She produces a small pin from her sleeve—where did she even get that?—and presses it into her palm without hesitation. I mirror her.
“On the Devil’s mercy, then,” I say.
We clasp hands, blood warm and slick between our palms.
“I swear loyalty to you,” Aileen murmurs. “Against court, crown, and whispers.”
“I swear it back,” I reply. “No matter what they try to make of us.”
We release each other, hastily wiping our hands on the lining of my gown.
Aileen pulls me into a quick, fierce embrace, and for the first time in weeks, something inside me loosens.
As if the sun, long hidden behind cloud and stone, has finally found its way back to me.
Chapter 9
Sometimes I wonder if Aileen might truly be a gift from above. Since her return, the weather has improved daily, and spring seems to have found its way back to Acheron. Charles left a couple of weeks ago, riding north to quell the Saxon unrest. There had been reports of Saxon soldiers burning grain to protest the King’s taxes and the desecration of churches in Saxon villages.
He didn’t want to leave me and delayed his departure for as long as he could. He even sent the King’s guard under Sir Malcolm’s command to deal with the rebels, but it had become painfully clear that this would not be solved without him present. We briefly debated whether I should go with him, but decided against it. The road up north is not safe, and with the rebels’ sole focus on harming the King, it would have been foolish to take me along.
At first, I wasn’t sure I was going to get through the weeks without him. I missed him terribly, after all, for the past few months we had spent every night in each other’s arms. But as the sunshine returned, so did the lightness in my heart.
Letters from Charles arrived nearly weekly. Aileen joked that the King’s messengers will have to retire after his campaign, because they are constantly on the go, traveling backand forth between us, exchanging letters like youngsters in love.
The letter I received yesterday now lies on the bed next to me. I have read it a hundred times already.
My dearest Fastrada,
I find that no distance, however great, has taught my thoughts to behave. They wander constantly back to you, unbidden and unashamed. I adore you—there is no softer way to say it, nor any truer. I miss you in the quiet moments most of all: when the fire burns low, when the wind howls like an old grief, when I reach for words and wish instead for your hand.
The North is as harsh as can be. The days are iron-gray, the nights cold. Even the people are shaped by it—hard-edged, slow to trust, but not without a certain honesty I admire. I have eaten more salted meats than I ever thought a man could endure, thick stews heavy with root vegetables, bread so dense it could anchor a ship. Once, I was given a smoked fish so pungent it lingered in my cloak for days. I was thinking of how you would have raised an eyebrow and teased me mercilessly for it. I would give much to hear that teasing now.
Life here is not easy. Every comfort must be earned, every warmth protected. There are moments when the weight of command presses hard on my chest, when I long for the ease of your counsel and the calm of your presence. You have alwaysgrounded me more than you know.
Keep an eye on my court for me. Listen more than you speak. Watch who gathers in shadows, who flatters too easily, who grows too quiet at the wrong moments. Be my eyes and my ears, my Queen, as you have always been my clarity. I know there is no one better suited to the task, nor anyone I trustmore fully.
Take care of yourself, my heart. Do not let the days grow dull or lonely. Know that in every cold dawn and every long march, I carry the thought of you with me.
Until I return to you,
Yours, always,
Charles
I smile to myself and stare at the ring Charles gave me. I twist it on my finger, watching the light catch in the brilliant-red stone. It seems like a lifetime ago that I was sitting on that settee with my mother, examining the ring for the very first time. Longing slams into me at the thought of her. I haven’t seen her since the wedding, and her letters have been rare. She is busy getting my siblings ready for the marriage market, and correspondence takes weeks to cross the kingdom.
I have not heard from my father either, which is even more concerning.
Has he given up on me?
I finish folding Charles’s letter with care, and place it back into its ribboned bundle tucking it under my pillow.
Aileen knocks softly before entering. “They’ve arrived,” she says. “The clergy.”
I nod, smooth my sleeves, and rise.
Charles and I agreed to this before he left: I will attend the meetings, but I will not belong to them. I am to sit slightly apart. Observe. Listen. Write. Speak only if necessary. At the time, it felt like a kindness, a senseless task to keep me busy.
