Once Upon a Romance 03 - With True Love's Kiss (2 page)

Robin
watched through half-lowered lids as Marquise Barclay helped Bianca stumble
down the hall, back to her quarters. He could see that the girl hadn’t been
badly hurt; she seemed more stunned and upset than anything. Thank the moon and
stars. If Bianca had been seriously injured during her private audience with
the king, he’d have gotten an earful from the Dame.

That thought
made him grit his teeth. His position here was pointless. He let his feet carry
him towards the mews as his mind worried at the issue. A huntsman was
excellently placed to help Bianca outside of the castle, but the greatest
danger to her was from the man who sat on the throne. In his current guise,
Robin could almost never be there when Bianca was in the king’s presence. The
best he could do was lurk outside the throne room and hope to be able to
intervene if Brannon lost control completely.

Worse yet,
he still had no idea why the girl was so important. The Dame had told him to
come, and so he came. She told him to protect Bianca, and so he did, to the
best of his abilities. But she wouldn’t tell him why, and Robin was growing
frustrated. He had been trained to guide monarchs, manipulate events, and set
the course of history, not to babysit some meek mouse of a girl. His skills
could be put to use in so many places; why was he lurking in palace halls and
arranging hawking expeditions?

The mews
were boisterous at feeding time, and the noise of the hungry falcons was
raucous. Robin nodded a brief greeting to the boys tossing meat scraps and
climbed the stairs to the upper levels, where the messenger birds were kept
along with any injured hunting birds. He threw seed to the pigeons, and then
took up a heavy leather glove and allowed Soar to hop over to his fist.

Soar was a
beautiful peregrine falcon. She had been injured on the last hunt, fighting
over prey with a wild gyrfalcon. Robin had been impressed by Soar’s spirit as
he watched her dive repeatedly at the much larger raptor, shrieking and clawing
at its eyes until at last the wild bird fled. He had cared for her personally
while the large gash on her right leg healed enough for her to hunt again. In
the first few days after her wounding she had attacked him more than once, but
Robin was patient with her, until they developed a wary bond of trust. In a way
they were alike, he thought, both trapped behind walls, instead of flying free
to do what they were born to do.

Now he
gently stroked the back of one finger across her feathered breast. She cocked
her head in interest at the dove cages, and he laughed at her clear thoughts.
She was hungry. Doves were prey. Time to hunt.

He hooded
her before she could attempt to take wing out of eagerness, and settled her
back on her perch. His eyes strayed back to the doves, cooing in their cage.
They reminded him of Bianca. Fragile little prey, timid and quiet, trying to
avoid the raptor’s notice. Soar let out a squawk, and the doves shuddered
nervously, batting their wings in the air—desperate to escape, but helpless to
do so. Robin suddenly felt the urge to open their cage, and let them all fly
free, but he stifled it. It would draw attention, and he could never explain
why he’d released them. He was as powerless to free them as he was to help
Bianca.

He sighed,
his thoughts returning to his constant obsession. Why had Merriweather sent him
here?

Robin heard
a heavy tread on the stairs. He cocked one eyebrow—the boys who fed the hunting
birds knew better than to ascend to this level of the mews—and opened his mouth
to rebuke whomever was trespassing in his domain. Then his visitor strode up
the last few steps, and Robin shut his mouth so fast he almost bit his tongue.

Brannon had
come to call.

The king
strode into the mews and cast a disparaging glance at the pigeons, still
pecking and scratching for the seeds that Robin had scattered.

“Nasty
little things.” Brannon’s eyes glittered, much like Soar’s when she spotted
prey. “What are you doing up here, Goodfellow?”

“Caring for
one of your injured falcons, your majesty.” Robin nodded his head towards the
peregrine, hooded on her perch. “We keep the hurt ones away from the other
hunting birds.”

Brannon
nodded. He understood predator behavior. “I see.” His curiosity satisfied, the
king settled his cold eyes on Robin. “I’m just as pleased to find you here. It’s
rather isolated.”

Robin felt
his breathing slow down, and fought to keep his expression pleasantly servile
while his body prepared for action. Perhaps Isabelle wasn’t the only poor fool
who’d been found out.

“I have an
errand for you.”

Or, perhaps
not. He let his puzzlement seep into his face. “An errand, your majesty?

“Yes,
Goodfellow. An errand of a delicate nature.” The king settled one hip against
the pigeon cage. “I’m sure you’re the man to do the job.”

“I will
certainly try, your majesty.”

“Oh, you’ll
do better than try, Master Goodfellow. You’ll succeed. You see, I’ve been
watching you, these past months, ever since this idea first came into my head.
I’ve been watching all my huntsmen. I wanted one that was skilled, certainly,
but more importantly, I wanted one that was ruthless.” The king’s smile held
something nasty in it. “And, most important of all, I wanted one that didn’t
seem to like my daughter in the slightest.”

Robin felt
his guts go cold, but he raised one eyebrow, as if in interest. “Oh?”

“Yes. You
see, Nieve has become something of a problem for me.” Brannon pushed up to his
feet and paced in the narrow aisle between the cages. “I hear whispers among my
nobles, muttering about my rule, and their dissatisfaction, and how treason can
be patriotism under the right circumstances.” The king’s voice was harsh with
anger, and his face was growing red. “They talk about my daughter, in these
whispered conversations,” he hissed. “About her sweetness, and biddability, and
what a charming queen she’d make.” Brannon’s head snapped up, and he stared at
Robin with eyes full of rage. “All they want is a puppet they can control, but
I won’t allow it. They cannot have her, and she cannot have the throne. It is
mine.” Behind the fury, the bright glint of madness was showing in Brannon’s
eyes.

“Do you want
me to take her away, your majesty?”

Brannon let
out a cruel chuckle. “In a manner of speaking, yes. That is exactly what I want
you to do.” He leaned closer to Robin, speaking just loud enough to be heard
over the cries of the hunting birds. “More precisely, I want you to take her
out into the woods, and slit her pretty throat.”

Silence fell
on the mews. Robin stared at the king, keeping his face still, while his mind
raced. Brannon waited, his face vulpine, poised to see what reaction his
huntsman would give. Finally Robin took a deep breath, and replied.

“Very well,
your majesty.”

The king let
out a crow of laughter, and the sudden noise set all the birds to screaming. “I
knew you were the right one for the job. There’s something about you,
Goodfellow, that reminds me of myself.”

Robin
swallowed his bile at that comparison, and spoke with cold courtesy. “How
flattering, your majesty.”

“Calm and
collected, even when discussing murder. I like it, Master Goodfellow. I like it
very much.” Brannon smiled with a sickening cheer. “Just one more small thing.
To prove she’s dead,” he paused and licked his lips, “bring me her heart. Maybe
I can have the cook prepare something special for dinner.” He laughed again, a
thick, choking sound that echoed off the ceiling of the mews.

Robin bowed
low. “As you command, your majesty.”

“Excellent!”
Brannon turned to go, but paused and looked back. “Oh, give me that falcon,
Goodfellow.”

“You want
Soar, your majesty?” When the king nodded, Robin quickly transferred the
peregrine to him. “She is not ready to fly just yet.”

“I know.”
The king descended the stairs, calling back up them. “But I have no use for my
hunters, if they cannot bring down the game I set them on.”

From the
floor below, Robin heard an unsettled squawk, and chirps of interest from the
other raptors. He heard the sharp metal clink of the leads being unfastened
from their legs. Then he heard the king at the door, whistling the hunt command
to the room full of birds.

He had no
choice but to listen to Soar’s frantic shrieks, as the king’s falcons attacked
their prey.

Bianca was
curled in a ball in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. She’d
taken a bath once she’d regained her quarters, but no matter how she scrubbed
she couldn’t wash this awful feeling away. Her arms were wrapped tightly around
her legs and her chin was nestled between her knees, and she still felt like
she was going to fly apart. The flames seemed to show her everything she
remembered of her life thus far.

Her mother:
healthy, laughing, tweaking her nose and whispering that the prince might have
been worthless, but his daughter was a treasure.

The first
time she met King Lodney, how his face was so unexpectedly kind. Then the
MacTíre family home, where she and her mother saw new luxuries every day, and
whispered about them before bed each night.

Her mother
sickening, growing weak and tired, but so slowly that at first they didn’t
notice. The last days, when Lady MacTíre would sit with her all day long while
she kept vigil at her mother’s bedside.

Days of
feverish half-recollections, after her mother died. The morning she woke, weak
and tired but clear-eyed, to find her foster-brothers looking down at her,
solemnly. Fain was the eldest, and Liam the loudest, but it was little Jamie
who found the courage to speak.

“Don’t die,
Bianca. We ain’t got any other sisters.”

Her slow but
steady recovery. The love of that wonderful family, which never made her miss
her mother less, but helped her to go on despite her loss. Years of being one
of the MacTíre children: the adored daughter, the pesky sister, the “little
mother.”

And then
Thomas.

She shut her
eyes and refused to look. She didn’t think she could stand watching Thomas in
the flames.

When she
opened them again she saw her life after that, here at the castle, living under
her father’s thumb. So many days, but all the same. All holding that dull,
ever-present terror. That pain. That guilt.

Tears ran
down her face. The terror, the pain—those were things she could live with. What
hurt more was the longing. The ache, like a hole in her chest, for the time
when she had a mother, a family—people who loved her.

It was why
she clung so hard to Isabelle. The Albian queen knew what it was to lose a
family. Bianca and Isabelle were friends, yes, but more than that, they
understood each other’s pain.

Isabelle was
all she had, anymore. And Bianca was desperately afraid the king was going to
kill her.

There was a
pounding on her door, and Bianca startled out of her thoughts. She dashed the
tears from her face and threw a heavy, high-collared robe over her flimsy shift
before going to the door and cracking it open.

“Master
Goodfellow?”

Robin
Goodfellow pushed his way into her chambers. It was hideously intrusive, but
Bianca knew from previous encounters that it would do no good to complain of
his behavior. He seemed oblivious to his own poor manners, and the king only
laughed when Bianca had asked for him to speak to Robin. Like it or not, the
huntsman was apparently allowed free access to her, night or day. It would have
worried her more, if he’d showed the least interest in her as a woman. As it
was, his rudeness was merely an irritating fact, not another terror.

“You need to
pack.”

“Excuse me?”
She stared at him, confused.

“The king
has given his permission for you to go hunting. We are leaving immediately. You
need to pack.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke. Instead he headed for her
writing desk and began rifling through the papers there until he found a blank
sheet and the ink pen. “The weather may change, so bring something warm.” He
scratched a few lines on the paper, and then handed it to her.

The king
means to have you killed. You need to flee.

Bianca
looked up, shocked. Robin looked at her intently, urgency written on his face.

“You need to
pack.”

***

Bianca just
stood there, staring at him. Robin ground his teeth in silent frustration. What
was wrong with the girl? She wasn’t moving, she wasn’t questioning him—she wasn’t
even crying! Her large dark eyes flicked back down to the paper in her hand,
and then up to his face. Finally, some hint of emotion escaped her. It looked
like… resignation.

“I can’t.”

“You cannot
pack?”

“I can’t go
hunting.” There was just the slightest hesitation before the last word, as
though she’d almost forgotten there might be listeners.

“Do not be
silly, girl. If the king wants game he shall have game.” Robin jabbed one
finger at the paper. “You have to go hunting.”

She shook
her head, sadly. “I can’t. Isabelle is injured. I have to keep caring for her,
as long as I…” She took a deep breath, then finished quietly. “As long as I
can.”

Robin
stepped closer to Bianca, leaning in so he could whisper in her ear. “You are a
fool, Bianca. You cannot help Isabelle.”

She closed
her eyes, and he saw tears gathering on her thick black lashes.

“It seems I
cannot help anyone. But I will not leave her alone, injured, and friendless. I
will not.” She opened her eyes, and he saw the stubbornness on her face.

“While you
stay, you are nothing but a pawn that can be used against her.”

He expected
to shock her, but she gave a bitter laugh. “I am used to being a pawn. Besides,”
she paused while she glanced down at the paper she held, “if you’re right, that
won’t be an issue for long.”

He gaped at
her, while she stepped back and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Master
Goodfellow, but the answer is no. I will not be going hunting.”

He spoke
through gritted teeth. “And I am sorry, my lady, but I will not take no for an
answer. You will meet me at the stables in an hour’s time, or I will carry you
there and tie you on the back of your horse.”

She stared
at him in silence, and then turned on her heel and left the rooms. Robin
watched in astonishment as the door closed behind her. He had just told her she
had an hour to be ready to leave, and she had gone off to roam the castle in
her night robe?

He turned
and reluctantly made his way to her wardrobe. He knew how to plan wars, advise
kings, and chart dynasties, but instead, he got to play maid for a girl who
didn’t even know enough to save her own life.

Why, in the
name of all the stars, had the Dame sent him here?