A low growl rose in the king’s throat, and he gripped her upper arm roughly, dragging her to the side of the room so quickly that she nearly tripped over her own feet. “I have gone to the trouble of invitingeveryeligible man in this and every surrounding country, and stillnoneof them are good enough for you?” His fingers squeezed, and she knew there would be bruises in the morning.
Lizzie pulled her arm free and stepped back, straightening her back and shoulders. It was times like these that she appreciated her curse, as it allowed her to stand before him without any of the fear and trembling that had characterized her younger years.
“It seems we have a very different taste in men.”
Alfred’s eyes widened and his face started turning purple with rage. Lizzie watched from the corner of her eye as Shea casually approached, stopping just far enough away to give them the illusion of privacy. He caught her gaze for a brief moment and nodded once, as if to reassure her that he would intervene if needed.
Truly a pity.
“A different taste?” the king seethed. “A different taste?I’ll show you just how different our tastes are. I don’t care who he is;you’ll go to the next man who comes to the door. We’ll see how much you dislike my tastes then. Spiteful, ungrateful child!”
An awkward silence rang in the room as Alfred’s volume rose throughout his speech. Lizzie could feel every eye in the room on her as she lifted her chin and met her father’s gaze, but she ignored them as easily as she did a cold draft. It mattered little whether they knew or not.
“Your Majesty?” the timid voice of a footman broke the spell. He stood at the main doors of the ballroom, slightly to the right and behind the king.
“What is it?” Alfred growled, pulling his hot stare from Lizzie only at the very last second.
“There is an…entertainer here who claims to have been invited?”
The words were no sooner spoken than a rumpled and unkempt figure pushed his way past. His dark hair was long and dirty, nearly reaching his shoulders in the back and hanging down over a pair of bright blue eyes in the front. Tanned skin on his hands and face spoke to a lifetime spent out of doors, though between the shaggy hair and the bushy beard, Lizzie could see only his nose and upper cheeks. He carried a lute over his shoulder, which he swung around to the front and began playing as soon as he walked in.
“Let me sing you a song of a maiden so fair,
With the sky in her eyes and with gold in her hair.
But more beautiful still was her charm and her grace,
And the kind, tender heart that brought smiles to her face.”
His voice, though obviously untrained, was still rather pleasant. He could carry a tune, at least, and it had a warm, mellow quality that paired well with his instrument. Despite his worn clothing and otherwise shabby appearance, he moved with a comfortable confidence that immediately grabbed attention. All in all, he was one of the better traveling performers she hadseen, and Lizzie was rather puzzled when the crowd of men in the room started heckling him.
Until she realized what they were actually saying.
“A tender heart? Ha! It’s about as tender as cold steel.”
“She’s only fair until she opens her mouth. No beauty can make up for a tongue that sharp.”
“I’ve seen a slug with more charm.” This particular comment came from Prince Jacques, and Lizzie realized belatedly that perhaps she had not been as private in her criticisms as she had thought.
Although, if they dislike me that intensely, it’s very unlikely that they’ll push Father for my hand.
She glanced over at King Alfred as the thought passed through her mind. He was watching the minstrel with cold, calculating eyes. Slow, loud claps echoed through the room as he brought his hands together, despite the fact that the minstrel was obviously still in the middle of his song.
Every sound in the room was immediately snuffed out. The bearded minstrel turned and squared his shoulders to the king before bowing low with a flourish. From this angle, Lizzie was afforded a much better view of his scraggly beard.
It looks like he has the nest of a wood thrush hanging off his chin. I wouldn’t be surprised if a bird flew out of it.
“Your Majesty, please allow me—”
Alfred cut him off with a swift flick of his wrist. “Are you unmarried?”
Lizzie’s critical thoughts about the minstrel’s beard slammed to a sudden halt as she comprehended the direction of her father’s question.
He wouldn’t. He’s too concerned with increasing Nedra’s influence and advantage.
The thrushbeard minstrel’s eyes flicked over to her for a fraction of a second before he answered. “I am not.”
The boom of Alfred’s humorless laugh filled the room as he slapped his knees, as if the whole situation were one big joke. “By tomorrow morning, you will be.” He turned, fixing his angry, unyielding gaze on Lizzie even as he continued speaking to the minstrel. “Congratulations. You’re going to marry the princess.”
