Wren, surprised and amused alike, repressed the urge to laugh aloud. He satisfied himself with biting back a smile as he accepted the gift from his beloved.
Yet over Shrike’s shoulder, Wren saw the queen’s own smile turn from sunshine to ice. Her emerald-green eyes ignited with cold flame.
Shrike, still not deigning to glance back at her, laid his hand on Wren’s arm and made as if to guide him out of the bower.
“Stay, my lord,” the queen called out. “We would have a word with your gallaunt.”
Shrike froze. His expression remained unreadable as he faced his queen. His hand clenched to a fist around Wren’s arm.
“Come forth, Lofthouse,” the queen continued. “And kneel before us.”
Wren’s heart ceased beating. His eyes darted to meet Shrike’s, seeking explanation, advice, a sign.
Shrike’s dark gaze locked on his own. For an instant, Wren beheld fury tinged with fear. Then, like a bright-blazing ember flying from a bonfire, no sooner had it arose than it went out. A stoic tide washed over any emotion as Shrike flicked his gaze to the throne.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said in a low burr which begged no such thing. “We must away.”
The queen narrowed her eyes. Her lips parted for speech.
“No, it’s all right,” Wren hastened to interrupt. “We can stay a moment longer.”
Better, he thought, to face whatever wrath she held for them both now than to risk the increase of her ire with disobedience.
Shrike fixed him with a penetrating look. For a moment Wren feared he would prove stubborn. Then he nodded and withdrew his hand from Wren’s arm.
Wren returned his gaze to the queen, bowed his head, and sank to one knee before her.
The queen withdrew her sword from its sheath with a scrape that sent a shudder down his spine.
“Kneel, Lofthouse,” she intoned as she laid her sword on his left shoulder.
Wren, already kneeling, remained motionless. His mind raced. Perhaps the queen would grant him youth and beauty beyond all mortal expectation. Perhaps she would make him a knight in her court. Perhaps she would name him her amanuensis and his art would find its staging in her woodlands, far out of the reach of England’s Lord Chamberlain.
“And arise,” said the queen, shifting her sword to Wren’s right shoulder, “our King of the Holly.”
~
Summer
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“No!” Shrike shouted.
A roar of approval rose from the throng in the same instant, swallowing his voice.
Wren’s head shot up. He whirled, and his bewildered gaze locked with Shrike’s own.
The queen sheathed her sword. She took great pleasure in wreaking her vengeance upon Shrike, judging by the elegant moue of her smile.
Shrike did not waste another moment on her. He leapt to Wren’s side, seizing his arm as he arose.
“We’re leaving,” Shrike told him.
Wren didn’t argue.
The cheers had become a wild rejoicing. Courtiers flocked ‘round their queen, creating a writhing wall of bodies between Shrike and Wren and the spiralling staircase down from the queen’s bower.
Shrike grappled a lady-in-waiting by the shoulder and shoved her aside. Then he snatched up a page by the throat and flung them out of his path.
