Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (4 page)

Bathsby pondered for a moment. “I can’t remember his name just now. He’s one of Whitmore’s close friends, an arrogant and cruel man, if you don’t mind me speaking plainly.”

They pulled their horses to a stop. The royal carriage was just up ahead, though it was too dark to see it clearly.

“Reginald, I think his name is,” said Bathsby. “Sir Reginald.”

“We should stop,” said Maklavir, putting down his cards with a sigh. “It’s getting too dark to see anymore.”

“Just one more hand,” begged Serentha, examining her cards carefully by the light of the lamp in the carriage compartment. “I’m doing too well to stop now.”

“I
know
you’re doing well,” Maklavir responded with a chuckle. “Too well, I’d say. You don’t want all your luck to run out in one day.”

“Oh, Maklavir,” she chided, “you’re so negative. All right, no more for now. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

“Your Highness is too kind,” Maklavir said with a smile. “I beginning to think I never should have taught you this game. It’s hardly fitting for a lady.”

“Please, Maklavir,” she responded with a short laugh, “I can’t believe how much fun I was missing. I never—”

Something outside caught her attention. She reached over, opened the door and jumped outside.

Maklavir looked over quickly to see a rider dismounting from his horse.

“Lord Whitmore!” Serentha cried as she stepped onto the ground.

The man removed his foot from the stirrup and whipped off his hat. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing low and taking her hand. He kissed it, sweeping his hat to the side. “I am relieved to see you are safe.”

Serentha smiled gratefully, turning back towards the carriage. “Allow me to introduce you to my good friend, Maklavir.”

Maklavir stepped down from the coach and gave a courteous bow. “Lately of the service of King Luxium of Valmingaard. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“I am Lord Whitmore,” the young man said. He gave Serentha a side-glance. “I was hoping to talk to Her Highness alone for a moment.”

Maklavir straightened. “But of course. I think I will go and see if I can find something to eat. I’m positively famished. Good evening, Your Highness.” He lifted his cap in farewell, then set off down the line of rising tents, whistling softly to himself.

Whitmore watched him go with a curious glance. “You met him recently?”

Serentha watched after the man as well, a smile on her face. “Just a week ago or so. He has risked his life for me countless times since then.”

“I see. The measure of a man is always in his actions, I say.” His face changed suddenly. “Are you hurt?”

Serentha stared at him in confusion a moment, then lightly touched her head, laughing. “I had almost forgotten. No, I’m fine. It’s practically healed now.”

“That’s good,” Whitmore replied. He glanced out over the bustling camp. “Would you care to go for a walk? I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

“Certainly,” said Serentha. “My legs could use a stretch after riding all day in the carriage.”

They walked together through the pale white tents. Around them soldiers were beginning to settle in for the night, cooking their meals, drinking some rum, and playing dice around the fire. Laughter and raised voices spilled throughout the maze of tents. High above them the stars were strung in a dazzling display across the heavens.

As they walked a little ways away from the tents into the open field, Whitmore cleared his throat.

“As I said, Your Highness, there is something of importance I wish to speak to you about.”

Serentha took her eyes off the stars above. “Yes, Lord Whitmore?”

“Your know your father is very ill. I wish it were not so, but it is.”

Her face paled slightly. “Yes, I know.”

Whitmore looked up at her. “I will be blunt, Your Highness. I intend to formally ask your father for your hand in marriage. I do it not for myself, you understand,” he added quickly. “I believe it is best for Llewyllan. I have spoken to the king already, and he is of a similar mind.”

She stared at him, shocked into silence. Over the clear night air came the sound of some soldiers singing a drinking song. It was badly out of tune.

Whitmore turned, his eyes searching back towards the ghostly white shapes of the tents. “I am sorry to burden you with this, especially now after everything you’ve been through. But your father grows more ill day by day.” He looked back over at her, his eyes reflecting the light of the rising moon. “Our time grows short, Serentha. I would have formally asked your father already, but I wanted to talk to you first.” He smiled apologetically. “I was going to ask you when you came back from Merewith. Obviously that didn’t turn out quite as any of us planned.”

Serentha tried to speak, but suddenly found her voice gone. She tried to swallow, her mouth dry.

Whitmore’s face grew worried. “This cannot be a surprise,” he said. “You must have known…I mean—”

She looked away quickly, finding her voice. “I’m sorry, Lord Whitmore. No, of course this isn’t a surprise. I’m just—” she paused, feeling an aching feeling inside her chest.

“I understand,” said Whitworth. “And I apologize. It was foolish of me to put this kind of stress on you. I can only imagine what ordeals you have been through in the last few days.” He took his hat in his hands. “We will not be back in Balneth until tomorrow night. Please think this over as long as you wish. I won’t speak to your father again before then.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the wind on her face and the rustle of grass against her dress. “I will, Lord Whitmore. Thank you.”

The nobleman turned the hat awkwardly in his hands. “Think carefully, Serentha,” he said softly. “If your father dies without an heir apparent, there may be several people who might…” he paused uncertainly, “might push claims to the throne. It could lead to a civil war.”

Serentha didn’t open her eyes. “I know.”

Whitmore put his hat back on. “I’m sorry, Serentha. I truly am. All I ask is that you consider my suggestion.”

He waited for a moment or two, then turned, walking back across the grass to the tents.

Serentha remained standing on the dark field, her eyes closed and her hair wafting in the wind.

The guards snapped to attention as Sir Reginald rode up, his eyes on the prisoners between the wagons. The bandits were seated on the ground on the outskirts of the camp, watched over carefully by at least half a dozen soldiers. The guards had eaten first, then had warily untied the prisoners, allowing them some stale bread and cheese for dinner. The thieves were still eating as Reginald looked over them.

“Sir?” said the nearest soldier with a salute.

The nobleman gestured to the bandits with a flick of his horse’s reigns. “This is all of them?”

“Yes, sir.” The soldier gave a smug grin. “We killed the rest.”

Reginald looked over the faces of each of the men very carefully, then visibly relaxed. “Very good, very good.”

His eyes fell on Kara, who was staring up at him defiantly.

The soldier followed Reginald’s gaze. “She’s a handful, she is,” he said in a low voice.

“Is she, now?” Sir Reginald chuckled. “Imagine finding such a beautiful rose amongst such rank weeds. This certainly bears looking into. Bring her here, sergeant.”

The soldier started. “Beg pardon, sir?”

The nobleman gave an impatient wave of his hand. “Bring her
here
. I would have a closer look at so lovely a thief.”

The guard gave Sir Reginald a doubtful look, but nevertheless moved over to Kara, then hauled the young woman to her feet and pushed her forward.

Torin straightened himself in the grass and watched with glowering eyes.

Kara stumbled before Sir Reginald, who was still seated on his horse. The guard stood behind her, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

The nobleman looked her up and down. “What is your name, lass?”

She glared up at him, but said nothing.

“Come now,” chuckled the nobleman, “you aren’t mute, are you?”

Kara looked down. “Kara.”

“There,” said Sir Reginald lightly, “that’s better. Are you hungry?”

“The prisoners have already been fed, sir,” the sergeant voiced.

Reginald gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Stale bread and moldy cheese? Please, sergeant, such fare is hardly appropriate for such a beautiful woman.” He looked down at Kara. “Perhaps I could find something better for you, Ms. Kara.”

The young woman smiled. “Please, just Kara. And yes, I would like something to eat.”

Joseph walked out from between two tents, his large bag of herbs and salves slung over one shoulder. He glanced up quickly as he noticed Reginald and Kara.

“Perhaps you might accompany me back to my tent,” Sir Reginald continued. “I hate to think of such a lovely a young woman as yourself sleeping out in the open like this.”

“
Sir
,” the sergeant said in a warning tone, “perhaps it would be better to keep all the prisoners together.”

“Oh, I hardly think this young lady will be too much for me to handle,” said Reginald with a laugh. He held out a hand to Kara with a disarming smile. “Well, my dear, will you come with me?”

Joseph set his bag down and watched the scene before him with a calm gaze.

Kara looked away shyly. “I don’t know, my liege. After all, I barely know you—”

“Oh, tut-tut,” replied the nobleman. “I assure you that I am a perfect gentleman. Now what say you?”

Kara looked up again, then gave an embarrassed smile. “Well, in that case, perhaps it would be all right.”

Sir Reginald smiled warmly. “Of course it would, lass.” He extended his hand again. “Now take my hand and we’ll ride back together.”

The young woman looked up at the man with soulful eyes. She reached up for his hand.

And then, with one hard yank, she pulled him off his horse.

Startled, Sir Reginald struggled to rise, his horse already pulling away in confusion.

In the blink of an eye Kara snatched a dagger from the nobleman’s belt, then leapt behind him and thrust the edge of the blade to his throat.

The guards drew their swords, surrounding the girl instantly.

Joseph’s rapier was immediately in his hand as well.

Sir Reginald choked and sputtered as Kara pressed the steel into his neck.

“I’ll cut his throat if anyone moves,” she snarled.

Reginald’s eyes grew wild with fear. His hands clutched at Kara’s arm.

 Joseph took a step forward. “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “You won’t get out of here like that.”

She gave a half smile. “We’ll see.” She looked over at the sergeant. “Let my friends go. Now.”

Torin leapt to his feet, causing one of the guards to nervously point a crossbow at him. He glanced over at the soldier, then back at his sister. “Kara--”

She didn’t look over at him, but kept her eyes focused on the sergeant in front of her. “Let them go
now
,” she said again, “or I swear by Eru I’ll cut his throat!”

Sir Reginald gave a sharp cry as the blade cut into his neck, bringing a trace of blood. “Do it! Do it!” he shouted, his voice panicked. “Do whatever she says!”

Kara twisted slightly, and glanced to her left. “You have three seconds,” she said. “One—”

There was a whistling noise in the air, and suddenly something hard struck Kara’s hand that held the knife.

She gave a cry of pain, then dropped the dagger and fell back.

Sir Reginald lurched forward, gasping for breath. He clutched at his throat.

Kara turned to run, and lunged for the horse’s bridle, but a guard was already there, his rapier held at her throat. In moments a soldier grabbed her by each arm, pinning them behind her back and turning her around. She struggled violently, kicking and twisting in their grip.

Reginald got slowly to his feet, his hands shaking.

Joseph walked up silently, retrieved his throwing dagger from off the ground and stuck it back into the top of his boot.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked the sergeant.

The nobleman didn’t respond. He rubbed his throat and stared angrily at Kara.

She glared back at him, still held tight by the guards.

“So you have some fire in you, do you, lass?” Reginald said in a cold voice. “We will have to see to that.” He glanced behind him at Torin, who was watching them intently.

“Her brother,” the sergeant offered, answering Reginald’s unspoken question.

“Ah,” said Reginald. “I see.” He looked over at Kara. “Perhaps we can teach you to be more respectful.”

The nobleman reached for his horse’s saddle, and pulled out a wheelock pistol. He turned and fired.

The bullet struck Torin directly in his chest. He toppled backwards.

Kara screamed, then broke free of the hold of her startled guards and ran to her brother.

 Joseph took a step forward, his eyes wide.

“Torin!” Kara cried, throwing herself onto his fallen form.

The bandit leader choked for a brief moment, as if trying to breathe. His eyes closed, and he went limp.

“Torin!” Kara buried her face in his bloodstained shirt, weeping uncontrollably.

Several men from the campsite came running up, their weapons out and ready.

Joseph looked over at Reginald with a livid glare. “You killed that man in cold blood.”

Reginald replaced his smoking pistol unconcernedly. “He was going to die anyway,” he said diffidently. “Perhaps this way his sister will learn a valuable lesson in respect.”

Joseph stared at the man.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Bathsby, pushing his way through the growing circle of onlookers. “What happened?”

“One of the prisoners attempted to escape,” replied Sir Reginald easily. He mounted his horse, rubbing his throat again. “It’s nothing of consequence.” He shot Joseph a challenging glare.

Bathsby looked up at the man skeptically, then over at Kara, who was still sobbing over her brother’s fallen form. “All right,” he said in a steely voice, “everyone back to their tents. Move!”

The crowd started to slowly dissipate.

With a last parting glare at Kara, Sir Reginald rode off, his horse winding its way through the tents.