Chapter 2
Only a monk or a mountain goat would willingly climb a peak such as this, Royce Saint-Michel thought, reining his destrier to a halt at the foot of the icy trail. Squinting in the glaring sunlight, he glanced upward and grimaced. Despite the fact that he had been born and raised in these Alpine slopes, he was no mountain goat.
And he was certainly no monk.
He pushed back the hood of his sable-lined mantle, lifting one gloved hand to shade his eyes as he studied the narrow path that twisted through the rocks. It rose at an impossibly steep angle and vanished into the clouds. He muttered an oath, his breath white in the bitterly cold air.
Somewhere above, his destination awaited. An ancient abbey. A place of peace, refuge, charity, absolution.
He knew that none of those blessings awaited him here. Had known it long before he crossed the border into Châlons this morning.
And as he assessed the treacherous climb with an expert eye, the knot in his gut—the one that had been there since he left France a se’nnight ago—tightened another notch. For a moment, he almost gave in to the impulse to turn his stallion and leave. Forget this madness. Ignore the urgent summons he had received.
But he had come too far to turn back now.
His horse shifted beneath him, whickering softly, more accustomed to action and battle than patience and caution. Like his master.
“Easy, Anteros,” Royce murmured, patting the animal’s dark flank. “It would appear you are staying behind, unless you sprout wings.” He swung one leg over the destrier’s broad back, adding under his breath, “This is one skirmish I must face alone.”
He dismounted into the ankle-deep snow, every tired, sore muscle in his body protesting painfully. His movements slowed by the bone-chilling cold, he began unfastening the saddle and the supplies he had brought along, cursing himself for coming here. For having too little restraint and too much curiosity.
For responding to a missive that, by all rights, he should have torn into bits and burned into cinders.
He still carried it in his tunic—badly wrinkled from having been crumpled into a ball and smoothed out several times. Your country has need of you, it said.
That was all. No explanation, naught but those six words, followed by directions to this place. He would have thought it a jest, if not for the wax seal affixed to the parchment scroll.
He had thought never to see that mark again. Not as long as he lived.
It was the mark of a man who had once, long ago, been his commander and his liege lord. A man who had been like a father to him after he lost his own.
The man who had later turned on him and taken from him all he held dear.
Royce spat on the ground, but the taste of bitterness had been with him too long. It would not be chased from his tongue. Or from his soul.
Jaw clenched, he focused his attention on his task, his fingers nearly numb, his motions quick, angry. He removed Anteros’s saddle, then opened the pack of supplies he had hastily assembled in France, withdrawing the items he would need for the climb: ropes; a special pair of boots he had designed, old and worn but still useful; a pickax; and a flask of wine—for warmth, he told himself, not for courage.
He also took out a pair of slender, curved Persian knives to accompany the Spanish sword at his waist. He never went anywhere without a concealed weapon or two. Especially when walking into a situation that held so many unknowns.
What could his former liege lord want with him? Why meet in this isolated place, in such a remote corner of Châlons?
And why the urgency? The note, though terse and mysterious, had been explicit on one point: if he was coming, he was to hasten with all speed and arrive within a se’nnight. An impossible task, to complete such a journey in so short a time.
But Royce had done it.
And now he faced an equally impossible climb.
Still exactly the same, the old cur, Royce thought, his mouth curving downward as he glanced up at the steep path. Demanding, unreasonable.
After a second, his memory added a third word: unforgiving.
Some men never changed.
Tying the pack of supplies closed, Royce straightened and led Anteros to a sheltered place behind an outcropping of rock, away from the wind. He scattered a small sackful of oats across the snow and dropped the reins to the ground. The well-trained destrier would need no other urging to stay here until his master returned.
As he changed into his old climbing boots, Royce tried not to notice how the air seemed clearer in these familiar mountains, the sky above a brighter blue, the scent of pine sweeter. All day, he had tried to ignore how right it felt to be here. To be home.
He swallowed past the lump that filled his throat. It would do no good to torment himself with hopes of returning. His homeland had become forbidden ground to him.
On the day he was banished in disgrace.
And if Aldric had meant to offer pardon or reprieve, he would have said as much in his missive. Instead, he had issued orders. Demands. And cunningly used six simple words he knew Royce could not ignore.
Your country has need of you.
Slinging the rope over his shoulder, Royce set off toward the path that led upward into the clouds, rubbing one gloved hand over his stubbled jaw. After seven days of travel, with little sleep and less attention to his appearance, he was hardly fit for an audience with royalty.
But that pleased him. ‘Twould do well for Aldric to know from the start that he was not the same brash youth who had left four years ago, at the age of three-and-twenty. Being forced to make his way as a commoner, to live by his wits and his blade, to eke out a living as a mercenary or guardsman had a way of changing a man.
Slowly, Royce’s frown curved upward into an unrepentant grin. In truth, some part of him was eager for this meeting, had longed for it during the years of exile. He had a few things to say to his former king.
And he looked forward to something else as well.
Mayhap, if the prince had accompanied his father to this isolated abbey, Royce would have the chance to see his old friend Christophe again.
***
His boots made no sound on the worn stone of the abbey’s courtyard, since he wore no spurs; ‘twas an honor reserved for knights alone. Even after all these years, Royce had not grown used to the absence of that sound, the familiar ting that had once accompanied his every step.
The monks awaited him, appearing out of the mist like a gaggle of small brown geese. They had no doubt seen him battling his way up the ice-slick mountain. He had made the ascent in a little less than three hours, despite his fatigue, earning a few bruises and a cut in his palm along the way.
The brothers gathered around him, one of them taking his climbing gear while the others ushered him through a battered oak door. He had to duck to follow them, straightening to his full height inside a cramped entry hall that smelled of incense and dampness and age. The door slowly creaked shut behind them, cutting off the sunlight. And the rest of the world.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. A clutch of candles flickered on a table to one side, huddled beneath a statue of some saint or other, offering little light and less warmth. From a distant chamber, the sound of monotone male voices filled the frosty air with ethereal music.
The entire place seemed steeped in holiness, purity, virtue. He felt as out of place as a fire-breathing dragon among soft, fluffy sheep.
One of the brothers came forward with a pitcher of water and a strip of cloth to tend his injured hand, but Royce waved him away impatiently. “Where is the king?”
None of the half-dozen men around him answered. Apparently this was an order devoted to silence, for they used gestures rather than words to indicate that he must first remove his weapons before they would allow him farther into their sanctuary.
He complied without argument. In a matter of minutes, his sword and knife, used in countless battles against faceless enemies, nestled on the table amid the neatly arr
anged candles, as if seeking some sort of benediction from the holy relics. He also surrendered his flask, though a bit more grudgingly.
He saw no reason to mention the second Persian dagger hidden in his boot.
Satisfied, the placid-looking men nodded among themselves, then led him through a door at the far end of the entry hall. He trailed them down one dark, cool corridor after another, the low music of the chants following everywhere, mingling on the air with the scent of bread baking for the evening meal.
Finally, they brought him to what appeared to be a large chamber, motioning him to enter, nodding pleasantly before they slipped away to go about their silent business.
Royce paused a moment, assaulted by memories of the last time he had seen Aldric. And by the sudden twisting of the knot in his stomach.
But he was not a man to give in to second thoughts. He gripped the iron ring, drew a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
It was the monks’ vast dining hall, dark but for a single torch by the door and a scattering of candles that glimmered on tables here and there, empty but for a solitary figure standing on the far side of the chamber. A man half concealed by shadows. Tall, imposing. Familiar.
Royce took a single step forward. It occurred to him that he should bow. The old training, instilled from childhood, was so much a part of him that he nearly did. But he stopped himself, quelled the impulse.
He owed no man homage and fealty. Not anymore.
Especially not this one.
“Your Majesty.” His voice echoed strangely across the stark, undecorated chamber. “Against my better judgment, I have come in answer to your summons.” He kicked the door closed with his heel.
Aldric remained in the shadows. “So I see.” The deep, regal voice held an edge of affront. Or anger. “And I see also that your time away has made you forget your manners.”
Your time away. The pretty phrasing made Royce’s jaw clench. “In many of the places I have been, a man has little use for manners.”
“You are in Châlons now. Men here know the proper way to address a king.”
“You are no longer my king,” Royce shot back. “And if you think I will fall to my knees and kiss the hem of your robes and beg forgiveness, you are mistaken.”
“If your anger has cooled so little in four years, why did you come at all, Ferrano?”
Royce fell silent, the name and Aldric’s attitude striking a sharp double blow. How could the old cur expect years of exile to cool his resentment? And how could Aldric, of all people, address him by the old title? “Saint-Michel,” he corrected. “That other name is old and forgotten. And I almost did not come. Your missive said little.”
“Yet in spite of that”—a familiar, cunning tone crept into Aldric’s voice—“here you are.”
“What have I to lose?” Royce demanded hotly. “A man who possesses naught risks naught. I could turn and walk out that door anytime. Mayhap now.” He clenched his fists, ignoring the pain in his slashed palm. “But first I would know what purpose you had in asking me here.”
Aldric came forward, slowly, closing the distance between them one measured step at a time. Royce saw no welcome in the old man’s eyes. No sign of relief, no thank-God-you-are-here expression.
And certainly no hint of forgiveness.
By nails and blood, had he truly hoped he might see any of that? Was he that much a fool? How could he have expected aught but this: disapproval.
Yet the old wound opened. And old questions struck like a hail of arrows. What right did Aldric have to judge him so harshly? To hold him to impossibly high standards and then find him lacking? Royce was merely a man like other men. Flawed and imperfect—
All thought of himself abruptly stilled as the king came fully into the light. Royce could see him clearly at last.
And what he saw hit him like a war hammer.
Old was the word that leaped to his mind. Old and haggard and spent. Too many years of war had taken a horrible toll. Aldric’s frame looked almost gaunt beneath his royal robes. His face, once as craggy and solid as the mountains he ruled, and tanned by Châlons’ bright sunlight, had become pale, deeply lined, his skin sagging loosely from his cheekbones. Naught remained of the man Royce remembered—except the regal bearing and the fierce blue eyes.
It was almost enough to make him bow, grant the courtesy that he had denied. Saints’ blood, it was almost enough to send him to his knees.
But he instantly quelled that impulse as well. Aldric would loathe pity even more than he loathed defiance. Any gesture of respect now would be met with scorn.
Besides, he reminded himself, any respect they had felt for each other had been demolished four years ago.
So he fought to keep his face impassive and merely dropped his gaze, unable to bear looking at this man he had once so admired.
Aldric stopped a few paces away. “You ask my purpose in summoning you here. Does that mean you have not heard that our war with Thuringia ended?”
Royce shrugged. “I have heard that it ended, naught more. I have not made it my habit to seek out news of Châlons.” That was an understatement. “And it is not my war.” He lifted his head, shot an accusing glare into those blue eyes. “I have no family left here. No lands. No position. No connection at all. Châlons and its battles are no longer any concern of mine.”
“If that were true, you would not be standing before me. You endured a brutal journey and an ascent up this peak that would have killed many men. Even men of Châlons.” A certain satisfied gleam came into Aldric’s eyes. “And I said naught of reward or pardon, only that your country has need of you.” He glanced at Royce’s injured hand. “It would appear you are still willing to spill your blood in service to your homeland, Saint-Michel. You cannot pretend that you do not care.”
Royce turned away, hating that he had no skill at hiding his feelings, despising the twinge of hope that went through him upon hearing the word pardon.
He picked up a battered wooden goblet from a nearby trestle table and turned it round in his fingers, wishing—not for the first time—that he possessed Aldric’s stoicism. He usually found it impossible to tell what the king was thinking or feeling. He himself, on the other hand, tended to be as transparent as glass.
That was one of the last remaining legacies of his clan. No one had ever accused a Ferrano of being reserved or subdued. He had grown up surrounded by unruly brothers, giggling sisters, parents deeply in love and unafraid to show it.
And he was still too blasted emotional.
“I am curious, Your Majesty,” he said, struggling to keep his tone neutral, “to know how you managed the ascent up this peak.”
“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?”
The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch Page 3