Not the kind of woman he would want in his own bed. He preferred warm, willing women and soft curves. Thank the gods he wasn’t a prince, forced to marry a coldhearted shrew to cement a treaty.
Poor Val. What was it like having to spend all day with her? Tristan hated her on principle.
Although—since the whole trip was about cementing the new treaty—Prince Ballanor should have sucked it up and joined his wife. How difficult could it be? Meet up with Alanna’s mother, queen of the Verturians, at a nice, neutral campground. Eat a few sandwiches. Drink some champagne. And walk away again, Verturia and Brythoria no longer at war.
Everyone knew that Ballanor had fought against ending the war. Fought even harder against the marriage. But in the end, King Geraint—supported by the council—had put his foot down. The marriage cementing the new ties between Brythoria and Verturia had gone ahead, as had the treaty. And now it was up to Ballanor to endorse it.
Surely he could have ignored her tantrum and sucked up one day with Princess Peevish to ratify the treaty and save hundreds of lives? The people of the kingdom would have been grateful, if nothing else. Thank the gods that King Geraint had been prepared to continue without his son and sign the treaty.
He glanced up, his thoughts disturbed, as Val turned his horse back to the carriage, ending their stilted conversation to ride alongside and confer with Princess Peevish herself.
They had finally reached Ravenstone Meadow.
The cavalcade entered into a wide field of swaying grasses surrounded by softly rolling hills, with a small wood in the distance.
Everything had been searched and cleared before they arrived by Blues handpicked by Tristan and the king, and overseen by Prince Ballanor, but it didn’t stop Tristan casting an experienced eye over the peaceful meadow, looking for anything amiss.
Everything looked calm. Sleepy and tranquil with the ticking of beetles in the hot sunshine. He sent out a squad to check the meadow once more anyway as they made their way to a colorful pavilion constructed out of fluttering silks.
Thick carpets lay over the ground, and a low table was set with a wide array of cold cooked meats, loaves of bread, pats of yellow butter, flagons of ale, and browned pies. As well as a mouthwatering selection of cakes and sweets. All set out by the small advance squad, only given the details of their destination the night before.
The Verturians had yet to arrive, and Tristan stood guard while the elderly King Geraint climbed gingerly down from the carriage.
He suppressed a shaft of annoyance at the princess who’d made her father-in-law suffer hours of discomfort on the road without his son rather than do her duty and allow her husband to accompany them.
And a tiny stab of irritation at the prince who had allowed it, however difficult his wife. He squashed it down; it wasn’t his place to question the prince. His duty was to the king, and that included his only heir.
He turned away to run his eyes over the meadow and the woods in the distance while Val laid down a carpet at the edge of the carriage so that her royal iciness didn’t have to get dirt on her hem.
The squad he’d sent out when they entered the meadow returned, confirming that all was well.
An hour passed, and then another, with no sign of the Verturian queen. Eventually the king and Princess Alanna sat together to eat some cold pie and drink a little ale. Neither of them spoke.
The soldiers around them grew restless, and Tristan growled out a few terse commands to stay focused.
He picked six men to take their horses and do another sweep of the meadow and the fringe of the forests beyond, but they were soon back with nothing to report.
He could see Reece and Tor standing vigilantly at the entrance of the tent and purposely relaxed his shoulders. He was glad that his own squad, the Hawks, was there. Men he’d known for years. Men who knew what they were doing.
Gods, he hated waiting.
When there was still no activity an hour later, Princess Alanna stood and asked the king if he would like to walk through the meadow with her. It was a little after noon, and she wanted to pick flowers in the sunshine.
Val, who had been standing behind her while she ate, followed her, one pace behind, as she stepped daintily out of the tent. Gods. Tristan sighed.Nowshe didn’t mind the dust.
The king, paced by Tristan, followed for a few minutes, but quickly lost his breath and decided to turn back.
They had no choice but to split up. Val followed Alanna, leading his massive stallion in case she grew tired and needed to ride back. Tristan accompanied the king.
The king called for a chair, and a pageboy set it for him to sit with his face to the sun. Tristan stood guard at his side as they all watched the princess and Val meandering farther and farther away into the hot, dry meadow, heat haze shimmering around them.
Suddenly, Val flung himself forward. Even from such a distance, Tristan could see his friend leap toward the princess, and then there was a flurry as he seemed to grab Alanna and shove her toward his destrier.
Tristan was already pulling out his sword when, seconds later, he heard Val let out a sharp whistle, the battle call of the Hawks. A piercing blast that guaranteed, after years of campaigning together, that every single Hawk would look his way.
Tristan twisted his head, trying to see what had alarmed Val.
And when he turned back it was to the most horrific sight of his life: a quivering black arrow embedded deep in the king’s neck. Someone had shot him from behind the pavilion. An assassin with impeccable aim—a few inches to the side and Tristan would have taken the arrow instead.
