King's Errand

by N. J. Layouni

  What if all those maudlin composers had got it wrong.

  What if love—love of the enduring kind—wasn’t meant to be so… impossible?

  Time and again he had witnessed just how easy love could be.

  Vadim and Martha; Hugh and Beatrice; Fergus and Effie. Hell, even Edric and that old dragon Agatha! Although they’d each encountered their share of obstacles along the way, once they’d scaled their personal mountains, each and every one of those fortunate couples now seemed blissfully happy, wholeheartedly accepting the individual quirks and oddities that made their loved one so uniquely them.

  Lovers had a language of their own. They seemed to communicate without the need for any words. A mere touch or a glance was enough to convey a thought or desire. But this particular language could not be taught or learned. Only in the presence of real love could one attain a degree of true proficiency.

  Anselm envied this ease of intimacy. What must it be like, to walk through life with someone who was so completely in tune with oneself?

  Miriam. Like the missing piece of a puzzle, only she could fit the empty place within his heart, for it was shaped just like her.

  “… what do you think you’re about? says I.”

  By the sound of it, Hugh was still banging on about horseflesh.

  “See how yon beast dishes its front feet? No, thank you, m’lord. I shall keep my gold safely in my purse if it’s all the same to you… ”

  Anselm nodded and gave a murmur of sympathy. Hugh was the perfect dinner companion. He needed very little encouragement to speak at length on a wide variety of subjects. At need, he could even carry a conversation all by himself, which suited Anselm rather well tonight.

  Just then a juggler wandered by, expertly throwing all manner of objects up into the air and then neatly catching them again, much to the delight of the crowd. The palace fool followed in his wake, trying to ape the juggler’s deft movements with his own set of red-leather throwing sacks. Of course, he failed dismally. The guests roared with laughter, especially when the little man was forced to clamber up, scowling, onto one of the tables. Pushing his way between the table arrangements, and stepping over the hands of the noble guests, he finally managed to retrieve one of his wildly-thrown sacks.

  Disregarding the antics of the fool, Anselm sipped at his wine and cast another glance up at the top table. The royal party had still not arrived. How much longer would they be?

  And what of Miriam? Was she as eager to see him, or had her heart grown cold in his absence? In all the months they’d been apart perhaps some other man had replaced him in her affections. Raising his hand, Anselm touched the miniature hidden beneath his shirt, the gold setting warm from the heat of his own body.

  Had she forgotten him?

  Only time would tell.

  At that moment came a loud fanfare of horns, a rising tide of sound deafening enough to even halt Hugh’s mouth mid-flap. Startled, Anselm spilled some of his wine onto the pristine white table cloth, and the droplets immediately leeched into the surrounding fabric, blossoming open like the petals of a flower.

  Or blood.

  No. This wasn’t the time to be thinking such grim thoughts. Not now.

  Heart pounding, Anselm rose from his seat with the other guests in a silent wave. Heads turning, all eyes trained expectantly on the doors behind the top table. Be calm, he told himself, still gripping onto the stem of his wine goblet as though his very existence depended upon it. Slowly, the two tall doors swung open to admit the royal family.

  A round of cheers went up as the King and Queen entered the feasting hall. Arm in arm, relaxed and smiling, they greeted friends and acquaintances with a regal wave.

  Princess Catherine came next, and the crowd cheered even louder when they caught their first glimpse of her. Dressed in a shimmering concoction of silver and gold, she looked like a fairy queen as she glided into the great hall on the arm of her husband-to-be. By the way she and Lord Radleigh kept smiling at each other it was clear that theirs was a love match.

  Anselm had never seen Catherine this way. Utterly radiant and quite revoltingly happy. Lord Radleigh seemed equally besotted, staring down at his future wife with an affection to rival her own.

  And then, quite suddenly, there she was. Miriam.

  Anselm gasped. In an instant, thoughts of every other living person fled from his mind, banished by a mere glimpse of the woman he adored. With his heart almost bursting with love, he beheld her hungrily, gorging himself on her beloved features, reacquainting his body and soul with the reality of his long-held dream.

  Like a witless imbecile, he simply stood there, frozen to the spot; a motionless island

  surrounded on all sides by a sea of cheering, applauding humanity. He could not think. Or move. Even the act of dragging air in and out of his lungs proved an arduous task.

  All he could do was stare while his molten blood thundered through his ears. A willing captive of the woman before him.

  The long months of separation had not diminished her beauty. Dressed in an elegant gown of dark green silk, Miriam looked every inch the princess she was. The small gold circlet sitting on top of her head only confirmed her status, albeit discreetly, as one of the highest-born ladies in the land.

  No wonder her escort was smiling so broadly.

  Anselm tensed. Oily bastard. Yet another fellow he despised on first sight.

  Who the devil was he?

  Miriam forced herself to return the smile of her escort. The middle-aged baron was the latest in a long line of men whose company she’d been obliged to endure.

  Ugh. They were all the same, parading themselves before her jaded eyes with all the arrogance of a peacock—but their gaudy plumes were not nearly so lovely. Pretenders, one and all.

  Yet another man, another interminable evening to endure, all served up on a trencher already overflowing with servings of cringe-worthy posturing and blatant insincerity.

  And Lord Bertram was one of the worst offenders.

  Dear gods, did these men truly expect to dazzle her with their revolting hand-me-down compliments? Did they believe this was the best way of hooking themselves a rich, influential wife?

  Apparently so.

  Just as she had on all those other interminable evenings, Miriam tried to listen to Lord Bertram, to seem interested in the endless flow of mindless prattle that escaped his mouth, but it was a hopeless task. Especially tonight. How could she pretend to be attentive when her mind was roaming elsewhere?

  Had he come?

  Was Anselm already sitting somewhere before her within this grand feasting hall?

  Although Rodmar had included Anselm’s name on the invitation, there was no guarantee he would actually attend, not even when summoned by the king himself.

  Miriam’s skin tingled, but as much as she longed to she dared not look about her.

  Not yet.

  Not while she felt so utterly exposed.

  So vulnerable.

  If Anselm hadn’t come, the disappointment of having her worst fear confirmed would crush her into dust.

  No. For now, ignorance was her best ally. At least in this way she could still look forward to the prospect of seeing him again—even if he wasn’t here—if she persisted in deliberately not knowing. A foolish notion, but there it was. She couldn’t help herself, not when she was so jittery and off-balance.

  It would be easier to put up with Lord Bertram and his dull witterings until the inevitable truth eventually reached her ears. Until then, if Anselm really was here and he happened to be looking in her direction, she had the comfort of knowing she looked her very best.

  Her wonderful maid had spent several hours preparing her for the night’s festivities—an occurrence which pleased Betsy immensely for her mistress seldom showed much interest or, indeed, possessed the patience required for elaborate tit
ivation.

  The only downside, of course, was that Lord Bertram—the eldest son of an even more ancient baron with whom Rodmar had enjoyed a long and regular correspondence during his years in exile—now seemed to be under the illusion that Miriam’s appearance was for his benefit. His usual fawning and preening had increased to such a degree that it was starting to make her feel slightly ill.

  Lord Bertram leaned in a little closer—too close, for she could smell his malodorous breath combined with a hint of cloves with which he’d tried to disguise his lack of oral health.

  “My dearest lady,” he said in a voice he must fancy as seductive. “Your radiance this night puts the very stars to shame. In the entire of my life, I have never beheld a more wondrous vision of loveliness than the woman sitting here by my side.” His pudgy, clammy paw lay dangerously near her hand where it rested upon the table cloth. Fearing he might make an ill-judged grab for it, Miriam discreetly moved it out of reach.

  “Only on this night, Lord Bertram?” Miriam teased, forcing her mouth to smile. “What of my radiance on all the other evenings we have shared as friends? How did I look to you on those occasions, I wonder. Less radiant than the stars, I wager.”

  Lord Bertram visibly floundered for a way to save himself, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout. In the end, he settled for a stumbling, “You are always perfection itself, Miriam. Truly exquisite.”

  “Princess Miriam, if you please,” she corrected him, softening the admonishment by laying her hand briefly upon his forearm—it felt rather heavy and flaccid, much like the man himself. “We are not quite so intimate as you might suppose.”

  “Not yet, perhaps,” Lord Bertram agreed, his pale eyes glowing with unmistakable hunger—whether for herself or the large dowry Miriam would bring to her marriage, she could not decide. “Who knows what the future may hold?”

  Whatever it was, it certainly wouldn’t be him. Odious little man.

  Picking up her goblet, Miriam took a generous swallow. As much as she longed to look around her, to escape the unsettling intensity of Lord Bertram’s eyes, the fear of not seeing Anselm proved even stronger than her revulsion of her dinner guest. So, instead, she set down her wine and forced herself to try some of the first course—a strong-smelling fish dish topped with a white sauce and a liberal sprinkling of ground hazelnuts.

  Wrinkling her nose, Miriam pushed her plate aside and took another sip of wine to wash the taste away. It tasted just as bad as it looked. Her palate still wasn’t accustomed to the food of the Norlands. How could anyone eat such terrible fare? For a moment, she thought wistfully of their cook back home in Haldenberg.

  No—she mustn’t allow her thoughts to wander in that direction for it would only make her melancholy. This cold harsh land of so many kinds of rain was home now. There was little point tormenting herself with memories of her old life. It was gone. Perhaps forever.

  “Your sister looks simply exquisite this evening,” Lord Bertram commented, rudely waving his eating knife in Catherine’s direction. “Lord Radleigh obviously suits her well.”

  Miriam gave a brief murmur of agreement for it was true, Catherine did look extremely well tonight. Glowing with the light of inner happiness. Unlike herself.

  But Lord Bertram hadn’t finished with his unwanted observations of the other ladies seated at the top table. “And who, pray, is that comely beauty beside Lord Edgeway? His countess, I suppose,” he continued without waiting for Miriam’s answer. “My! What an exquisite piece she is. Edgeway has done exceedingly well for himself there, I must say.”

  Oh, what an exceptionally long evening this promised to be. With a heavy sigh, Miriam took another sip of wine hoping to blunt the flavor of Lord Bertram’s company.

  At that moment, three little men entered the hall, each clad in a suit of red and green, and wearing a matching hat covered in bells that jingled when they moved. Miriam almost cheered, such was her delight at the prospect of a respite from Lord Bertram’s lascivious conversation.

  “Oh, look!” she cried with great enthusiasm. “The Fool and his friends have come.”

  Accompanied by pipe and drum, the skillful little fellows immediately embarked upon an elaborate acrobatic routine, taking turns to toss one another up into the air, much to the delight of the crowd.

  Halfway through the performance, Miriam turned to look at Lord Bertram who was looking about him with a most distracted air.

  “What do you make of our little acrobats, m’lord?” she asked. “Are you enjoying the performance?”

  The fool and his friends began hurling knives at one another, much to the amusement of the crowd who cheered and applauded them at every opportunity. Well, with the notable exception of Lord Bertram who clearly thought himself above such things.

  “Their tricks are clever enough, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “But I’ve seen better. I consider their talents a tad too… rustic for this mighty hall of kings.”

  Miriam bristled. She was extremely fond of the Fool and his antics. “Is that so?” she answered coldly. “Well I happen to think they’re very skillful. Quite exquisitely so, in fact.” With that, she returned her attention to the performers, pretending not to notice that she’d wantonly abused Lord Bertram’s pet word.

  Perhaps it was wrong of her to bait him, but she couldn’t resist the chance to hit back at the horrid man. She shouldn’t have accepted when he’d offered to be her escort for the evening—Miriam had regretted the decision the very moment she’d said yes. The sad truth was, however, she’d to attend the feast on someone’s arm.

  Rodmar was constantly introducing her to prospective suitors these days. But as time went on, Miriam had noticed a definite decline in the quality and suitability of the potential candidates. The well of hopefuls was most definitely drying up. So much so that each subsequent would-be potential was markedly worse than the one who’d preceded him.

  Tall, short, dark, or fair… the only commonality her suitors shared was Miriam’s utter indifference to them. Sad, but true all the same.

  With her reservoir of options now so thoroughly depleted, Miriam’s remaining choices were decidedly grim. She might have attended the feast with her good friend Rodney but, unfortunately, the Duke of Pemberton’s son was currently laid up with a broken leg following a recent hunting accident. Dear Roddy. He was always such diverting company, too. Even his ever-faithful companion Derek would have suited her nicely, but of course he could not be persuaded to leave his wounded lover’s bedside.

  So here she was. Alone in a room full of people, and taking far more wine than was good for her. Staring blindly at the performers, Miriam reached out with her mind, searching for Anselm’s presence.

  Where are you?

  All at once, a sudden draft of air swirled about her body, playing over her exposed skin. Cool at first, it raised goosebumps wherever it touched. Then the gentle air current grew slowly warmer.

  Suddenly she was hot. Burning hot. A fast-moving tide of heat moved up her neck and into her cheeks, like the glowing embers of a fire. Skin prickling, she huffed a stray hair from her face, and began wafting her hand over her decolletage in an attempt to cool herself.

  “Princess?” Lord Bertram was all attentiveness. “Are you unwell?”

  “Hmm? Yes… no. I mean, I’m quite well, thank you.”

  But Lord Bertram didn’t appear convinced. “Are you certain? You look a little flushed.”

  “No, no. I’m perfectly all right, I assure you.” Picking up her napkin, Miriam fanned herself with it. “With so many guests, the room has become rather overheated, don’t you think?”

  Overheated, indeed. A pathetic excuse and a pitiful one coming from her, a daughter of the desert, no less. No wonder Lord Bertram was frowning so.

  Suddenly, Miriam’s neck tingled with the caress of unseen eyes.

  “Perhaps it might be better if
you… ”

  Whatever gem of wisdom her dining companion was about to impart went unheard as some unseen, yet powerful force compelled her to turn her head to the right-hand side of the feasting hall.

  A pair of all-too familiar gray eyes instantly captured her, stilling her. Bright silvery eyes that glittered in the candlelight and pierced her very soul.

  Oh, by all the spirits!

  It was him. He had come.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Miriam froze.

  The rest of the world vanished and reality ceased to be.

  All that remained was him… Anselm.

  Nothing else existed but the man before her.

  From his place halfway along one of the lower boards, Anselm stared as much as she did, his tender expression a balm to her heart.

  How long they sat there, lost in each other’s eyes, Miriam could not later say.

  A second… an hour?

  It felt like forever yet, at the same time, not nearly long enough.

  After such a lengthy separation, how strange it was to finally look upon him in the flesh again. His face was so dearly familiar to her, like that of an old friend but, at the same moment, it was rather like meeting an exciting new acquaintance for the first time.

  It was all too much to take in.

  Miriam’s heart skipped and jumped so wildly within her breast she felt light-headed. Her peripheral vision blurred and then it darkened ominously.

  By all the spirits! If she wasn’t careful she was going to pass out in full view of everyone. How utterly mortifying. It would not do at all. Swooning, indeed.

  Battling to compose herself, Miriam took several long deep breaths. Little by little, the dizziness faded and the rhythm of her heart slowed to a more acceptable level until, at last, she was back in control.

  There. That was better.

  Staring her fill, Miriam reacquainted herself with the man she’d missed for so long. Oh, there were some changes but they were subtle, only visible to eyes that truly loved him.

  In essentials, thank goodness, Anselm remained exactly the same.