The Kingmaker Complete Trilogy (The Kingmaker Trilogy #1-3)

by Gemma Perfect

  Lanorie busies herself tidying away the bath and breakfast things and Everleigh watches the world go by with Addyson.

  A butterfly flies near the window and Everleigh whispers, “Come here,” quietly enough that Addyson won’t hear her. Then she adds, “More.”

  Within seconds there are hundreds of different types of butterfly, every different colour, all settled on the window sill, wings lazily flapping, while Addyson screams with delight. “Look, Lanorie.”

  Lanorie comes over to the window and raises an eyebrow at Everleigh, who smiles and shakes her head.

  A butterfly lands on Addyson’s open palm, and another and another, until her hand is full. “It tickles,” she says, her eyes huge with wonder. Everleigh’s smile is wide. She will always look after her poor little cursed sister.

  Ginata

  SINCE THE DAY THE CLOAKED stranger came to my home, it has felt different. After he left, his evil request and tainted money took up space and fouled the air.

  I tried all my own remedies; cherry plum, mimulus, red chestnut, but none of them helped. I swept all the negativity out, opened all the windows and lit a fire to drive out the devil and still I couldn’t sleep.

  Since seeing Halfreda and making the disgusting death draught and then bringing it home, things are even worse. Last night, for the first time since I came to my little cottage, I wanted to leave.

  I have hidden the little poisonous vial, in a bag of cloth, tied with black ribbon, hidden in a box of scented pouches. I have put the box on a shelf, with books on top of it, and a posy of flowers on top of them. I am hoping that I have made it difficult to find, should someone try to steal a love potion or worse and I am hoping that the books – all good spells and white magic – as well as the flowers will off-set some of the evil within the vial. It’s not working.

  It is so small but so disgusting. It’s as though it’s giving off a heat or a smell, even though it’s not. I am aware of its presence and I feel like it’s watching me.

  I make a calming tea and sit in my chair, watching the box. I have had so many customers, many strangers coming to see me this week, and I know I am not myself, I should be happy. The Kingmaker’s feast, celebration week and death day are all going to make me a heap of coin. My heart feels sad, though.

  I am sure my regular customers can sense that I am not my normal self. Strangers will have nothing to measure me against. They will just think I am a worried little witch.

  I pull out one of my favourite spell books and flick through it. I need something to counteract this negativity before I go mad.

  The book is old and beautifully bound in silk. I was given it when I turned eighteen by my mother. She was so proud of me; I am the only witch in our family and witches are so revered. We have such power and special abilities that normal people would kill for.

  I find a happy spell, a joy spell, a spell for making people laugh. I know most of them without having to look in the book, of course, but it’s a happy book. There are wonderful illustrations and just flicking through it makes me feel better.

  I fetch my little metal pot and place it beside me. I pull some flowers I like the smell of – roses, lilies – from a vase on the window sill and crush them with my pestle and mortar. I add some dried herbs from my cupboard and some spices. I go outside. I am looking for a lady bird. I just need it to walk through my little concoction, I don’t need to kill it. Killing won’t make for a joyous spell.

  I see a butterfly on a flower and lift it off. I put it in my bowl and it patters over the ingredients before flying away. A butterfly is almost as good as a ladybird.

  I sing out the spell as I mix through some ale and then I scoop the lot in to a cup. I will drink it in an hour or so, when it’s infused enough. Until then I brood again.

  The cloaked man will return for his draught tomorrow and yet every knock on the door since he first came, makes my stomach clench and a sweat break out on my skin. I trust Halfreda’s guidance, without a doubt, and yet I cannot abide what this man is going to do.

  When Halfreda said that he would test me by using some of the death draught I could have cried. It had not occurred to me. But of course he would. He wouldn’t risk trying to kill in his cowardly way if there was a chance that it wouldn’t work. And so, I am guilty of not one murder, but two, three if I count the fox, which I suppose I must.

  How am I going to live with myself? And who or what will he kill? A mouse, a cat, a puppy, a vagrant or a King.

  It could be any one of those.

  I think I may be sick. I sip the tea and try to calm myself. Panicking will not help. I do not want him to see that I fear him. He might try to test the draught on me.

  And wouldn’t that teach me for giving it to him in the first place?

  Another knock, another panic. I smooth out my clothes and hair, and plaster on a smile. I know it is not him and yet I could be sick.

  I open the door; it’s not the cloaked man, of course, and still the relief that floods through me is palpable. It’s just a love potion for a stranger passing through, who thinks that the girl who fills the jugs of ale in the tavern might be his true love. I pass him the little jar, and smile at him, thinking how simple his life is. And hoping that he finds happiness on this sunny day with this girl he wishes was his.

  I wave him away and close my door against the world.

  As I sink in to my chair again and sip my tea I think about my life. This cloaked man wanted something and now I am embroiled in his scheming, against my will. His poor choice has affected me, and I have involved Halfreda and now who knows what implications this will have.

  I sip and wait and wonder what will become of me. Of us all.

  12

  THE WEATHER IS HOLDING perfectly for the joust and the participants are queuing up to register with one of the King’s men. Will and his father are entertaining the crowd, the music is playing and there is more than one hog roasting.

  Everleigh is sitting next to Addyson, with Lanorie behind her in the royal box, decorated with flags in the King’s colours: yellow and purple. Macsen and Millard are mingling with the knights and other hopefuls; they usually fight, but this close to one of them being named King, no one wants them to risk injury. The King is sitting in the centre of the box watching over everything.

  Addyson has her handkerchief ready and so does Everleigh. She’s planning to drop it for Archer. It’s an old tradition and she doesn’t even know where it stems from, but women would throw down their handkerchiefs for the knight of their choice, he would wear it about his person to declare himself her man.

  She is watching the crowds of people and hasn’t spotted him yet. There are two other fighters in disguise but neither of them is Archer; she knows it.

  The men are placed into pairs; opponents will fight, atop their horses, lances swinging, and the winner of each pass will fight again until there is one man remaining. The overall winner of the joust receives a huge bag of coin from the King and half of all bets placed in his favour.

  There is a hush through the crowd and in an instant Everleigh knows that Archer has arrived. The crowd seem to part for him and the voices fall away completely. Everleigh stands up.

  He thunders along on his horse, coming to a neat stop right in front of the knight who is registering the fighters. His horse is gorgeous, sleek and pitch black. Archer is instantly recognisable to Everleigh, even though his face and his hair are covered and only his eyes are visible; she knows him.

  The men line up in twos upon their horses.

  The first two take their places on opposite sides of the field; Archer isn’t one of them, lances aloft, ready to joust. She has a great view from the box, but doesn’t want to watch any of them; she just wants to see Archer. He is lined up in his pair, due to fight one of Brett’s friends, but he’s not waiting on his horse, he’s feeding it something, patting its nose and talking to it. She can tell from the look on the other riders faces that they don’t see him as a threat.

&nbs
p; The crowd gets louder and the songs bawdier as the afternoon runs on. Finally, it’s Archer’s turn to fight. Brett smacks his friend on the back, wishing him luck. As Archer glances towards her, Everleigh stands quickly and drops her handkerchief over the edge of the box. She wants him to know that she knows him.

  He rides over and jumps off his horse. He picks up her handkerchief and tucks it into his breastplate. He is smiling. She can tell by his eyes.

  “Good luck,” she says and turns back to her seat.

  Archer leaps easily onto his horse and canters to his side of the field, ready to start.

  He leans forward and pets his horse, whispering to it and patting it.

  Everleigh stands up and leans on the front of the box; she needs to see this.

  The bugle sounds and both horses start trotting. Archer is far faster than his opponent and flies towards him. He holds his lance out and as he passes the other rider, with a hair’s breadth between them, Archer crashes his lance against his opponent’s armour.

  There is a loud groan from the crowd, followed by cheering. The rider, to his credit, manages to stay on. Both horses turn and come at each other again. Archer is faster and more confident. As he approaches the other rider again, lance aloft, his opponent does the same. Archer pulls his horse closer and cracks him again. In the exact same spot. The rider stays on, but stops, unable to spur the horse on. Bent low, he isn’t moving. Half the crowd are groaning, the other half applauding and stamping their feet.

  Archer is in position, ready to go again. People are jeering and clapping. Everleigh is proud of Archer, but she hates the violence of the joust; it isn’t fighting to save a life or protect a life, it’s just for sport. And she questions where the sport in that is.

  Finally, the other rider sits up and his horse canters back to the starting line. The crowd go mad; they love a survivor.

  And all of this is done in her name, to celebrate the final week of her life. If they had asked her what she wanted she might have chosen something else. And yet all the festivities this week are to celebrate her being sacrificed like a lamb and two men drinking her blood. It’s barbaric, if you think about it.

  So, she doesn’t.

  On the third pass, Archer knocks his opponent clean off the horse. He hits him with a crunch so sickening and he falls with such a thud, that Everleigh cries out and covers her mouth. Even as the crowd rise to cheer Archer on, she feels sickened by it. Men have been killed in jousts; she does not want anyone’s death on her conscience, killed for sport in her name.

  Brett is the first person to go to his friend’s aid, and he looks beyond furious; how much more furious he would be if he knew that it was Archer who was responsible.

  Archer goes off to tend to his horse with the other winners, while they wait for their next turn.

  Everleigh thinks he will win the whole joust, but doesn’t want to watch any more violence.

  She slips out of the box and makes her way, as casually as she is able, through the riders and horses, keeping clear of Brett, waving to Will on the way and ending up at Archer’s side.

  “You ride wonderfully.”

  “Thank you.” His voice is muffled from the scarf he’s wearing to hide his face.

  “You fight brilliantly.”

  “Thank you, princess. I am blushing under my scarf.”

  Everleigh laughs. “I hate the fighting though.”

  “Really? Do you wish me to stop?”

  Shaking her head, she smiles at him. “I just don’t get it. When you fired your arrow at Brett, I understood why. I was humbled that you wanted to look after me. Men fighting purely for sport, I find it harder to understand. Boxing, sword fights, this...”

  “I can see that. It’s bloodthirsty and violent. But most men are.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Why do you suppose most wars are started by men?”

  “Because they like to fight.”

  Archer nods and places a hand on her arm. His voice is low. “When you are Queen, you can outlaw it.”

  “And then they will do it in the taverns and on the streets with no law to protect the fighters. I will not outlaw it, but I shall not watch it anymore.”

  “Then close your eyes, princess. I plan on winning this joust today.”

  “I am sure that you will.”

  Everleigh pets the horse and feeds it one of Archer’s sugar lumps. “She’s a beautiful creature. What’s she called?”

  “Her name is Ink.”

  “Ink. I like it. It suits her.”

  “You can ride her one day.”

  She smiles. “I’d like that. I need to go, before I am missed. I shouldn’t be carousing with masked strangers.”

  “Hardly carousing, princess.” Archer’s eyes are full of mischief.

  “Still.”

  “I could carouse if you want me to.”

  She swats at his arm, and heads back to the royal box.

  She avoids Brett and his gang of men once more. Lanorie has left the box and Everleigh can’t see her anywhere. She wants a drink. She orders one of the little maids to bring ale for the King, Addyson and herself and sits back to watch the rest of the fight, Addyson’s hand in hers.

  She tunes out for a fair bit of it, but with her heart thundering she watches Archer fight three more times until he is heralded as the champion of the Kingmaker’s joust.

  Everleigh has the honour of giving him the fat bag of coin off the King. She slips the winner’s ribbon over his cloaked head and congratulates him, and he whispers into her ear as she does so, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up, “Thank you, Queen.”

  Lanorie

  SO THIS IS A NEW ONE on me. I think it’s called guilt. I have never really felt it before, never done something to feel guilty about. My life is normally pretty boring. I serve Everleigh. I tell her little maids what to do. I walk with her and talk to her. We sit and sew, we ride out.

  I help Cook and I sleep alone by the kitchen. There is no drama in my life.

  Well, until now.

  This is guilt I reckon. And I don’t like it.

  I can hardly look at Everleigh and it’s all her fault.

  I told. I told the secret and now I wish to all the gods that I hadn’t. Why couldn’t I hold my stupid tongue? And why couldn’t she hold hers?

  We have been together since we were little girls and the one thing I can say about her is, while she’s a princess and a Kingmaker, she’s the sweetest thing ever. She has never once looked down her nose at me. She’s treated me like a sister really. She makes me laugh and shares confidences with me. She shares everything she ever had. I remember once she got given two identical jewels from some important man who visited the castle, I can’t even remember who he was or what it was for. But she gave me one.

  She gave it to me. She told me to keep it and hide it and one day if I needed to, to sell it. She wrote a little note that I keep with it, saying that she gave it to me, which means I would never be accused of stealing from her. I keep it wrapped in one of Cook’s old hats, tucked at the bottom of my chest. A princess giving away her belongings like that is unheard of, I reckon.

  And what have I done? Betrayed her love and her loyalty.

  I fling myself down on the hay, tucked in my little loft, tears coursing down my face. What have I done and how could I have done it?

  My only hope now – and this is cowardly to even admit – is that she never finds out. Live or die I cannot stand her knowing what I did.

  And I can’t even hide away and keep my shame away from her. I should be at the joust right now, and as soon as my tears dry I’ll head back. If she misses me and asks me where I’ve been I’ll probably blurt out the truth and then she’ll know and then I’ll die of the shame.

  This is another new feeling.

  Self-pity. I don’t like this either.

  13

  AFTER THE JOUST, THE little maids hand out ale and anyone who wants to queues up for the hog roast. Everleigh
isn’t hungry but isn’t ready to retire to her room to sew or sing or play cards until the night time picnic. She is still too excited after seeing Archer win.

  Addyson has headed back to her room with one of her maids; she isn’t given the same freedoms as Everleigh. Kingmaker trumps princess in every situation. Besides Addyson is cursed and even those who insist that they aren’t superstitious do their best to stay away from her.

  Prince trumps even Kingmaker, though, and many times Everleigh joins Addyson, looking on in envy as the two princes get to see or do things that they aren’t allowed to.

  Everleigh’s mother had allowed her to learn to shoot with a bow and arrow, but she wasn’t permitted to participate in a hunt. She could ride a horse, probably better than Macsen or Millard, but was never allowed to own one that was just hers. She could climb a tree and swim through the river and do all the things Macsen and Millard could do, but it was very seldom that she was allowed to. The King would roll his eyes and tell her that she was a princess, a Kingmaker. Everleigh would say that those were exactly the reasons why she should be allowed.

  And so, it went on. Most of the time she got her way and the few times he did were enough to make him happy.

  She knows he will be happy that she’s to live. He has already lost his wife, has one daughter that is cursed, and would lose his son and daughter. He would only have one child left if she died as she was supposed to. He would be pushed off the throne, and probably live out the rest of his days and die alone in some distant part of the Realm, where he could forget his sadness.

  This way he gets to keep all the people he loves. Everleigh can’t wait to see his face. She also thinks he will help smooth the way with her brothers.

  No one could argue with Halfreda, not really. They might not like it, but they could not deny her her future and her fate.