Order of the Regent

by Jasmine Walt

  The king’s deteriorating health was no secret to anyone who lived in the royal household. With no heir, the throne would go to Prince Guntram. Taron’s scar itched at the thought. After twenty years of service to the crown, Taron still could find no redeeming qualities about the man. What would they do? The Order of the Regent would be asked to swear loyalty to the new king.

  “Keep your girlfriend in check.” Reynald’s mocking tones drew Taron’s attention.

  “At least she’s alive,” Bruno said. “More than can be said about the spindly bastard you’re riding.”

  Reynald’s rich laughter filled the air, his bright blue eyes hidden as his cheeks crinkled in mirth. Though he was younger than Taron, he had laugh lines the older knight lacked. The fine creases played on his delicate features well, giving him an air of imperfection which he otherwise lacked. “You forgot to mention he is also fat,” he said with self-deprecating mirth.

  “You state the obvious,” Bruno replied, getting his mare back in line.

  “One day you will understand the value of seaside horses,” Reynald said. “Size does not matter.”

  Bruno clicked his tongue as he shook his dark, short-cropped head. “Says the man with the small cock.” He waggled his pinky finger in its gold gauntlet.

  This time both Andre and Marrok burst out in laughter. Andre’s colossal frame shook as his wild blond hair and beard lifted in the wind. He was a brawny man whose laughter seemed to reverberate out of his body and infuse those around him. Marrok was not as easily turned by the banter of his brother knights, but he was in high spirits today. His tight black hair was oiled, his goatee finely trimmed, and even his dark skin glowed in the sun as he laughed.

  Taron didn’t crack a smile.

  Reynald did. His warm chuckle joined the others’. “I have never heard a complaint about the size of my cock.” He grinned, his eyes dropping to the large metal codpiece thrusting out between his legs. “Except from your sister, Bruno. She says she likes it smaller, like her brother.”

  Bruno’s nostrils flared as he swiveled towards the golden knight, his gauntlet raised. But Reynald, Andre, and Marrok were laughing so hard, Bruno let his hand fall, and his own laughter joined theirs.

  “What the hell is wrong with you fools?” Taron hissed from the head of the line. “You’re about to defend your position in the Order of the Regent, and you stand here comparing cocks? Don’t you think the crowds can see you tittering away inside your tin like a bunch of old women quilting?”

  “Who put a lance up your arse this morning?” Bruno smirked at the older knight.

  For the briefest of moments, Taron almost told them. He almost spilled the late-night conversation he’d had with the king, but there was plenty of time for that later. The knights of the Order did not need to be distracted today from defeating the challengers. He needed them to stay in the Order of the Regent. There would be enough upheaval tonight without a new knight to take onboard. They needn’t worry about the political machinations of the court or the illness of the king. At least not right now. He would tell them before the banquet supper tonight. “Just keep your head on straight. The last thing I need is for any of you to lose your position to one of those upstarts.”

  Reynald turned his golden head across the line, looking at the five challengers who sat upon their horses, eagerly awaiting their opportunity to best one of the five greatest knights in the land and earn a place on the Order of the Regent.

  “Over my dead body is one of those arseholes going to get in here,” Reynald said. He was the leanest of the knights, all taut muscle and sinew, built like a coiled spring that would unleash itself on any who threatened those he protected.

  “That’s how I got in.” Andre shrugged, like it wasn’t that hard to kill a knight of the Order.

  “Aye, and I have not forgiven you for it yet, either,” Reynald muttered.

  “You haven’t forgiven me?” Andre asked indignantly. “’Twas his own jack-assery got him killed. If you have a problem with how he died, get your sorry arse to the saint’s world and tell him off about it.”

  “No one is going to die today,” Taron insisted, trying to steady the men. They were all within ten years of each other, but as the longest standing member of the Order, Taron was their natural leader. “But more importantly, none must leave the Order. Defend your place in this line. I don’t have time to make a new brother. Every day the darkness endangers our land, the desert dwellers seek our weakness, and the Visigoths attempt to cross the mountains.”

  “Thank you, town crier,” Bruno mocked from the middle of the line, his tan skin lined with mirth.

  “He didn’t mention the king’s illness,” Reynald corrected.

  “Good point,” quipped Bruno.

  “There are things you don’t know.” Taron’s tone cut across Bruno. He liked having fun with the rest of them, but jokes were not his way of alleviating nervous energy.

  “Well, perhaps after we finish kicking those children’s arses, you’ll be kind enough to tell us,” Marrok said. “But I believe right now, Andre is up.”

  “With pleasure.” Andre grinned, slamming his helmet over his ruddy cheeks. The blond knight spurred his horse forward.

  Taron gripped his reins tightly. They all knew why Andre had killed the first knight he challenged. Because he was crap at controlling the lance. While the blond giant had phenomenal swordsmanship and had even forced Taron to cede to him a couple of times, the lance was truly not his best sport.

  “You just have to get him on the ground,” he muttered to himself.

  There was something in the balance of the lance and the race along the list that Andre just didn’t like. He had told his bond brothers it was kind of like having his dick out in front of him and running naked onto a battlefield. He’d much rather have it close and personal.

  “It’s House du Beloe,” Marrok leaned over and said to Taron.

  Taron’s gaze narrowed. Why had he not been told of this? Yet another challenger attempting to avenge the life of the knight Andre had accidentally slain five years earlier.

  “Five coins on Andre,” Reyn said under his breath to Bruno.

  “I’m not wagering against Andre,” Bruno said. “He’s our brother.”

  “Fine. Five coins Andre takes the lance in the arse and has to finish on the turf,” Reyn said, tilting his head and flipping a coin in the air to prove he was worth it.

  “You’re an idiot.” Marrok’s white teeth shone in contrast to his dark skin as he grinned down the line at Reyn. “I’ll take your money.”

  “Why do you throw your money away like that?” Bruno said, shaking his head. Taron tuned out the repartee of his fellow knights, breathing in the dust and manure and sweat that always went along with a joust. It was similar to the battlefield, but different. Here the spring scent of fragrant flowers and women’s perfume mingled with the mead and wove together the promise of fun and laughter and dancing, later.

  Not pain, dismemberment, and death.

  At least he hoped not. Not today. Today he needed his knights to beat their opponents and stand by his side as the king announced his decree at the feast.

  The horns sounded as the chancellor rode into the middle of the field.

  “Your Majesty, lords and ladies!” she cried. “This is a point-awarded joust. A clean strike to the shield gives the knight one point. Knocking the shield off gives two points. Knocking the rider off”—and here the fair horsewoman gave the crowd a cheeky smile—“there will be swordplay.”

  The crowd cheered. They loved nothing more than knights lunging at each other with their broadswords until one was beaten into submission. Taron hoped the drills they’d forced on Andre would help him get to a round of swordplay.

  “Knights, are you ready?” Her voice rang out clearly from one end of the arena to the other.

  The black knight of House du Beloe gave a single swift nod. He was an impressive opponent. The black and gold of his heraldry was given almost enti
rely to black to mourn the dead knight. Andre closed his visor, the large turquoise plume bouncing merrily in the breeze. Everyone in the arena turned to the royal box.

  “Your Grace, your knights are ready,” the chancellor exclaimed.

  Taron forgot about the joust and the tournament as Lorelai stood, her gold diadem shining in a mass of red, tumbling curls. By the saints, she was magnificent. She stood regally, holding the court’s attention, with a single rose pinched between her fingers.

  He had been at her side for the eight years since she had come to Castle Ashford. The kind looks she gave him, the shared laughter, the fingers trailing on his arm. But none of it meant she had more than a courtly affection for him.

  Taron swallowed.

  He still didn’t know how he had the strength to turn her down when she had offered herself to him. But it had been the right choice. She was the wife of his king. There was no honor in lying with another man’s wife.

  Even if it was Lorelai.

  But it didn’t stop him from thinking about her night after night with shame, guilt, and distinct pleasure. One of those things he kept buried deep inside, hoping no one would ever see how much he was in love with the queen.

  “May the saints guide your lances!” Lorelai proclaimed. The yellow rose tumbled into the jousting field as the trumpets blared.

  Andre and the black knight spurred their horses forward, leaping down the list and galloping towards each other as great clods of dirt flew in the air. Andre’s lance tip wobbled as he aimed it at the black serpent shield.

  “To the ground. To the ground. To the ground.” Taron muttered it like a temple chant, hoping the saints would hear.

  “Come on,” Reynald murmured. “Knock the bastard off.”

  “Just like I showed you in practice,” Bruno said.

  The lances clashed, both of them splintering against their opponent’s shield.

  “A clean hit!” Reynald raised his fist in the air, the gold glinting off his hair.

  “That’s my boy,” Bruno said.

  “Steady,” Taron whispered into his dark beard. The knights reached the end of the list, and their pages ran forward, replacing their lances as the knights whirled their steeds around.

  “Something’s wrong,” Marrok said.

  Taron squinted in the morning light. When Andre picked up the lance, it was a little weaker and his right arm a little shakier. He wasn’t the cleanest jouster regardless, but now something was amiss with his arm.

  “Steady,” Taron said under his breath, as if he could command Andre from the sidelines. As if Andre could hear Taron’s words, his arm stiffened as the horn sounded again, and both knights charged along the railing towards each other.

  Taron held his stallion in check as the knights clashed like thunder in the center of the field, both lances breaking in half and flying in the air. The force of the blows knocked both riders to the ground. The dark knight’s helmet tumbled to the side, revealing black hair pulled back in a tight braid. A mix of gasps and cheers went up from the audience, but Taron sat on his horse silently, tightening his grip on the reins.

  There was no respite for fallen knights. It had been decreed long ago these tournaments should be as close to real battle as possible. The public should experience what it was really like for knights on the battlefield. This was where Andre had the distinct advantage. His family were the greatest metalworkers in all Valliere and saved the best armor for their own. Andre’s armor was made of the strongest alloy, beaten mercilessly thin but still impenetrable. While the dark knight struggled to his feet, Andre was up and pulling his great sword from where it was strapped on his back.

  “He’s injured,” Bruno said, touching his shoulder to show the location of Andre’s wound.

  Marrok raised his gauntlet to call out the injury, but Taron’s hand was like lightning, pulling Marrok’s down.

  “Don’t you dare,” Taron snapped.

  “He is injured,” Marrok argued.

  Andre favored his right arm as he flipped off his helmet. His long blond hair flowed into the afternoon light.

  “By the saints, he’s taken his helmet off.” Bruno sighed.

  “A gallant gesture,” Reyn said, smirking, “seeing as the other has lost his, too.”

  Andre spat through his beard onto the arena dirt. He tried to take a step forward and stumbled to his knees. Marrok tried to move again, but Taron held him.

  “Give him a chance,” Taron cautioned.

  “For what?” Marrok asked. “To be killed by House du Beloe? They have been waiting for this opportunity for years.”

  “Better he is alive and off the Order than dead,” Bruno agreed.

  “Have some faith in our man.” Reyn nodded towards the fallen giant.

  Andre leaned over, resting his bad arm on his sword hilt.

  “He can’t even properly stand,” Marrok grumbled, his dark gaze flashing on Taron.

  “He doesn’t have to,” Taron said. “Look.”

  The black knight approached Andre, who kneeled in the dirt, his head hanging forward as if simply awaiting execution. Andre carefully reached down and unstrapped the small hammer dangling from his belt, letting it slip into his hand out of sight of the dark knight. It was no ordinary hammer. It was Andre’s metalworking tool, decoratively engraved with a flathead on one side and a sharp point on the other, like a miniature pickaxe.

  “In his left hand,” Bruno whispered.

  Taron nodded. “Which is stronger than most men’s right.”

  While the joust was not intended to end in death, the knight would have to yield to not be slain. But Taron knew by the look on the black knight’s face he would not give Andre a chance to yield. House du Beloe had come for blood.

  Andre was not so unchivalrous. “Do you yield?” He smiled at the looming shadow advancing on him. Reynald elbowed Bruno, clanking their armor together with a sly grin.

  The knight of House du Beloe laughed. What else could he do? There sat Andre, unable to rise, his right arm impaired, his sword point stuck in the arena dirt. The black knight, with barely a scratch upon him, advanced with sword drawn.

  “Do I yield?” he called, his laughter rising in the arena as he turned to the audience. “Do I yield?” he asked again. “I am not one who yields to a fallen knight.” He aimed his sword at Andre’s throat as he advanced slowly, savoring the moment.

  “He had his chance.” Bruno smiled.

  “The question I have to ask you,” the black knight asked, “is do you, Sir Andre of House du Sabir, yield to House du Beloe?”

  The crowd held its breath.

  “Never.” Andre spat the word out as his left wrist flicked the hammer end over end. It glinted as it arced through the air and landed point first in the moist pulp of the dark knight’s eye. Screaming, he fell to the ground as blood poured from his face.

  The crowd cheered as Andre slowly clambered to his feet and limped out of the arena. But Taron’s face was stone. With both knights injured, the joust was a draw and the victor would be decided by the king at tonight’s feast. It was a shaky ground they were laying. The Order of the Regent had to be indisputable if the king announced tonight he was making Lorelai the sole heir to the throne.

  3

  I know a hundred girls who would kill to have your brilliant red tresses, my queen.” Cateline smiled as she ran the pig-bristle brush through Lorelai’s hair.

  “They could have it, along with all the brushing I put up with every day,” Lorelai said, twisting the large amethyst ring that almost dwarfed her index finger. She couldn’t calm the moths batting around her stomach. The king hadn’t told her what he was going to announce tonight at the feast, and that made her nervous. Though they never shared a bed, Lorelai considered herself his confidant. He had always stood by her and held her counsel in high esteem, which made it doubly strange she had no idea what was coming. There were two possibilities: either the announcement was one she would not like, or else one that would put her in d
anger if she knew.

  “Your hair looks perfect, Your Majesty.” Cateline smiled, folding the last curl over Lorelai’s shoulder and admiring her in the mirror.

  Lorelai returned Cateline’s smile. The calm assuredness and kindness of her lady-in-waiting was refreshing in a court where women often vied for position or favor. Cateline never seemed interested in any of that; she simply went about her work with serene enjoyment.

  “Shall we await the king here?” Cateline asked.

  Lorelai chewed on her lip. Peverell didn’t like to be rushed, but he was late, which was unusual for him. He was nothing if not punctual. “Let us go to his chambers.” She stood and smoothed her blue silk skirt. “We will save him the effort of fetching us. Send the other ladies to the great hall, and we will meet them there.” She motioned towards the rest of the ladies-in-waiting, who preened like show birds near the massive mirrors by the door.

  The queen, accompanied by Cateline and her laircat, Elba, headed to the king’s chambers just down the hall.

  Though there was no adjoining door, it was a quick few steps to get there. But as they approached, Lorelai’s frown deepened. “Where are the guards?” she asked.

  Cateline quickened her pace to keep up with Lorelai. “Perhaps he has already gone?”

  Lorelai knew Cateline didn’t believe that any more than she did. He might skip a banquet if he wasn’t feeling well, but he had never gone to one without her since the day they’d met.

  She leaned on the heavy wooden door to open it. “Sire?” she asked, pressing forward into the dimly lit room. Only a few candles were left burning, casting eerie gold lines across the darkness.

  Lorelai grabbed Cateline’s wrist, stopping her so they could listen before they went any farther. The room was almost completely quiet. As Lorelai was about to turn and leave, there was the faint rasp of labored breathing. “Get a candle and light a lamp,” she said to Cateline as she moved forward into the shadows to the edge of the king’s settee in the center of his sitting room.