Astin nodded.
‘I thought you said Kendra holds his interest,’ Harlan said.
‘She does. I’ve watched him closely with both women. He tolerates Lyndal’s company at best.’
The commander’s gaze shifted to the castle. ‘So I don’t have to worry about him taking her as a mistress?’
Just hearing the word ‘mistress’ in a sentence where she was the subject had Astin’s feet shuffling. It should not have mattered to him either way, but apparently his protection of her was not purely duty related. Too much time spent together—that was the problem. Now he was behaving like an overprotective… brother? Friend? Any feelings beyond that were impractical and dangerous.
‘The queen mother is probably thinking about suitors,’ Harlan said. ‘She’s taken with Lyndal and probably wants to be of help in that regard.’
Astin watched as Roul disarmed a recruit in two moves. ‘I doubt Lyndal will be interested in any man the queen mother recommends.’
‘What makes you say that?’
He shrugged. ‘She seems like the kind of woman who wants to pick her own husband.’
Harlan chuckled.
‘What’s so funny?’
Harlan’s gaze slid to Astin. ‘You. Jealous.’
‘Here we go.’ Though Astin wondered if the sensation resembling a stomach full of lead was indeed jealousy.
Roul was pairing the recruits up to spar and gestured to Harlan.
‘I’m needed,’ the commander said. ‘Tell the king what you must to keep your head and nothing more. And pray Queen Fayre is playing matchmaker. That’s better than any agenda the king might have.’
Shit. It did feel a lot like jealousy. It was climbing his throat and heating his palms. He was in big trouble if it turned out he had feelings for the woman he had spent the previous year tormenting. And Harlan would hang him from the nearest tree if he ever did anything to ruin her chances of finding happiness—and she deserved that happiness.
Pushing every rising feeling down to the pit of his stomach, he put on his defender face and headed for the castle.
Chapter 13
The merchants’ expressions ranged from curious to pure hatred. Not only did they not forgive the king standing on the edge of the newly built garden bed, a shovel loaded with manure in hand, but many wished him dead.
‘Let Prince Becket step up and have a go at leading us,’ Astin had overheard men say at the taverns. ‘He can’t do any worse than the arse currently sitting on the throne.’
Becket might have been a viable option if he had shown any interest in the role at all. The fact that he fled Chadora the day after the coronation showed he wanted no part in any of it.
‘I hope to see flourishing garden beds next time I visit,’ the king continued, trying not to draw breath.
It was oddly satisfying seeing him press his nose to his shoulder every few moments to manage the smell.
He coughed. ‘Cabbages the size of heads.’
The problem with that visual was that a decapitated head currently sat on a pike in the square. The merchant man had been caught atop the farming wall and had managed to kill two defenders before being caught.
Astin noticed Lyndal look down at her feet, no doubt thinking the same thing he was. He found himself doing that a lot. Someone would say or do something, and he would look to her for a reaction. Sometimes she met his gaze, sharing her private thoughts without speaking a word.
To King Borin’s credit, he did actually place the manure into the garden and turn the soil over it—sort of. He then wandered between the new garden beds, feigning interest and deflecting questions about when more meat would be coming.
Queen Fayre wandered also, stopping to have the conversations her son was fleeing from. Her gaze always drifted though. To the wasting faces watching her. To her oblivious son. To Kendra, who stood balanced on a stepping stone, trying to keep her shoes clean. And to Lyndal, who walked through the mud without a second thought to her shoes or the hem of her dress. She was completely at home digging and planting alongside the other merchants. At one point she even handed out cups of water to the men doing the labour. Then she called the children over to help with the planting, telling them they were all responsible for keeping the garden alive.
‘You can’t pick vegetables until they’re ready to be eaten, no matter how hungry you are,’ she said as she pushed seeds into the dirt with her bare finger. ‘And do you remember what you do after you pick them?’
‘Replace what you take so more can grow,’ said one of the girls.
