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She seized my arm brutally and yanked me around the corner into an open-aired courtyard garden, shoving me in front of her into the center, making me stumble out into the bright sunlight. And before me stood a tall, extremely pretty lady in her late thirties, who I immediately recognized from processions and chance glimpses.
From whom I immediately wanted to flee.
“Well, well, Lisette, what have you brought me? Is this what I think it is?”
“You—you’re the—you’re Queen Patara,” I stuttered, drawing back but finding my way blocked by Lisette.
“Yes. I’m Queen Patara. And you must be Randal’s little milkmaid. I can’t think why else Lisette would bring me a servant, I have plenty of my own.”
“Found her staring at him in the hall, your majesty. Recognized her from spying on them at the farm.”
“Did anyone see you take her?”
“Don’t think so. They were all too interested in their future king.”
The queen wrinkled her nose at that, like there was some bad smell. “He will never be king, that bastard. Betraying me like that. You know,” she said, meeting my eyes, “we used to be the best of friends. He even promised me the kingdom. And you are going to help me ensure he keeps that promise.”
“I don’t…” My mind raced. “I want to go…”
“Oh, we’re both going. We’ll have to be quick if we’re to stop Giles Aaron doing some coronation ceremony or other. You know, I just heard the king has died? My own husband, but I bet the news reached Giles first, the old spymaster.”
She turned, signaling guards that appeared out of the corners of the garden. One, a younger man with a slight limp, came up close to her, and I watched, stunned, as they kissed. Then she nodded to the others.
“Bring the bastard’s whore. And kill the servant girl, she’s outlived her usefulness.”
“What?” Lisette drew back. “Your majesty, no!”
The last I saw of Lisette was her back as she tried to turn and run, while I was dragged along behind the queen.
Chapter 19
Randal
The crowds had already gathered outside the castle by the time we arrived, fresh from the speech in the main hall. The ancient coronation stone of the kings of Aramoor stood on a terrace in front of the great square, and it was there that I would be made king. Giles had got the news about my father’s death before I finished my speech and looked frustrated when I spoke to him.
Apparently, my father should have held on for a few more hours and it was damned inconvenient, but we would make it work.
Such were Lord Aaron’s words.
I’d begged him to let me go check on Iris first, but he insisted that this would be a better guarantee of her safety. If we left it, and Patara got to the crowds first, she could turn people to her side and after that she’d be looking to rid herself of any challengers. She already had half the guards supporting her, and, according to Giles’s spies, had been having an affair with one of her personal bodyguards for at least a year.
That affair had furnished her with supporters that the man had persuaded to back her, and while Giles had run his own counterintelligence operation against her lover, he hadn’t had the heart to assassinate him. A step too far, he told me, when he could simply put me on the throne and defang her.
All around us hustled soldiers and servants. Behind us an entourage of royals who lived in the city, or near enough to make the journey in such a short time, had gathered. One of my father’s sisters was there, a cousin too—I didn’t even know them, had never met them. I didn’t know if they were aware of my existence before today or would have ever been allowed to come see me if they had.
“Your aunt is a good woman,” Giles said beside me. “As soon as I asked her, she came. Her support is invaluable for shoring up your claim to the throne. She and your father were not close, but in terms of threats to your power, she’s an important ally.”
I nodded, glancing around me. At least one threat to my power wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Patara and her own entourage were conspicuous by their absence, and I had to wonder if she was still plotting some last-minute attempt at a coup.
My father’s valet, or the man who had served him until his illness made that job merely ceremonial, came up behind us, holding a red velvet pillow. On it sat the crown, a mix of old and new, rough and fine, iron, gold and diamonds.
“Sir, if it’s not too much to say, I’m looking forward to serving you after today.”
“Thank you,” I replied, feeling awkward. Valets? Servants? I’d never needed such things, but I guessed for the proper running of a royal household I was somewhat obliged.
