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Fourteen
“THE WINTER is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land.”
Song of Songs 2:11-12 NIV
Weeks passed, and winter bowed down to spring. Flowers bloomed where ice and snow once lay, and the warmth chased away the cold.
Standing on her balcony, Blanchette felt the warmth penetrate her as the sun’s golden fingers reached across the horizon. She surveyed her kingdom and inhaled the morning dew. Farmlands stretched out beneath her, a quilt of emerald and gold, where diligent hands worked the soil and coaxed life from the earth. The wood, once veiled in frosty stillness, now rustled with the awakening of spring.
Some peasants had gathered outside the guardhouse gate. She waved and smiled down at them. Moments later, she ordered the portcullis drawn, and she and Governess Agnes brought baskets overflowing with provisions and clothes—bread, fresh fruit, wheat, barley, and cloaks. They excitedly rummaged through the goods and blessed Blanchette.
And for once, she truly felt blessed.
She and Governess Agnes returned to her chamber, all smiles and nostalgic chatter. For the first time, Norland felt like a true kingdom, a united realm where brother protected brother and babies were born into the world without the fear of no warmth or food or shelter.
Blanchette sent bountiful wagons down to the village and port daily. The happiness she received from the soldier’s reports—particularly the ones about Jonathan and Petyr—was far more than a fleeting pleasure. That happiness brought a sense of fulfillment that went bone deep. This was her calling. Blanchette knew she could be no one or nowhere else. Whether you wished to call her princess, queen, or Lady Winslowe, her place was here, caring for her people.
Governess Agnes sat in the chair by the fire, humming under her breath while mending a soldier’s coat. On the table sat crushed herbs and half a dozen vials of medicine they’d just made that morning.
Blanchette thought of Jonathan again—kind, gracious, brave Jonathan and his poor family. Her spirits dampened. She turned to the window and shivered despite the warm air. She wondered how many nights his wife and their children had gone to sleep with empty stomachs. How many nights had they lain awake in silent agony, cursing Blanchette’s family… staring down the dirt road and to the jutting buttresses and interwoven towers with hatred in their hearts?
Blanchette visited the infirmary as she so often did, with the basket of vials in tow. Governess Agnes came with her, checking on the wounded men and applying salves to their injuries. She was glad to see the wounds were trivial. The pirate raids had halted, and Norland enjoyed a tentative peace for the first time in years.
Blanchette sat beside Governess Agnes and absently mixed a poultice of fresh herbs and wine as her thoughts wandered. She’d lost count of the stories the soldiers had told her about Rowan. They all seemed to love him dearly—to respect him—to feel safe and well guarded beneath his protection.
This morning, she treated a nasty cut on a boy’s knee. He’d toppled into the river while playing, earning him a deep and bright red laceration. As she cleaned the oozing blood and applied pressure, she listened to the child babble about his hero, the Black Wolf of Norland.
“There seems to be no end to the praise,” Governess Agnes had said to her.
The training yard was alive with the clashing swords and the buzz of arrows cutting through the crisp air. Blanchette stopped mid-stride as Rowan caught her gaze. He stood to the side while a young boy held his own against two men. Jonas, she remembered. He was vastly improving, and she spotted a new confidence in his eyes and movements.
“That’s enough for today. Well done, lad. You’re getting sharper—thinking like a true soldier now.” The young boy nodded with barely restrained pride on his face. Blanchette studied how Rowan’s voice gentled when he spoke to him and how his eyes softened when he delivered words that might otherwise wound. The boy looked at him with naked admiration on his bright face.
Rowan would make a good father.
A loving father.
That thought came without invitation and stunned her. She recalled the boy she’d treated just this morning—the admiration that shone from his young voice and eyes. She shook her head as if shaking his words away, then gathered the material of her skirts and hastened toward the stable.
She felt him beside her before she saw or heard him. He moves so quietly. Stalking about like a wolf, she imagined.
“Blanchette.” When his voice came, it hit her like a storm. Rowan tenderly clasped her arm. She stopped and realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out all at once; her skin tingled where his hand was touching her. There was a layer of material between their skin—but she felt him all the same. Strong fingers—long and skilled—held her arm in place. They sent little tremors running through her.
Fingers that have taken lives and saved lives.
What would those fingers do to her in the privacy of her chamber?
“I’ve needed to speak with you.” He still grasped her arm. She should pull away—he should know to let go—but they both stood, immobile, connected by that simple touch.
And something else.
Something she dared not think into existence. Something growing by the day.
“Well, you found me, sir.” You hunted me, she’d almost said. She gazed at Jonas. He was back at it with his sparring sword, doing his best to follow Rowan’s instruction. Blanchette scanned the bailey. She found Edrick outside the stable, instructing a group of soldiers. Their eyes briefly met, and Blanchette felt her anger and disgust simmer. Those feelings always sat just beneath the surface, ready to appear at the slightest provocation.
“Jonas is doing well,” she said, needing to distract herself from Edrick’s stare. Why must Rowan keep him so close? Why? “You should be proud.” And he was. She saw it in his hazel eyes as they softened at the sight of the redheaded boy advancing toward his opponent.
“He’s progressing.”
