A Royal Marriage. Rachelle McCalla
prince. Like a diver holding his breath for just a few minutes before coming up for air, Gisela felt the pressures of her impending marriage and the loss of freedom that would accompany it. This was an opportunity, however brief, for her to gasp a breath before going down again.
Her marriage was politically necessary and couldn’t be avoided. All too soon, she’d become the bride of a prince she’d met only twice before. She didn’t welcome her injury any more than she’d welcomed the Saracens’ attack on their ship. But she couldn’t be unhappy for the excuse it gave her to extend her freedom, if only by another day or two. Perhaps she could see a bit of Lydia—assuming she survived and retained her vision. She’d heard of the tiny Christian kingdom and always been curious about the place.
Rather than allow herself to be consumed by worry, she tried to find the good in the midst of her dire situation. King John was willing to help her and did not seem to be overly upset about being suddenly burdened. And they’d be leaving Hilda’s anxious fawning behind.
That alone would be worth the rigors of the journey.
“Are there any preparations you need to make before we leave? Do you have everything you need?” King John sounded as though he was ready to be off.
“I’ll need my sword.”
“Oh, my lady, no,” Hilda protested.
“We brought it with us from the ship.” Gisela turned back as though she might fetch it herself. “I never ride without it.”
“You should have no need of a sword.” King John’s voice sounded close, indicating he was nearby. “I’ll have mine.” A protective note sounded through his words.
“You mentioned possible trouble with the Illyrians. I won’t allow myself to knowingly enter a potentially dangerous situation without the means of protecting myself.”
“You can’t even see, Your Highness,” King John protested.
“Then stay back from me if I have to use it, Your Majesty.”
Thankfully, Boden spoke up in her defense. “She is quite skilled with the sword, King John. She saved our ship. Had she stayed below, as instructed, the Saracens would have taken us. As it was, she surprised them and tipped the battle back in our favor.”
As he spoke, Gisela felt the familiar weight of her sword belt pressed into her hands. She quickly linked the scabbard around her waist. “I’m ready. Shall we depart, Your Majesty?” Not only was she eager to begin the journey, but she feared she wouldn’t be able to stand upright much longer, and she didn’t want to do anything that might give away how very weak she felt. King John might realize she wasn’t up to the journey after all. He might change his mind.
She couldn’t risk that.
With a fair amount of shuffling and no shortage of exclamations from Hilda, Gisela was lifted onto the horse. She found they’d situated her in front of King John, who wrapped his arms around her to hold her steady while he guided his mount.
The gentleness of his touch surprised her. She could tell from his stature that he was of good size, possibly even as tall as her father, who stood taller than nearly every man in his empire. Yet King John’s arms wrapped around her as though she was some precious, delicate thing and he was afraid she might break.
His consideration penetrated her haze of fever, and she took note. Yes, she’d have to be certain her father compensated the king generously. “Hilda?” She pulled the lady in waiting to her side the moment the woman offered her hand. “Whatever happens,” Gisela whispered, “make sure my father knows that King John is to be rewarded for his efforts.”
“Oh, Your Highness.” Hilda started sobbing again, as though the very likelihood of Gisela not living to deliver the message herself was more than the servant could bear.
Gisela feared King John would notice the maid’s blubbering, but his attentions seemed to be on his men. The king gave instructions to those who’d be traveling with Hilda. As long as they kept to their intended path, they’d meet back up with Hilda’s party shortly after nightfall, and could stay together at the wayside inn he appointed as a rendezvous point.
Assuming everything went according to plan.
“And if you don’t arrive?” Hilda recovered from her crying enough to anxiously ask.
“Then wait.”
The prancing horse moved forward, and Gisela felt King John nudge the animal on.
“You have our prayers!” a voice called out from behind them, followed by a chorus of voices assuring them
of the same thing and giving their blessing on their journey.
Gisela tried to sit upright, but the motion of horse beneath her taxed her reserves of strength. The spinning sensation in her head had picked up considerably when they’d placed her on the horse, and instead of easing now that she sat, it grew steadily worse.
The sun felt hot on her face in spite of the veil that covered her. Or did the heat radiate from inside her? Whether it came from the sky or the wound on her forehead, the searing fire grew uncomfortably warm. She wished she could crawl away from it. But if it originated from her injury, there would be no crawling away, only increasing discomfort from this wilting heat that made her feel as though she was about to shrivel up and blow away with the slightest breeze.
An exhausted moan escaped her lips.
“Are you well?” King John’s voice held concern, though he did nothing to slow his horse.
“I’m as well—” she pinched back another moan and tried to straighten her back “—as the circumstances— Oh!” The horse beneath her lurched back as it leaped over something, and she found herself falling, against her will, back toward the king.
“Rest now. Rest as much as you can.” King John’s gloved hand brushed her shoulder, steadying her against his chest. “You can lean on me.”
“It doesn’t seem proper.” She realized her protest was simply an excuse. She’d shared horses dozens of times with members of her father’s household—relatives and servants alike. Rather, she didn’t like giving up any measure of her independence, including her ability to sit up on her own. And she’d heard the warm tone in Hilda’s voice when King John had addressed her. Gisela knew her maid well enough to recognize that Hilda had blushed at the king’s attention.
Why? Because he was royalty? No, Hilda regularly interacted with Gisela’s father and brothers without that note entering her voice. The maid only spoke with such resonance when she interacted with a man she found particularly handsome.
So, King John must be comely, then. If Gisela could have mustered the strength, she might have been curious to see him. In spite of his gentleness, the muscles that supported her felt strong. Gisela tried to recall if she’d ever heard anything about the distant Mediterranean ruler, but precious little news from Lydia traveled as far as her home in Aachen.
With no prior knowledge of him, without even the use of her eyes, Gisela couldn’t explain precisely why the man made her feel protected—cherished, even. Perhaps the sensation arose from the disorienting influence of her fever. She tried again to force her left eye open, hoping to get a glimpse of him. Her efforts were rewarded with a shot of pain that lanced through her with alarming speed and ferocity.
“Careful,” King John soothed, having obviously felt her fighting the pain. “You won’t make it unless you rest. It’s a long ride to the borderlands, and your condition will only be getting worse. Shall we turn back now and tell them it’s no use?”
The horse slowed slightly, as if anticipating instructions to reverse course.
Gisela relaxed backward and let herself droop into a slightly reclined position, resting more of her weight against him, comforted by the feel of his strong arms that held her so securely, yet at the same time, so tenderly. She exhaled a painful breath. The darkness over her eyes grew heavier, and the roar in