A blanket of noise and the scent of cooked meat overwhelmed him. A huge feast was laid out in front of him, tables full of representatives from almost every clan that had not yet defected to the rebels' cause. Ansel noted many among them that he knew, including Murtagh McKenzie, who looked haggard and tired. His daughter, Sorcha, was nowhere to be seen, which seemed strange—McKenzie usually never let the girl out of his sight.
"Ah, me son returns," a voice boomed.
Silence fell over the hall, the words carrying the weight of a hammer over all of their heads. All eyes turned to the door through which Ansel had just walked. Ansel's own gaze snapped to the table at the head of the hall, where his father sat in the center, crown glinting on his head.
Ansel instantly swept into a deep bow. "Yer Majesty. I have returned with me men. Forgive me for interruptin' yer feast."
Edric beckoned, and Ansel stood straight, moving forward between the tables until he stood before the king. Edric was usually accompanied at the top table during his feasts; he would sit with his advisors and whatever woman or women he had taken to his bed for the week if he felt like spoiling them. Today, though, he sat there almost alone with only one other person at his side. She was a young woman with dark hair and eyes and a pinched expression on a face that would otherwise have been very pretty. Her dress was entirely black. Something about her itched at Ansel's mind—he felt like he had seen her very recently.
"Ye are nae interruptin', of course," Edric told him. "And it is nae me feast. It is yers."
Warning bells clanged in Ansel's mind. He fought to keep his expression blank, not betraying any of the turbulent emotion fighting to overwhelm him, and his body stiffened, his back straight, drawing himself to his full height. "Father, I… have ye nae heard the news of what occurred at McNair Castle?"
Edric's expression was completely unreadable. "At the Sloe Stronghold, ye mean."
"Nay. It isnae that anymore, sire. Forgive me." Ansel was conscious that every eye in the room was upon him, and he could feel their stares burning into his back. He ignored them, keeping his focus only on his father, working hard to keep his voice neutral. "The rebels were waitin' for us. They had been made aware—they were prepared. I had nae choice but tae flee and save our men."
If Edric had raged, Ansel would have been prepared for it. If he had taken his heavy goblet and thrown it at Ansel's face, Ansel would have been ready.
But instead, Edric gave a brief, calm nod and spoke in a voice that wasn't shaken at all. "The events and our loss have been reported tae me. This isnae the time tae discuss it."
He spoke so softly, so calmly, that it was the first time that Ansel truly felt scared.
The prince swallowed, clenching his hand to stop it from shaking. Very little could terrify him—in fact, nothing at all. Nothing, that was, except for the man in front of him now. Before his father's cold gaze, he felt like a four-year-old boy again, lost and alone, punished over and over for not being everything a prince should be. The boy had soon learned, but it seemed the man he had become still had lessons ahead.
Mind racing, Ansel bowed his head again. "Of course. But Father, we must speak. May we go somewhere in private, perhaps, and?—"
"Nonsense!" the king exclaimed. "I wouldnae deprive me guests. They've all been waitin' for ye, after all. As, of course, has our bonny lass here."
Ansel finally looked back at the girl again, studying her more closely. She looked pale with dark circles under her eyes, but she stood tall and proud. When she caught him looking, she sank into a curtsey, lowering her eyes so as not to meet his direct gaze.
It hit him in an instant. Hehadrecognized this girl, but he had last seen her in person many years ago. More recently, just a few days before, in fact, he'd seen her sister. "Nessa O'Sullivan," he breathed, trying not to let any of his surprise or confusion sound in his voice. "Welcome, miss. Or, should I say, welcome, Lady O'Sullivan."
"It's an honor, Yer Highness," Nessa whispered.
"That's right! As ye had so wisely suggested, Nessa here took control of her father's lands until such time as we can find her a husband," Edric said affably. "But what a burden such a thing is upon the shoulders of a young, bonny woman! Hark, though—I have found a solution to her issue and a way to reward ye for yer actions as well."
A shiver crept across Ansel's skin. He did not speak.
Edric smiled. "A feast!" he exclaimed, raising his cup. "A betrothal feast for me son and Nessa O'Sullivan!"
The crowd cheered. Ansel stared at Nessa, who would not meet his eyes. So this was it, then—this was how he was to be punished. He was to be wed to the traitor's daughter, shamed before the entire country, and used as a pawn to help his father's grip tighten upon the land, all in one masterful stroke. Nessa would not be a willing wife; he could tell that from her posture, but she would be a dutiful one. Though Ansel had turned downmany marriage offers over the years, he knew that would not be an option now. He and Nessa were both to be vehicles to carry on the Ashkirk name, and neither had any choice left to them.
Edric smiled coldly at him. "Are ye nae pleased, son? All of this is for ye."
Ansel swallowed. "Of course I am pleased, Father," he replied. "It's an honor. But may I speak with ye?—"
"What yemaydo, lad, is go and clean yerself up. Ye look a mess. Be back soon, though; I willnae have ye unpresentable at yer own betrothal feast." Edric waved a hand dismissively. "Go now."
Ansel wanted to argue. He wanted to protest and explain why this would never work. He wanted to insist that his father speak with him now and discuss their next steps. And more than that, he wanted to let this pale, grieving girl go home. He, personally, had slaughtered Nessa O'Sullivan's father in this very castle. He was the reason she was now Lady of the O'Sullivan clan—and, inadvertently, now the reason that the O'Sullivan lands would be entirely absorbed under the Ashkirk name.
He bowed again, lower and more subservient than before. "As ye say, Yer Majesty. May I be excused?"
His father dismissed him, and Ansel hurried out of a side door, racing for his rooms. He was not interrupted as he rushed through the halls, and when he reached his rooms and slammed the door behind him, he had the sudden urge to stay hidden there forever.
But instead, after taking a long, shaky breath, he moved to the washroom. Someone had already drawn him a hot bath. He longed to sink into it, but instead he washed himself quickly, then moved to his wardrobe to pick out clean clothes.
He stopped still as he passed the center of his room. His chessboard sat there, the pieces still laid out as they had been the night before he left for McNair Castle. He could see her shakinghand reaching for the pieces, hear her cautious but confident voice explaining her moves, see the surprise in her eyes when he had beaten her—but only just.
