've been lusting for him for the last six months? Tell him I've been dreaming of his kisses since the day we met?”
With a satisfied nod, Jalen replied, “Precisely.”
“Noooo!” The princess bellowed at the thought. “I could never do that! Besides, I don't see the point. I'll be married in two days.”
“But you're not married yet, and it wouldn't take him two days to bed you.”
“Jalen! You're horrible!” Ari couldn't believe her friend would suggest such a thing. At the tender age of one and twenty, the princess was still a virgin, and she was expected to remain intact until her wedding day. “I couldn't possibly! I-I-I'd never!”
“Fine. Then wait until after your wedding. Perhaps Sir Oliver wouldn't be averse to sharing his bed with a married woman?” Jalen's amber eyes danced as she spoke. “He could be the Lancelot to your Guinevere.”
“I don't know, Jalen.” Arienne's fingers frantically fidgeted as she gazed in the knight's direction. “I don't know if I can do this.”
“Just tell him! Do it as a favor to me. I can't stand to see nothing happen between you. After six months, you owe it to yourself to say something!” Jalen lightly pushed her in the direction of Sir Oliver. Were they not such good friends, the maid might have been chastised for laying her hands on the princess. “I have faith in you, Ari! Good luck!”
Unfortunately, Arienne had no such faith in herself. As she shuffled across the deck, she tried to imagine herself confessing her feelings to Oliver, but no matter how many times she rehearsed the words in her head, it seemed impossible. When she was standing right beside him, her tongue was frozen.
“Tighten your grip, Arthur! But not too tight!” Ignoring the princess' presence, Oliver barked advice to one of his men. “You don't want Ezekiel to knock your sword right out of your hand!”
Arienne tried to capture his attention in the subtlest possible way. She sidled closer, cleared her throat, and waited.
“And Ezekiel, for goodness sake, stand up straight!” Oliver demanded. “Your posture's entirely wrong. You look like a lump with a sword!”
“Ahem,” Arienne tried again, but when she failed, she had no choice but to resort to actual words. “Sir Oliver... might I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Though he answered her question, he didn't spare a glance for her. His attention was utterly fixed on his men and their training session.
Arienne didn't quite know what to do with her arms as she spoke to him, so they remained stiffly at her sides. “There's something I... s-something... I...” The words refused to be spoken.
Oliver raised a brow at her stammering. “Is something wrong, Princess? Are you unwell? Do you need to lie down?”
“N-no! I'm quite well. But there is, uh... there's something I need to tell you, Sir Oliver.”
“Of course.” His eyes briefly flickered over her face, then his attention returned to his men. His disinterest in her was heartbreaking.
“For some time... there's, uh... there's something I've wanted to say to you.” In the corner of her eye, she could see Jalen in the distance, watching the tragic scene unfold. If Ari survived the day without swooning, she was going to wring Jalen's neck. Affectionately, of course.
“Of course, Your Highness. Go ahead.”
His replies were depressingly formal. “I, uh...” Tell him, Arienne's mind begged her. Tell him how you feel. “I should probably tell you I... I've felt this way for a long time.”
“Go on,” he quietly encouraged her.
“I admire you.” As soon as the words were out her mouth, she was horrified. “I-I-I mean, I admire your skills as a swordsman, and I was wondering if you would train me?”
“Really?” Amusement lifted the corners of his lips. Finally, she had his attention. “Princess... you want me to teach you how to use a sword?”
“Yes,” she lied. “I should probably learn to defend myself, don't you think?”
“I think that's an excellent idea!”
Arienne's stomach dropped. “You... do?”
“Indeed I do. I'm already training these louts.” He gestured toward Ezekiel and Arthur. “I'm sure I could handle one more student.”
“Well, that's... wonderful.” Ari forced her lips into the feeblest of smiles. In truth, a sword lesson was the last thing she wanted, but Oliver had come alive at the prospect of teaching her, so she didn't want to disappoint him. “How do I begin?”
“Here.” Oliver shoved a sword into her hand.
The princess' scarcely used triceps tightened as she struggled to hold it aloft. “It's heavy!”
“It is. I would have preferred to start with a wooden sword, but I don't have one, so we'll have to dive right in.” Oliver stood behind her and readjusted her posture. When she felt his hands on her, the prospect of learning swordplay suddenly seemed a lot less dreadful. “Keep your shoulders up, and your feet firmly planted,” he instructed her. “Keep your hips rotated forward, and for now, grip the sword with both hands.”
Arienne tried to follow his advice to the best of her ability. “Like this?”
“Yes. I don't want to spend too much time on your stance. If it requires any corrections, I'll tell you as we go.” Oliver put his hands on hers and encouraged her to raise the sword. “Let's start with a basic swing. You'll want to aim for the--”
“She'll get her head lopped off like that.” Oliver's lesson was interrupted by the snide voice of Prince Jonah, who seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He was followed by
Hilda, who clung to the prince more tenaciously than a shadow.
Oliver chuckled at the prince's unsolicited criticism. “Is that so?”
“Yes. She needs to extend her arms, to protect herself from any counterattacks.” As he gave his advice, Jonah studied his fingernails. The conversation wasn't worthy of his full attention.
“The princess asked me for lessons,” Oliver noted. “With respect, Your Highness, if she wanted a lesson from you, she would have asked you.”
“I just hate to see you teaching her incorrectly. This should be obvious, but her feet are too close together. She should be leading with her left foot. It would give her more balance. You're forgetting the most basic things, Sir...?”
Because it would have been rude to deny the prince his name, the knight croaked, “Oliver.”
“Try harder, Sir Oliver,” Jonah criticized him. “If you don't want the princess to embarrass herself later, you should teach her the correct way first.”
“And you think you could teach her better?”
“Absolutely.” Jonah's answer was accompanied by a bored yawn.
“So you think you're a better swordsman than I am?”
Jonah chuckled at the knight's ludicrous query. As his hands moved to his hips, he confidently replied, “Without question.”
“You can't be that good if you need to be babysat by a woman.” Oliver gestured toward Hilda, whose remaining eye narrowed when he brought her into the conversation.
“Such insolence!” Jonah shrieked. “Are your knights allowed to speak to you that way, Princess? If so, they set a poor example! I'll have you know, Sir Oliver, Hilda's presence is not my choice! She is only babysitting, as you put it, because my father put her up to the task!”
“Still, I'd be a bit embarrassed if I was you.”
“I am embarrassed!” Jonah squawked. “I don't need you pointing out how humiliating this is! If I wasn't tired, I'd call you out!”
“By all means, challenge me to a duel!” Oliver goaded him. “I'd be happy to demonstrate my skills to you, Your Highness.”