And the way his eyes slice into me… I swear the man sees past my skin and bones. As if he pierces my soul and extracts my deepest secret.
My Rapunzel.
I pull my brows into a deep frown. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Your Majesty.”
John leans low, his lips uncomfortably close to my ear. “Your parents have always enjoyed the privilege of my esteem. You would be wise to maintain my affection as well.” He retreats, and the tense moment, if indeed that’s what it was, goes as quickly as it came.
He steps up on a dais, his jewels gleaming like stars against the rich hue of his clothing. Only the best for the king, with his deep blue surcoat, with its gold trim. This is a leader who commands the respect of his soldiers through solid leadership and brilliant military strategy. He’s a monarch beloved by his people for restoring the kingdom after his father’s tumultuous reign.
Old King Henry was destroying Rygard one terrible decision at a time. He drained the country’s coffers on frivolity and led our people into a fool’s war that cost the kingdom many a father and son. Anyone who opposed his mad rule or he suspected of treason was executed without trial, with their entire family slaughtered along with them.
Some claim John orchestrated Henry’s demise.
Those same people say my father carried out John’s will.
An arrow felled Henry, struck with precision through the mad king’s right eye. It knocked him clean off his horse amid the chaos of one of his needless battles. Only one man, they claim, could make that shot.
Percy Kincaid.
John’s closest friend, who later retired from his position to settle in the countryside, removed from the decadence and intrigue of court life.
“I’m always your humble servant, my lord.” This too, I say by rote, still rattled by the king’s whispered remark.
No—it was a warning. Or perhaps I’m reading too much into it?
The gold crown nestled in his brown curls stays firmly in place when John shakes his head. “My boy, you don’t possess a humble bone in that big body of yours.”
“Aye, John, you got that right,” my father confirms with a laugh.
John puffs out his chest and gives my father a smirk. “I’m always right, Percy.” He waves his hand through the air, motioning to the cavernous room where his gilded throne sits. “That’s why God appointed me king.”
“God also made you an arrogant ass,” my father quips.
No one else would dare speak to our liege so disrespectfully. Even I suck in a sharp breath and hold it, waiting for King John’s reaction.
Damn it all if the king doesn’t flip my father the middle finger. Discreetly, of course. “I should cut out your tongue.”
“Mary would have your head if you sent me home to her missing certain body parts.”
Issuing a direct threat to the king is an instant death sentence—except if it comes from Percy Kincaid.
John slaps his hand over his heart. “Not my sweet Mary. Besides, I think her not having to hear your grating voice and participate in your dull conversation is a better trade-off than anything else you could do with that talentless tongue.”
My father’s laughter fills our immediate space, set apart from the courtiers gathered for today’s ceremony. “Your sweet Mary has a vicious temper, to be sure. Now get on with it. I’d like to return home to her and show her how well I can have a conversation.”
It’s a struggle not to smile at their easy banter. But the king’s forlorn gaze bounces between my father and me, ending their merriment. “Wren, seeing you and Percy makes me wish I had spent my younger years differently. I fear for Rygard when I’m gone.”
“There is still time to produce an heir, Your Majesty.”
He slides his gaze to Queen Eleanor, who stands with her ladies-in-waiting at the far end of the hall. The fear radiating from her is palpable. The stunning young woman, with her long black hair and striking blue eyes, quickly looks away. It’s no secret theirs is a loveless marriage. Nineteen—seventeen when she wed the king—she denies him access to her chamber. Rumor has it John’s…affections…are too much for our timid queen.
John adored Queen Anne and still mourns her and the stillborn child she died birthing. No wonder he hasn’t fully embraced his second wife, regardless of her youth and beauty. How could he when his heart lies with his lost family?
“We shall see, won’t we, Wren?” Then he beckons a page. The boy rushes over and stands proud before the king, holding a plain black box for John to take. “Now, let us begin.” John turns to his courtiers. “We gather today to welcome and honor Wren, son of Percy Kincaid.”
The room falls silent while the king speaks. All gazes are on our hale and hearty liege. On my father and me, standing below him, dressed in our finest clothing, sewn by the loving hand of Mary Kincaid.
“From this day forward, you are a royal huntsman.” John’s voice echoes throughout the chamber when he addresses me. The king raises a silver arrowhead for all to see. Then he pins it to my jerkin. Gives me a playful wink before becoming serious once again. “Turn and be recognized, Wren Kincaid of Leeds.”
