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Smoke isn’t here, she thought, observing his sudden vulnerability. And neither is the Black Wolf of Norland.
Just Rowan Dietrich stood before her. And she saw him plainly.
Blanchette wandered over to the window again. Daylight glimmered across Norland.
It very much held the appearance of a tapestry—the deep green of the wood, the glimmering blue ocean with ships that looked like mere toys at this distance, the town center, and the cluster of peasant homes and farms. Her gaze tracked back to her castle. She made out the elevated scaffold and its vibrant greenery in the corner of her view.
Blanchette brought her palms together as if in prayer.
I had seen the darkness. I’d seen the horrific reality poke and tear through the tapestry of my life—that carefully woven, intricate threading of court feasts and tourneys. Indeed, that horror had peeped through the threads.
She’d simply been blind to it.
She glanced at the scaffold and its finely kept green.
“Blanchette?” Rowan’s voice cut through the memories, jarring her like ice water to the face.
She exhaled, concentrating on the sensation of the chilly air leaving her lungs. “My father was generous to his allies and equally merciless to his enemies. I shall never forget… it was his most trusted adviser,” she said, her heart thundering like a caged bird. “He executed him for treason seven years ago now. He was one of many. I stood here, right in this very spot. Governess Agnes was beside me, clutching her cross to her heart. We watched as the traitor pleaded for mercy. He spoke eloquently, and even my father looked moved. Agnes and I held our breaths as my father signaled over the executioner with a movement of his ring finger. He whispered something in his ear.” Blanchette felt the tears sting her eyes. She gazed up at Rowan. “It took seven strikes to separate his head from his body. The first three came down on his back and shoulders. He was alive during all of it. I don’t think I slept through a night for years after. And I can still see it. I still hear those screams. And my father’s laughter. My father… God, he’d paid the executioner to make a botch of it.” She sank into her high-back chair.
Her gaze left Rowan’s handsome face as she searched out the window.
But for what?
“That was my father. Noble King Bartholomew. What does that make me?” Whether she was speaking to herself, Rowan, or some ghost, she could not say. The words had spilled out, unabated, like bile she could no longer keep down.
Rowan knelt before her as a subject might kneel before their queen. She watched him, her breath coming fast, while he removed his leather gloves with his teeth. He took both of her hands in one of his. She exhaled, then moved her fingers against his palm, familiarizing herself with the texture. Calluses and scars—hands that had saved lives and taken lives. She felt the strength surging through him, and she drew on it.
Rowan’s other hand lightly rested on her chin. He tilted her head back just an inch, and his eyes never left hers when he spoke. His irises were a warm hazel. There was a sadness in them too. One that echoed her own.
“I’ve known more kings and commanders than I could ever count. I have seen rulers rise and fall. I’ve seen what power can do to a man… to those who cannot handle such a burden and break beneath its weight. You, Blanchette Winslowe, are stronger than all of them. And what’s more, you have a good heart. A gentle heart. You were born to rule.”
He shifted closer until their bodies almost touched. His eyes tracked over her face as if committing every detail to memory. And perhaps he was.
And for a passing moment, Blanchette thought he was going to kiss her.
Am I relieved? Or disappointed?
Thirteen
Rowan sat at the head of the table—a long, ugly plank made of timber and marked with the sigil of House Winslowe. A map of Norland was also engraved in the well-aged wood.
It was a seat where kingdoms had been built and destroyed. How many kings had sat before this table? How many schemes were hatched and wars started here in this room?
He recalled his endless campaigns. Campaigns he’d run for a man he’d thought he’d believed in. For a man he thought he’d loved. Campaigns for a man who’d shattered his faith and rebuilt Rowan from the ashes.
I believe in Blanchette, he acknowledged.
Will she crush my faith once again?
Look at where such soft emotions have gotten you.
Look at the sorrow they’ve brought into your life and what they’ve stolen from you.
A soft heart is easier to cut…
Edrick, who always sat to Rowan's right, banged his hand on the table’s surface. His other adviser—Sir Royce—sat up a little straighter. Jonas was there, too, looking entirely out of his element. But he was learning fast and was much cleverer than he let on. Rowan would make a general or lieutenant out of him one day.
Rowan kept a lean council. He’d known too much betrayal to do otherwise.
