Enchanting the King (The Beauty's Beast Fantasy Series) (8 page)

Mistress Helen followed behind him, a smug smile curling on her lips.

Aliénor waited a moment for them to go, then hurled a pillow at the floor with a choked scream of fury. Her breath was coming so fast that her vision swam. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe more slowly.

How
dare
he?
How dare he threaten her with blood magic and mind control? She threaded her fingers into her hair and pulled, trying to force her mind to work.

I must get free of him
. Proper Jerdic women did not leave their husbands, and yet…
I had rather be the common strumpet he accused me of being than stay married to one such as him
. The thought was chilling, terrifying—

Exhilarating. A life free of Philippe. Free of his expectations, his disappointment, his cloying, adoring love that sought to control her instead of know her.

She was still Duchess of Catarlia in her own right, the title passed down to her from her father. If only she could get herself free of Philippe’s physical hold and back to her island, then she would have allies enough to break free of her marriage too. Enough men would be eager to marry her themselves that they would help her get free. Anyway, once free of her husband, she would never need to marry again.

But
how
to get free of Philippe?

No way to do it in this wilderness. The noblemen who were loyal to her might help, but what then? A civil war in the army? Jerdic soldiers fighting each other over her?

His men would likely catch her first, and Philippe would immediately put her under Mistress Helen’s control. And if not caught, Aliénor would only lose her way to starve in the desert.

But soon enough they would reach Anutitum, a city controlled by Aliénor’s own cousin, Guillaume. She hadn’t seen him in years, but he had been a charming boy and fond of her when they were children. He was prince in his own city. If she sought her cousin’s protection, Philippe would not be able to reclaim her. She only had to bend herself to Philippe’s will for the next week or so. Just until she could reach her cousin’s city.

Soon.
She wrapped the thought tight around herself like a blanket to ward off the chill.
Soon
.

Thomas had been awake all night, helping with the cleanup of the camp, chasing down horses, chasing down bodies of those men who had been washed away. It was dirty, exhausting, disheartening work. He’d finally stolen back to his own tent to clean off some of the clinging muck and to break his fast before he returned to the work. The column would not move again today, and not for some days yet if this disarray continued. He was the closest thing to a leader at the chaos down by the river. Princess Aliénor’s man, Lord Ysen, had been injured when the river was flooding. Still, the man was working through his head injury to salvage what supplies they could from the wreck of the baggage train. The Jerdic prince had yet to show his face.

He probably slept through the whole thing
. Or perhaps Philippe felt too much shame that he had allowed his men to camp so close to the river. Many men and horses had drowned last night, and many valuable supplies and tents had been washed away.
If only the pompous little fool had listened
. Of course, the rain had come on so soon after dinner, there might not have been time anyway to get everyone clear. Nevertheless, if the Jerdic prince had bestirred himself, they might have saved more men.

Thomas shook his head and ducked inside his borrowed tent.
No good going over
what if
s.

Thomas’s page, Ned, waited for him in his tent, sleeping heavily on the mattress. The room smelled of mildew and damp, and the rugs still squished with water as Thomas strode across them. Yet another reason not to bring all this finery on campaign. Young Ned snored, one hand cupped under his ruddy cheek. Thomas hated to disturb the lad, for he’d been up all night too, running errands about camp. But Llewellyn was off somewhere tending to the wounded, and Thomas needed to speak with his second. He shook the page awake and sent him off to find Llewellyn.

Before Thomas had done more than splash his face with the icy water in his basin, a heavily freckled page dressed in the Jerdic colors entered his tent. “My Lord the Prince begs conference with you, King Thomas.”

Thomas eyed the piled mattresses with longing. “All right. I come.”

Prince Philippe was dressed in a simple surcoat and chain mail, just as Thomas was, but the prince’s outfit was spotless, fresh. Only his boots were muddied, and those but little.

Thomas fought not to show his outrage. Had the prince even gone to look at the scene by the riverside? At the deaths that his arrogance and ignorance had wrought? No. Apparently not.

Philippe sat on a simple camp chair, but the effect was spoiled by the billowing silk awning around him, and the small table laden with fruit and drink at his elbow. One of his barons stood to his left, hand on the hilt of his sword. That damned witch stood to the prince’s right, her hand lightly cupped around her dagger’s hilt.

Thomas gave a small nod of greeting. “You wished to see me, Prince Philippe?”

“I did. Please sit, King Thomas.”

The baron leapt to set a second camp chair in the shade under the awning. Thomas sat, leaning back to survey the prince—and to keep that damned witch well in his sight. Thomas had thought this an informal meeting to discuss the fallout from the flooding. If he had known that he came to a formal audience, he would have waited at least for Llewellyn. Thomas might also have paused to change his garb to something fresher. Llewellyn would probably scold him for this oversight later.

Philippe leaned forward, his voice low and confiding. “First, I wanted to apologize for the behavior of my wife. I hope you were not overly offended.”

Thomas frowned. “I am not sure what you mean. She has been nothing but courtesy and kindness. Her bravery last night was remarkable. She’s a credit to you, lad—your lordship.” Thomas bit hard on his tongue and cursed himself. This arrogant pup couldn’t be more than twenty, half Thomas’s age. Nevertheless, Philippe clearly expected Thomas to treat with him as if they were equal in knowledge and experience. Thomas had to play along and swallow that insolence or let Philippe turn the Lyondi knights out to starve.
Or worse
. Philippe, after all, still had an army at his beck and call.

Philippe’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Thomas, but he seemed content to let the matter of the princess drop. He pressed his palms together, resting the points of his fingers under his chin in a pose of grave thought. “I asked you here because I want to offer you a formal alliance. You have lost the better part of your army. I will pledge my men to your cause if you will pledge yours to mine.”

Hell
. Thomas worked his mouth, his mind furiously turning over.
Dammit, I should have waited for Llewellyn
. Thomas was a soldier. He had no head for diplomacy.

At last, when inspiration did not strike, Thomas spread his empty hands. “I cannot, Prince Philippe.” He wet his lips, knowing he should say no more, but the heavy guilt in his gut made his tongue unwise. “In fact, I advise you to turn back before the mountains. Or go the long way round the mountains and head home at the next port.”

Philippe blinked for a moment in shock. “What can you mean, King Thomas?”

“I lost many men because I was too arrogant to admit I was out of my depth. The Tiochene raiders have more spell-casters than you can imagine and better knowledge of this terrain.” Thomas fisted one hand against his thigh, remembered screams echoing hollowly in his ears. “We did not know what we were doing when we came here. What we would face. We are not prepared.”

Philippe’s lip curled with a contempt he did not even try to hide. “Perhaps
you
were not prepared. You'll notice I still have
my
army.”

Thomas tensed his hands on his thighs to keep from throttling the arrogant little whelp. “Have you met any of the local Tiochene raiders in battle yet?”

“Not…as yet.”

“Then we do not know how your army may fare, do we? As yet.”

A great clatter sounded behind, and Thomas half glanced over his shoulder to see Llewellyn dash up, huffing and puffing, his sunburned cheeks even more flushed with exertion. Llewellyn tossed an exasperated glare at Thomas and came to stand behind his shoulder.

Philippe waved his hand as if to wipe away Thomas’s warnings and raised his chin. “You will not join with me then, King Thomas?”

Llewellyn made a small sound of shock. Thomas did not glance back, and he did not bother to soften his answer or prevaricate. “No, I will not commit my men to any further military campaigns in this thrice-damned wilderness.”

A tart sneer twisted the young prince’s lips. “But you will travel with us. Use our medical supplies. Eat our food. Leer at our women.”

Thomas pushed to his feet, towering so that the prince had to crane his head back. “Have I given offense, Prince? It was not my intent.”

Philippe belatedly clattered to his feet too. The camp chair fell over behind him as he stood toe-to-toe with Thomas. Thomas was rather pettily pleased to see that he stood a full head higher than Prince Philippe.

Philippe’s eyelids flickered, assessing his chances, glancing behind to Llewellyn, who stood now at the king’s shoulder, hand oh-so-casually resting on his sword hilt. Philippe retreated and lifted his hands with a small tossing gesture. “No. All is peace between us.” His lips twisted with distaste, and he half turned his shoulder, apparently ready for this interview to be at an end.

Thomas was happy to oblige and yet—he stepped close to the prince one last time and lowered his voice. “Your wife is a fine woman. Beyond reproach. You do wrong even to think such things about her.”

“Perhaps less is expected of women in Lyond,” Philippe scoffed.

“Or perhaps Jerdic men should learn to trust their women better.”

“My king?” Llewellyn stepped forward, all but thrusting his body between Thomas and the prince. “You wanted to meet with the baron before the sun was too high.”

“Of course.” Thomas offered Philippe the shallowest bow that courtesy allowed. “Well, Prince Philippe, I thank you for your aid in this desperate hour, and I wish you good luck with your quest. My men and I will encroach on your hospitality no longer. We will take what we came with and depart.”

“No, no, King Thomas. I will not be so ungenerous as that. Take some food and other supplies if you need them. I will not turn you out to starve.”

“You are too kind.”

Philippe snapped his fingers, and the freckled page produced some vellum with a quill to write. Philippe dashed off a few lines and tried to hand the permission to Thomas. Llewellyn smoothly intercepted it and read it over before rolling the document up.

“Thank you again for your help, Prince Philippe.”
Such as it was
.

Philippe returned Thomas a bare nod, not even civil, and Thomas left the prince’s presence without another word.

“That went well,” Llewellyn muttered.

“Do we have enough horses for our men?”

“We are short one horse, Sire.”

“Mine, yes? Well, I’ll ride pillion behind you if I must to get out of this damned camp.”

Llewellyn brandished the prince’s note. “I’ll see if this stretches far enough to cover a horse.”

They walked in silence through the camp for a moment more before Llewellyn asked with deceptive mildness, “Will you take formal leave of the Princess Aliénor?”

“No. I’ll not create further problems with her troublesome wretch of a husband. Besides, I hardly know the woman.” He would never know her better now.
I’ll probably never even see her again
. Bitterness burned in his gut at the thought. How cruel the Fates were to throw such a fascinating, lovely woman into his path when she belonged to someone else.

“I think you
must
take formal leave of her.”

Thomas flicked an annoyed glance at his second. “Why is that?”

“Because she’s sitting just up there, watching us.”

Like a compass needle seeking true north, Thomas’s head whipped around almost against his will, and his hungry gaze sought sight of her.
There
. She sat alone on one of the grassy hills well above the river.

Thomas broke off from Llewellyn and cut through a line of tents, his path an arrow shot straight for Aliénor.
Princess
Aliénor. He sighed to himself.
Old fool
. It had been twenty years since he’d felt so silly-headed around a woman, and that had been his late wife. He frowned, disconcerted by the thought.

Aliénor smiled at him as he approached, her clear brown eyes shining, her cheeks flushed in the gloomy light of this miserable morning. She wore another plain, almost dun-colored gown today with a short leather riding jacket over it dyed a soft blue. Both garments were weather-beaten but clean, like something a merchant’s wife might wear. He felt a strangely wistful urge to see her in all her royal finery. How beautiful she would look with that red-gold curtain of hair loose about her shoulders, jewels at her creamy throat.
Best to get this over with
. “Princess Aliénor, I come to take formal leave of you. My men and I are going.”

Her pale brows drew down. “But you cannot. You have no supplies. Do you even have enough horses?”

Thomas felt his mouth twist. “Your husband has most generously gifted us with whatever supplies we need to be on our way.”

“Most of your men are injured.
You
are still injured, no matter how you go charging about the camp. Forgive me, but this does not seem wise.”

His chest ached with bittersweet warmth, as if a bird were unfolding its wings over his ribcage. “You speak true, my lady.” Truer than she knew. “Yet for all that, we must go.”

“But—” Her eyes widened, and her gaze flicked back to the way he had come, toward Prince Philippe’s tent. She caught her breath on a scandalized gasp. “I think I understand now.”

Thomas made a small gesture of negation. “’Tis well enough.”

Her already ivory face had paled now almost to the color of snow. “Philippe is a jealous fool.” She spat the words out, yet tears glittered in her eyes, and her lip trembled.