And then I see him. “Father!”
He turns, surprise blooming into a smile that makes him look suddenly younger, and then we are embracing.
“It has been too long,” I say into his shoulder.
“It has,” he agrees. “And you look—” He stops, then smiles. “Like yourself.”
He looks older. There is no point pretending otherwise. His hair has thinned, his face lined more deeply, but his eyes are still sharp.
“You’re hunting?” I ask, pulling back to look at him properly.
He chuckles. “I will be gentle with myself. Ride a little, watch more. And if my knees complain too loudly, I will return early.”
Breakfast is laid out generously. Charles sits with Aynhard and Lord Voxgrove, already deep in conversation, his voice animated, his laughter easy. He is in good spirits today, despite his suspicion of our host.
The hunt is where he is in his element.
I sit with the other ladies, hands wrapped around a cup of warm drink, listening to talk of children, cloth, and household matters.
We watch as the men start preparing their gear for the hunt. Charles and the men of his party wear sturdy wool and leather, practical boots, hunting cloaks faded by use.
One of the ladies beside me murmurs her surprise. “I had expected more splendor,” she says softly. “With the King riding today, I thought this would be…an occasion.”
“So did I,” another agrees, glancing around. “It feels almost…ordinary.”
I smile. “That would be intentional.”
They turn to me, curious, and I take pity on their confusion.
“There is a story told in Acheron,” I say, lowering my voice asthe men start getting up from their seats. “Years ago, Charles attended a council meeting where his advisers arrived dressed as though for a coronation—silks, velvet, embroidery heavy enough to rival any feast day. He endured it in silence.”
“That sounds ominous,” one of the women says.
“It was,” I agree. “On a whim, he declared that the day was too fine to be wasted indoors and ordered an immediate hunt in the forest of Acheron. He rode ahead, straight into the thickest undergrowth he could find.”
Their eyes widen.
“The councilors had no choice but to follow. By nightfall, their fine garments were torn to shreds, while Charles’s own leather hunting coat was scarcely marked.” I allow myself a small smile. “At supper, he remarked on the matter at great length.”
A soft laugh ripples through the group.
“Since then,” I finish, “his court has been cautious. Charles has little patience for luxury worn without purpose. He prefers his splendor on feast days—and his hunts practical.”
One of the ladies glances again at the King, dressed no differently than his men.
“Well,” she says, amused, “that is a lesson learned only once.”
“Precisely,” I reply.
The ladies return to their conversation, but a question remains in my mind.
“Tassilo’s wife,” I murmur to Aileen, who sits beside me. “Is she not attending?”
Aileen frowns slightly. “I noticed the same. I’ll ask around.”
The huntsman calls for attention.
He explains the course of the hunt and the roles assigned to each man. There are at least forty participants. Every positionmatters. No one is to stray.
