Enchanting the King (The Beauty's Beast Fantasy Series) (4 page)

“Her husband,” the handmaiden explained. “Prince Philippe of Jerdun.”

Thomas flashed the handmaiden a wide grin. “Remarkable. Me, rescued by royalty. That’ll be a story to take home to the lads in my village.”

She snorted, sizing him up from the corner of her eye. A worldly woman, and a suspicious one it seemed.

Suspicious of
me
, at least
. “And you, my lady? What is your name?”

“I am Lady Noémi of Orullion,
Thomas
.”

“Lords and ladies all about the place then?”

She swallowed a small sound of amusement and shook her head at him as they walked along behind the prince and his…princess. His wife. He watched Philippe jerk on her arm and scold her as they marched forward. How could the fair Princess Aliénor be married to that pompous little twit?

“They were married when they were quite young,” the handmaiden murmured.

And that explained everything. A state marriage. A wholly arranged marriage, no doubt.
Fate spare me from the same
.

They had reached the outer edge of the camp now, and Thomas caught his breath at seeing a line of nearly two dozen men on their knees on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. They were alive. Not all of his men, not even that many, but— As he scanned the line of faces, his breath caught, his heart beating hard, hoping, hoping…

One prisoner with blond hair so pale as to be almost white had looked up at their approach. His gaze had been scanning the line of faces just as Thomas’s was. Their glances locked, and the blond man’s shoulders rolled down in a release of tension so great he almost collapsed with it. When he looked again, he was smiling fit to crack his face. Thomas smiled back at his friend.
Llewellyn’s alive
.

Having established that fact, Thomas let himself tally the rest of his men. Mostly these were his own personal knights, with two of his barons as well. Men who would have been close to Llewellyn in the melee, no doubt. None of them seemed to have very serious wounds, although a few were sporting cut lips and black eyes.
How
—

Princess Aliénor turned one man’s face gently toward herself and examined the signs of a fresh beating. She wheeled on her husband, her face pinched with anger. “Couldn’t you control the soldiers?”

Young Philippe dropped his gaze and scuffed one toe in the dirt, looking every inch a sullen boy. Come to think of it, he couldn’t have been much more than twenty, by the look of him.
What is this child doing leading an army over dangerous ground like this?

“These men resisted being bound,” Philippe said, making his voice pompous. “What was I supposed to do?”

Thomas snorted. Meaning
no
, Philippe could not control his soldiers.

Philippe crossed to one of the soldiers and pointed at the man’s pale blue surcoat with its three black wolves rampant against a gold-and-gray shield. The Jerdic prince locked eyes with Thomas and raised one eyebrow. “This is the crest of the King of Lyond, and I know the king himself led a force of men down this way. Where is your king, soldier?”

Thomas let his gaze drop as if in sorrow. “He was killed. I saw him fall.”

“Is that right?” Philippe all but purred the word out.

Not entirely stupid then, this one.
Thomas kept his gaze sadly lowered, his voice firm. “Yes. Our king was yanked off his horse, and then the raiders killed him.”

“If I were to ask each one of your men here the same question—”

“They would give you the same answer, Prince Philippe.”

Philippe’s eyes fluttered at the honorific, as if he hadn’t wanted Thomas to know who he was just yet. He tilted his chin and eyed Thomas head to foot. “I wonder.”

“I am here, my prince. Apologies for my tardiness.” A woman bustled up. She was thirty or so, with dark eyes and long, waving black hair falling loose around her shoulders, sleek as a raven’s wing. All the other women in camp he’d seen wore gowns with skirts split for riding, but this woman was dressed almost as a man with a thick, high-collared red tunic, a long cape, and black hose on her shapely legs. A small, wickedly sharp dagger was belted to her waist, another oddity for a woman. She was clearly a woman, though, with a voluptuous figure and a delicate, pretty face. She had a low, throaty voice that was entirely pleasing to the ear.
The prince’s lover, perhaps?

Philippe smiled, but there was an edge of malice to it. “Mistress Helen. Just in time.”

Princess Aliénor’s shoulders inched up with tension. Her husband, distracted by the older woman’s arrival, had released his wife’s arm. The princess sidled away from him and eased close to Thomas. “Noémi”—she murmured the name quickly, urgently—“get back to the infirmary. You know what to do?”

Lady Noémi nodded once, then wandered away, moving in a leisurely manner so as not to draw either the prince’s or Mistress Helen’s attention. Thomas swayed at the sudden loss of support. Princess Aliénor, eyes wide, flung out a hand to brace him.

Thomas shook his head, blinking his eyes to clear them. “What is happening?”

Philippe conferred with the strange Mistress Helen in a low voice.

“She is my husband’s spell-caster.”

That explained the odd attire, and the voice. Spell-casters, whether through breeding or practice, always had the loveliest voices. Female spell-casters at royal courts were rare but not unheard-of. Usually women with magic stifled it or became midwives, but an ambitious woman could climb high if she’d a mind to.

Princess Aliénor wet her lips, watching her husband. “Be wary of Mistress Helen, soldier. She is a blood witch.” The hair prickled on the back of Thomas’s neck. He took one impulsive step forward, but Princess Aliénor held hard to his arm. “You are outnumbered, good sir.”

He tensed his back teeth, his blood popping with the need for action as he watched Mistress Helen approach his men.

The witch paced down the line, looking all of the soldiers over. “You say your king is dead.” She whipped her small dagger out, and the sharp stiletto blade gleamed in the sun. Each of the prisoners bravely raised his eyes and stared her down, unwilling to be intimidated by a woman.

Thomas put himself forward, gently disengaging from Princess Aliénor’s hold. He pitched his voice to carry. “I say the king is dead. I saw him fall.”

Mistress Helen waved her hand, rolling her eyes at him. “Yes, yes. But what if I were to ask…oh,
you
.” She stopped in front of Thomas’s friend Llewellyn, and swung her blade in a wide loop so the point came to rest just under his chin. Using the pressure of the knife’s blade, she forced Llewellyn to tilt his head back at an uncomfortable angle to meet her eyes.

Ever the brilliant actor, Llewellyn let his voice throb with emotion. “My king is dead, lady. One of the fire spells knocked him off his horse, and the raiders slit his throat, to be sure.”

Thomas just hoped the men marked that comment well so they would keep this same story straight as they were questioned.

“Hmm.” Mistress Helen pursed her lips in displeasure and moved on to the next man in line. This was one of Thomas’s knights, a tall, beefy man named Godric. She held the knife to Godric’s throat and asked him the same question. “And you? Did you see the king fall?”

“Yes. The fire spell killed his poor horse, and they yanked the king out from under the dead beast by his surcoat.”

“
Hmm hmm hmm
,” Mistress Helen hummed in apparent thought. Suddenly her blade flicked out, and a line of blood rose on Godric’s cheek. Thomas flinched. The witch lifted her blade carefully to her mouth and licked a single drop of Godric’s blood off the tip. She smacked her lips afterward and closed her eyes.

Princess Aliénor shifted beside Thomas, and he noticed the hand she used to brace his arm had begun to tremble. Without thinking, Thomas reached up to cover her hand with his own.

The witch let out a low, almost sexual groan, and opened her eyes again. Thomas let out a startled oath. The witch’s eyes had turned red and faintly glowed as if she were on fire from within. “I ask again, Sir Godric of Lyond, is your king dead?” Her voice had changed, grown deeper, more masculine. It almost sounded like Godric’s own voice speaking back to him.

Godric stood taut as a cord stretched between two posts. All the veins in his neck stood out in sharp relief as his mouth worked, as he strained to fight the evil spell she’d cast on him.

“Stop.” Thomas tried to disengage from Princess Aliénor.

She held on to him with a small, scared, “
Don’t
.”

The blood witch knelt before her victim and tilted his chin up with her bloodied dagger. “You are strong, sir, but I am stronger. Is your king dead?”

Godric’s throat worked, and he breathed hard as if pushing against a crushing weight. “
No
.” The word burst from him with great effort, yet his face still fell with shame after he had spoken.

Thomas winced.

The witch whirled around and leveled a cool glare at Thomas. “You lied, soldier.” She took a step sideways to stand before Llewellyn. “You, also, have lied.” She lowered her dagger to cut Llewellyn next.

“Stop.” Thomas tore himself free of Princess Aliénor’s protective grasp and stood straight and tall before the witch. “Stop this.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

He drew in a deep breath, praying he would not regret this. “I will tell you where the king is.”

“All right. Where is he?”

Thomas gave her a small lopsided smile. “Right here. I am the King of Lyond.”

The witch gave Thomas a frankly dubious look. “You?” She turned back to poor Godric and brandished her dagger. “Does he speak truth?”

Godric flicked a glance at Thomas, asking for permission, and even that small hesitation cost him as the veins in his neck bulged with the effort of resisting. Thomas gently nodded. Godric let out a low, pained sigh. “Yes, yes. He is our king. He is.”

Thomas’s gaze briefly caught with Llewellyn’s as his friend shot him a very exasperated look indeed. Thomas gave a small shrug back.

Philippe sauntered forward with his chest puffed up, trying to look strong, trying to look authoritative. Thomas kept his face straight to spare the young man his dignity.

“King Thomas.”

Thomas made a small acknowledging nod. “I am he, Prince Philippe. I’m sorry I didn’t greet you formally before, but I wasn’t sure what my reception might be.” He flicked a wry look at his cut-up knight.

Philippe cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“The King of Lyond.” The witch’s eyes had returned to normal now the blood magic had faded, but they gleamed all the same with a dark, avaricious light. She lifted her knife in an almost instinctual move to take some of Thomas’s blood.

Princess Aliénor flung herself between Thomas and the witch. “
No
. Husband, are you so lost to good sense that you would knowingly let your witch attack a fellow royal?”

“Uh…” Philippe’s mouth hung open as he flicked an uncertain glance between his witch and his wife. “Um.”

Princess Aliénor, with an uneasy glance at Thomas, gently drew her husband out of Thomas’s earshot. The witch followed at once, her strides stiff and angry, picking deep divots into the sand as she walked.

Thomas eased closer to his men and bent to check the cut on Godric’s face.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” the knight whispered in a broken voice.

“You were bespelled, Sir Godric. No shame in it.”

Beside them, Llewellyn let out a snort. “You should not have come forward, my king. These men are here to protect you, not the other way around.”

Thomas shook his head. “She was going to cut you next, Llewellyn. Should I have let her?”

Llewellyn grimaced but made no reply. He watched the witch with uneasy eyes. “I wonder.”

“I didn’t like to test your strength, old friend. Better to let some of us keep our secrets from that beldam, eh?”

“Hmm.” Llewellyn still looked unhappy. “She may get her chance. That prince believes he has the witch on his leash, but I think it is the other way round.”

Thomas glanced back to watch the low-voiced argument continue. “Can you get your hands free? If there is a need.”

“My king, what makes you think I need my hands free to deal with that witch?”

“Don’t underestimate her.”

“Who is the other woman? The girl who leaped to your defense?”

Thomas turned his attention to dabbing at the cut on Godric’s face. “She is Philippe’s wife, the Princess Aliénor.”

Aliénor tossed her head in exasperation as she dragged her husband away from the prisoners. “If you let the witch have her way, then you will have to kill King Thomas, for I’m sure he could never forgive such a breach of diplomacy.”

She had not wished for the witch to follow, but of course that damned Mistress Helen had. The witch toyed with her dagger, watching the blade flash in the sun. “The King of Lyond is a great prize, my lord.”

At the witch’s words, Aliénor’s skin went cold. “You cannot be serious.”

The witch eased closer, trying to push Aliénor out of the way as they jostled for Philippe’s attention. “Think, my prince. Let me bleed King Thomas just a little every day and I—you can control his every action, every move. You can return home not just having reclaimed the colonies but having taken Lyond.”

Aliénor’s heart hammered. “These Lyondi men saw her power, Philippe. They will know what is happening.”

“So we kill them.” Helen shrugged. “We can make up any story we like after that. A daring rescue from barbarians. You saved King Thomas with your own sword. Anything.”

Philippe caught his lower lip between his teeth. His eyes warmed a little at the witch’s suggestion. A desperate, tearing fear gripped Aliénor, and she grabbed her husband by both arms, forcing him to look her in the eye. “Philippe, if you follow Mistress Helen’s plan, all you will do is start another war with Lyond.”

“Do you doubt my power, Princess?” the witch asked.

“I doubt the Lyondi will let themselves be ruled by a man who’s clearly a puppet to foreign powers.”

Philippe’s gaze flicked back and forth as he studied the ground, but she knew he was thinking, weighing his options.