by Maria Luis
“You all may be wondering what you’ve done to deserve my presence today,” I say, raising my voice to ensure that every seat in the Commons will hear me, “and the answer is justice.”
“Rowan!” Father hisses, wrenching his body fruitlessly against the restraint of Gregory’s power. “Rowan, stop this bloody nonsense right now.”
Too late, Father. You’re years too late.
I turn my back on him, the same as he’s always done to me.
“Today,” I continue, flicking my gaze toward the Speaker, Belinda Bartholomew, who sits before the court on an ornate chair elevated above all the rest, “there will be no pomp or circumstance, and anyone who objects will learn that they’ll be doing so against the wellbeing of the constituents who’ve elected you to the very bench your arse now warms.”
There’s a gasp, a grumbling, and then from above: “What gives you the right to tell us what to do? You, Rowena Carrigan, who are little more than a bloody hermit!”
“Aye!” shouts someone else and then another and then yet another, until the room is swallowed by a cacophony of aggrieved chanting that feels like knives being scraped against my bare flesh. “Aye! Aye! Aye!”
The nerves in my belly grow, the sweat in my palms turning slick with fear.
One glance over my shoulder reveals that Gregory has proven resourceful yet again. He’s managed to sneak a blade past security. A blade that he now holds to the underside of my father’s chin. If he moves, he dies. If he speaks, he dies. I hold Father’s stare for a prolonged moment, tasting his anger as if it were my own, before snapping my gaze away to give life to the sinister truth.
“Ten years ago, I was my father’s pawn. And before you tell me that you’re not here for a familial war, let me say this: I know your secrets.” My smile is slow and merciless as I spin in a semi-circle, my gaze slipping from one troubled-looking MP to the next. “Oh, yes. Every smile that I gave you, every word of praise that I whispered in your ear, was the work of a woman who was told to bring you to your knees.” I search out the first man who protested. “I’m a hermit, Mr. Willer, because I chose to walk away from the deceit—but the man who ordered me to act never left the public eye. No, he climbed the ranks of Parliament, knowing full well what he’d done to me and all of you.”
A broken, defeated noise comes from behind me, and remorse . . . Remorse stiffens my shoulders. Bound by blood or not, Edward Carrigan will pay. I do not glance back at him. I do not allow myself to recall the few and far between memories of a man holding his daughter high up on his shoulders while hiking the land surrounding their Golspie cottage.
I do not.
I do not.
And yet, my body doesn’t obey.
The heels of my pumps turn in place and my hands become trembling fists at my sides. With hate and disappointment flourishing in my veins, I meet my father’s gaze. His blue eyes scream fury and a bead of blood trickles down the length of his neck.
“Here before you stands a man who murdered his wife.” Silence reigns, not even a single gasp to be heard. “Here before you,” I continue, hearing only the roar of blood in my ears, “stands a man who sentenced his thirteen-year-old daughter to die. Money. Greed. What forgiveness goes to a man willing to damn his own wife and child for a piece of property? In my heart, there is none.”
Father’s lids fall shut.
Look at me! I want to scream. Look at what you’ve done!
But he doesn’t open them, and he doesn’t acknowledge my pain. He doesn’t even acknowledge me.
“For those of you who don’t believe me, I have no living proof.” Silas Hanover’s body was dumped in the Channel six days back and he’ll be halfway to Calais by now—if not lost to the sea forever. “And for those of you who are struggling to reconcile your knowledge of the prime minister with what I’ve told you, then I give to you Caren Fitz, a man who disappeared three years ago only to be found at Broadmoor Hospital last week . . . along with over a hundred other known anti-loyalists who have gone missing since the Westminster Riots. Mr. Fitz, if you would please—”
The far doors fling open.
And then, one by one, all begin to rise.
The Imperial State Crown adorning her head glitters under the Victorian chandeliers. An ivory satin gown clings to her frame, the collar high around her throat, the sleeves cinching neatly around her wrists. Matching gloves sheath her fingers and the heavy, ornamental Collar of Esses drapes her from throat to breastbone in a brocade of gold and gemstones.
Queen Margaret has arrived.
Flanked on either side of her are eight armored bodyguards, their black, glossy helmets shielding their identities—but one glimpse at the man standing at Margaret’s right shoulder and I know him instantly.
The deadly, broken gait.
The breadth of his shoulders and the thickness of his thighs.
His helmet shifts, just a bit, and I feel the heat of his gaze even now.
I see you, Damien Godwin. I see all of you.
It’s not the opening day of Parliament, and we aren’t in the House of Lords, but as Margaret sweeps past me, there’s no mistaking the crimson Robe of State that descends from an ermine cape at her shoulders to span the length of five meters behind her. Damien’s gloved hand brushes my arm as he follows his queen to the Speaker’s chair.
And then, in a haughty tone that would make King John proud, she says, “I’m in need of a throne, Mrs. Bartholomew.”
The Speaker nearly trips in her haste to get out of Margaret’s way. Feeling my pulse quicken, I watch Mags clutch the Robe of State in one hand. Holding the velvet train like she would a gown, she sits delicately in the spot that’s always been reserved for the person responsible for maintaining order during parliamentary sessions. Today, like during her father’s reign, that person wears a crown.
Her chin tilts upward.
Her blue eyes scan the room.
“Members of the House of Commons,” she begins, her voice ringing throughout the chamber, “this moment has been four months in the making, since the king was killed outside St. Paul’s Cathedral. The same way that I, too, almost died at the hands of an assassin only weeks ago.”
Murmurings begin, gaining traction with alarming speed but with a raised hand, Margaret silences the chamber. Then she presses her gloved hands to the armrests, her body listing forward on her makeshift throne. “You saw a fire that ravaged a palace while I breathed smoke into my lungs. You felt fear like a finger trailing down your spine while I tasted blood on my lips. And you watched our history explode—our traditions go up in flames—while I crawled toward death on my hands and knees.”
I’m pinned in place by the weight of her stare, and the guilt glittering in the blue nearly knocks me flat. “I was saved,” she says, never allowing her gaze to waver from my face, “not by the guard assigned to protect me or the staffers who fled to save their own lives but by the woman who has been my best friend for twenty years—Rowena Carrigan.”
Unshed tears clog my throat, and I feel myself stumble backward.
“We ought not to be punished for the sins of our fathers,” Margaret says, cutting eye contact, “but by the misdeeds that we commit ourselves. We should be judged, right or wrong, for what good or evil we bring into this world—and today, I shall play your judge, jury, and executioner. Whatever grievances you held with the king will not be found with me. What say you?”
“Aye.”
My head snaps toward the female voice, pinpointing her to the second tiered row on the opposition’s side. I don’t recognize her, but I watch with a small smile as she bows to Margaret and then lowers back down to the bench.
“Aye!” I discover the owner three rows behind where Gregory still holds Father. Like the woman who came before him, this man bows and then takes his seat.
“Aye,” comes another voice.
An elderly woman sitting to the left of Margaret shouts, “Aye!”
If there are any nays, they’re drowned out by th
e overwhelming support. I press a hand to my stomach, unable to breathe when the plan . . . Oh, God, the plan is working. Margaret turns to Caren Fitz and motions for him to step forward. When he stands before her, she asks, “Do you support the Crown, Mr. Fitz?”
His audible choking can be heard clear across the chamber. “Your Majesty, I don’t . . . I mean, I—”
“An honest answer, please.”
He throws a hasty glance in my direction.
Caren Fitz doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall but whatever encouragement he sees in my expression must do the trick because he turns back to Margaret without further protest. “I didn’t support your father, Your Majesty.”
“Did you actively try to harm him?”
Fitz’s shoulders draw up to his ears. “Ma’am, I manage hotels for a living—I’m no murderer.”
“And yet . . .” Tapping her fingers on the armrests, Margaret purses her lips. “And yet, Mr. Fitz, you found yourself walking home three years ago when you suddenly vanished from thin air. Where were you brought?”
“I woke up in Broadmoor Hospital.”
“Did you suspect my father of the crime?”
Head tilting, the hotelier peers up at the benches to the left of Margaret and then to the right, as if hedging his bets on whether he’ll make it out of Westminster alive. In the end, though, he only runs a hand over the back of his neck. “In the beginning, it seems liked that was the case.”
“But?” Margaret prompts.
“As often as I could, I’d sneak conversations with the other patients. Pretty soon it became obvious that we shared only one thing in common.”
“Which is?”
“Well, the king couldn’t have been responsible because we were asked if we would support an uprising against your father.”
Boisterous shouting comes from all corners of the Commons, and I smother a small cry with the back of my hand. I knew, didn’t I? From the moment Silas Hanover told me that Father promised to have him released from Broadmoor, I knew they’d both been wrapped up in something treasonous. But to hear it confirmed—to know that Father would happily start a war that’s only outcome is death . . .
It makes me sick to my stomach.
“Those who agreed,” Caren Fitz announces, raising his voice to be heard over the din, “weren’t seen again. I have a wife, children. I didn’t—I don’t—support the monarchy, Your Majesty, but I don’t want a war. So I said no to a revolution, and I sealed my fate.”
“Until you were found by an unlikely ally.” Margaret slips her hands forward so that her wrists dangle over the edge of the armrests. “Please, Mr. Fitz,” she murmurs, “give us your hero’s name.”
My entire body jerks as if I’ve stuck my fingers into an electrical outlet, and I’m frozen, my feet rooted to the carpet and my arms hanging listlessly by my sides. This was not the plan. Fuck, this was not the plan! When I scan the guards for Damien’s broad frame, I find him stepping backward.
Run.
Run!
Adrenaline hits my system the moment that Caren Fitz’s tepid voice echoes in the chamber, and I’m not even aware of moving until Damien’s body brushes up against my spine. A shield. A fortress. Until Margaret passes judgment, I remain the prime minister’s daughter and no one will have access to him.
“The Mad Priest, Your Majesty,” Fitz says, “it was Damien Priest who found me.”
A gloved hand finds my waist, holding me tight, and I seal my palm over his.
All this work, all this preparation, only for Margaret to throw him to the wolves. I choke on fury when she actually has the gall to make eye contact with me from the Speaker’s chair. The woman that I thought I knew . . .
We are nothing.
Not friends.
Not sisters.
Not even allies in this war.
“You were lucky to be rescued, Mr. Fitz. The irony, though, that you were saved by the same man who committed such a treasonous act in this very building.” The crown’s gems gleam with retribution as Margaret pushes to her feet. “And don’t we all feel lucky that we’ve been joined today by Mr. Fitz’s hero? Mr. Priest, please remove your helmet.”
I feel my heart cleave in two, feel what’s left of my soul shatter and surrender.
Margaret is no better than her father who manipulated me for his own gain.
“Mr. Priest,” she repeats firmly, “remove your helmet.”
Damien’s hand falls away from my hip, and with it, he takes the last of my hope.
Tears bleed to the surface.
We didn’t have forevermore. We didn’t even have days. I turn, in time, to see my panicked reflection in the dark glossiness of the visor. His calloused palms fit against the helmet. Then, in one sweep of motion, he tugs it off and all I see are flame-blue eyes.
A collective gasp from the MPs floods my ears but I can’t look away from Damien, who lowers his head and touches his lips to mine in a soft, devastating kiss. “Whether I’m in your arms or I’m buried in the ground, I love you with all my heart. And I’m happy . . .” He drags in a pained breath. “I’m grateful that I can call you mine. I only wish that I could be yours for just a little longer.”
My hands catch only the ghost of him.
Benches whine as people leap to their feet, and the silence that previously owned the chamber is now decimated by screams:
Traitor!
Traitor!
Traitor!
Expression grim, Damien turns his back on the MPs and faces the queen. From the flash of satisfaction on her face, she feels no qualms about tearing down a man who’s spent his entire life putting her survival first. “You may kneel, Mr. Priest.”
My lips part. “No!”
Arms catch me from me behind and a gruff voice hisses in my ear, “You attack her right now and none of us will get out of here alive.”
Saxon.
“Let me go,” I whisper, struggling against him, “please—I love him. I love him. Let me go, let me go!”
His arms are like iron shackles. “Guy’s outside with the others. Anyone tries to leave with Damien, and they’ll be dead. Do you hear me, Rowena? No one will hurt him.”
All of England has hurt Damien.
His bones bear the cracks of their rejection, his flesh the scars of their dismissal. As he lowers himself before Margaret, with one hand pressed to his wounded thigh, his gaze flickers to me. I see pain. I see sorrow. Worst of all, I see defeat. Holyrood birthed him and Holyrood will be the death of him, too.
“I will walk through darkness with you,” I rasp, my voice barely audible, “and I will dance in the pits of hell at your side. I am here, and you are not alone.”
His blue eyes slam shut, as if he’s felt my vow like a brand on his skin. A visible shudder rolls over his frame as he slams the helmet down on the ground by his left foot.
He kneels, as told.
He bows his head, as told.
And the queen only smiles.
“All of England has searched for you, Mr. Priest. My father hunted you; Edward Carrigan hunted you—the Met, well, I’m sure they hunt you still.” Her voice rises, every word feeling like a dagger to the gut. Hard. Unforgiving. Blue eyes roam the Commons. “Today, I give to you the country’s number one fugitive. Today, I reveal the man behind the mask. Damien Priest, a man who kneels before his queen—my brother, the bastard prince.”
56
Damien
Chaos erupts. War begins.
I kneel before a queen and hear nothing beyond Mum’s whisper in my ear, just before she died: You are a weapon, and you will be shown no mercy when they come to destroy you.
Oh, hell.
Oh, fucking hell.
Air saws in and out of my chest, my gaze lifting past the red-velvet train to the white-satin dress, and then, finally, to the silver crown perched primly on the queen’s blond head. Her mouth is flat, her gaze sweeping resolutely over the MPs at my back. She doesn’t spare me a second glance.
Wh
at she said . . .
What she implied—
I must make a noise—ragged, choked—because her attention immediately shifts south and the blue eyes peering down at me are wholly unapologetic. The same callous shade of blue as King John’s. The same merciless shade as my own. My stomach heaves. Hands turn sweaty. Jesus, I’m going to be sick.
Something hard strikes my spine.
Baring my teeth, I whip around to find an apple rolling to a stop near my boot. My assailant had the bollocks to pummel me but not the common sense to walk away. He stands, a lean streak of paleness, with his knees bobbing and his fists raised. “He’s a bloody traitor and no prince of mine. He deserves to rot in prison for what he’s done!”
I’m no traitor.
And neither am I a prince, bastard or otherwise.
“Throw one more thing at me,” I growl tightly, “and I’ll shove it so far up your ass, you’ll know the taste of it for days.”
The man blanches.
Then he jabs a finger at me like I’m a freak in a circus ring. “Did you hear him?” he crows. “He’s an animal! To even suggest that King John would acknowledge his bastard from the grave—when he never did so while alive—makes a mockery of the entire monarchy. No illegitimate heir will ever stand in line for the throne.”
“He’s an anti-loyalist!”
“His brother killed the king!”
“He’s a criminal!”
No mercy, Mum had said. The world would show me none, and it was best that I learned early. A warning. A prophecy. All of it my new fucking reality as MPs from across the aisle stand to get a good look at me. Their accusations are poison. And with every new object thrown at my broken body, the familiar rage that’s always been my closest companion blooms, unfurls.
Dominates.
War beats in my blood and hate lives in my heart, and I snatch the queen by the arm to shove my face into hers. “What have you done?”