AllFreeNovel
Share Us
This was Spring. He was the infamous jester.
I knew what these intimate items were.
Promptly, I swerved from the wardrobe and retreated toward the bedroom. Heat sluiced across my face. I could not say whether it stemmed from modesty or repentance.
Likely both. I had no right to impose myself on his personal space like this.
While returning to the bedroom, my eyes stumbled across the tasseled window draperies—and landed on his bed. The elaborate furnishing stood on a central dais, the mattress outfitted in a deep green coverlet and a coordinating mountain of pillows, every element accented in black and gold.
The sight drew me near, my pulse leaping with each invasive step. I had anticipated ruby brocade, fringed curtains, four phallic-looking columns, and a nude self-portrait above the headboard. To the contrary, the only detail that fulfilled my expectations was the dark silk robe. It lay slung across the mattress, the cuffs embroidered with feathers.
I caught my lips quirking and promptly flattened them out.
Although the bed had been made, the sheets were slightly mussed, as if he’d had company last night.
Which men and women have had that privilege? And how often?
I imagined the jester there, naked and hunched over his latest conquest, his body driving into theirs. For some unfathomable reason, the image set my teeth on edge.
Then I thought of Poet sleeping alone, his bare chest exposed, a stack of muscles contorting as he breathed, and his arm flopped above his head. If he rested on his back, the sheets might hang low to reveal the slopes of his hips and the base of his …
Seasons forgive me. I sucked in a gust of air, shoved my fingers into my pouch, and snatched the ribbon. If the jester meant to target me, I would target him back. I leaned forward, intending to place the scarlet band strategically on the pillows.
The door latch clicked. I lurched upright, then froze as the partition shuddered. Terror and a strange thrill surged through my veins. I bounded off the dais, dashed behind a changing screen, and crouched low.
Footsteps glided into the bedchamber. The jester may live loudly, but he moved quietly.
Gulping, I peeked through a slit in the screen. Poet’s profile appeared, his body clad in a long, hooded cloak, along with a plain shirt and hose. No artwork or makeup enhanced his features. At least, none that I could tell, other than kohl lining his eyes and those fingernails enameled to match.
He took three steps, his boots thumping the floor. Then he stopped as if registering something.
Shadows etched his face. Those green eyes ticked in awareness, then slid across the room.
I shrank back and held my breath. Several palpitations later, Poet’s shoulders unlocked, and he strode toward the wardrobe.
Moments later, he returned while slipping his hands into a pair of suede gloves and driving a flashing object into the scabbard of his belt. I struggled to identify the item, then regretted as much when I succeeded, alarm and confusion tightening in my gut.
The jester thrust the cloak’s hood over his head and stalked from the room.
I lurched to my feet. The ribbon could wait.
I tracked the dark figure as he rounded corners and descended stairways, the hem of his mantle whipping around his legs. Once, twice, the jester angled his head to check the perimeter.
Each time, I leaped out of sight. He strode ahead, opting for vacant passages that cut into the castle like back alleys, unfrequented and unmanned.
Eventually, Poet nudged a stone beneath a windowsill, which prompted the neighboring wall to split. My face cinched. In addition to the secret arteries attached to the Royals’ rooms, this fortress had a chain of disguised corridors that would direct people out of the citadel during an invasion. The same held true in every Season, however detailed knowledge of these outlets was restricted to soldiers and the courts’ highest-ranking members.
Poet slipped through the crack and dissolved into a tunnel. I darted after him. The shaft was a pupil devoid of light, forcing me to run my hand along the damp walls while tracking his gait.
At the end, slivers of moonlight crept into the conduit and illuminated Poet’s outline. He paused outside a barred gate and slid a key into the bolt. The iron groaned open and swung into an herb garden choked with rosemary.
Poet prowled ahead. I counted to ten before exiting and bolting after him across the shrubs.
Through another gate, I emerged into the lower town and ducked behind the gaping door of a public stable. Horses snorted, and the scents of barley and dung slithered up my nostrils. Poet guided one of the stallions to the exit and spoke calmly to it.
Balancing his weight on the stirrup, the jester swung his leg over the horse’s obsidian back, then urged it into a moderate gait.
The Crown trusted him. The Season courts lived in peace, but that did not guarantee an eternity of it. We each had our anarchists and murderers. Humans could be bitter or greedy, overcome by grievances or power lust.
