It takes every effort for Dax and me to keep our laughter quiet as we watch Sir Walter disappear into the forest. Goddamn, if the man didn’t just endear himself to me because anyone who can fluster Quinn is worth his weight in salt.
ChapterTwenty
The swallow of spiced wine skids down my throat like shards of glass. Keenly aware of my father beside me, I chew each bite of venison and every roasted vegetable until they’re mush, nearly gagging on the texture. To help make the meal bearable, I listen with one ear to the din of conversations going around the twin tables below the dais while keeping up a discussion with Eleanor. Johngraciouslyallowed us to sit next to each other tonight in a public show of family unity. Privately, however, he has kept her under lock and key all day in the wake of his collapse. She, along with his physician and Sir Walter, has been the ones he’s allowed to tend to him, keeping his illness secret.
I doubt he’s aware I know he’s sick.
Eleanor and I, along with Sir Walter, Cardinal Christopher Bram, and the king’s physician, Aldo Fletcher, sit around the royal table. Each day at court is the same, with one running into the next. The hours are filled with hunting, games, music, and lavish meals. Most take place without him, with John’s time spent secretly resting. He has never, however, missed an official audience. I’ve sat in during many of them, fascinated by the judicial process. Everyone from visiting nobility to farmers presented themselves to the king, with one dispute involving the questionable ownership of a cow. John considered this a minor skirmish. It wasn’t insignificant to the men arguing over the proprietorship of the bovine when such an animal is crucial to the likelihood of one’s family.
I always pretended to sew or draw when in reality, I listened and learned.
Learned how to be a worthy ruler.
The opposite of King John.
Unable to muster the fortitude to force down another morsel, I place my fork beside my plate and fiddle with the linen napkin on my lap. I’m startled when John’s hand lands on my shoulder. He squeezes far harder than necessary to gain my attention. I hold in a wince and lift my lips in a sheepish grin. I swivel away from Eleanor and give this beast my full attention. “I’m sorry, Father, did you want something?”
“I would have a word with you.” He keeps hold of me, his cunning glare slicing through me. “Privately.”
It’s challenging to maintain my false grin. “Of course.”
“Now.”
His tone brooks no argument. Placing my napkin on my plate, I push away from the table. Sir Walter shoots to his feet, but John instructs him to stay with the queen. Eleanor asks if she may join us, but a single stern look from her husband has her bowing her head and lowering her eyes. Her guard sets his large hands on her shoulders to keep her in the chair. He has the audacity to smirk. The bruises on her face are a spectacle of pain under the glow of the torchlight.
Not a person lingers their gaze too long on her, as if by ignoring the obvious, they can ignore the abuse. ButIsee. When Eleanor strode into the hall for tonight’s meal, each member of John’s court could not deny it, to themselves at least—that their queen suffers at the tortuous hands of their liege.
Respectfully, John’s courtiers rise along with us. Laughing at their eagerness to please, the king bids them to retake their seats. “Eat and be merry, friends. The night has exhausted Princess Rapunzel. I would walk my daughter to her room.”
John takes my hand, cradling it. For all intents and purposes, it looks like a loving gesture. In fact, he’s all but crushing the bones of my fingers with surprising strength as he guides me from the table. My feet drag, and my stomach feels full of stones as I follow his lead into the quiet hall. One guard standing sentry closes the door after us, then falls in step as we walk in tense silence down the corridor. He wisely keeps a fair distance.
Shadows dance like demons in the muted glow of the flames flickering from the wall sconces as we head toward the steep steps that lead to the second level of the keep. My father, I realize, is not much taller than me—barely average height and painfully thin. I wonder why I haven’t noticed this sooner or why I didn’t see until now how gaunt his face is and how pale his lips are. Perhaps because, in my mind, he’s a monster. The truth is, John of Rygard has deteriorated into a frail husk of a man whose shoulders have stopped from the burden of his sickness.
From the burden of his sins.
John has yet to release my hand, and I have to bite back a wince at the pain radiating across each finger. I want to spit in his face. Spew all the vile names at him that sit bitterly on my tongue. But I don’t because Eleanor assured me that Quinn, Wren, and Dax are, even now, preparing to breach Newkirk. Sir Walter visited them himself. Personally handed them the vials filled with the elixir I mixed for them. I didn’t take much hair—just a few sporadic strands for each man. Protection should they fall injured.
We reach the stairs, and he finally releases me with a shove. Compels me to walk in front of him, his presence behind me oppressive. He may be ill, but his unpredictability is no less terrifying.
Then he clamps his hand around my arm and pulls me to my room, with my heart a painful beat inside my chest. Does he know? Did Sir Walter betray us? I’ll kill him myself. Both of them. It’s the only way—
“Wait for me out here. I’ll be but a moment,” John instructs the guard. Finally, he frees me, and I rub my arm where he gripped me. He slams the door, the bang as loud as a clap of thunder. I brace for the lightning strike of his fury. “I’ve been more than patient with you. But I’ve reached the limit of my tolerance.”
Feigning ignorance, I cross my arms over my chest in a protective stance. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He coughs. Blood speckles his hand when he removes it from his mouth. Muttering a curse, he whips his palm across his thigh, smearing the drops of red into the blue satin of his breeches. “Don’t play ignorant with me, Rapunzel. You know exactly what I mean.” He lunges at me with shocking speed. “This.” He grabs my hair and yanks on the golden plait. “You’re going to give me the magic infused in your fucking hair.”
“Stop it.” I try to pry my hair from his hand, but his grip is tight. “You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” He tugs the braid again before releasing it.
As I back away, I stumble over my feet but quickly right my footing. “I can’t.”
“You mean youwon’t,” he roars. “But youwill.” When he sways and releases a cacophony of grating coughs, he hunches over and grips the mattress to steady himself. Only once the racking hacks end does he straighten and square his shoulders, struggling to regain his lost dignity. “I would rather have you freely share the magic with me, but I will take it from you by force if I must.”
And there it is.
The threat I knew was forthcoming.
