Her Christmas Knight. Nicole Locke
had felt the King was measuring her.
Maybe by her winning she had caught his eye. The Queen had been dead for years and he had yet to remarry. Was that why he had been assessing her? Did he wonder if she’d make a suitable mistress? Her heart lurched. It was an honour, but one that she had never hoped for; she certainly hadn’t wanted to win the game that much.
She searched the crowd for bright golden hair. But she didn’t need her eyes to know that Hugh was not in the room. Her awareness of that man was something she had carried most of her life.
There was no one for her to confide in. She had thought herself lucky that she had an entire week without her family prodding her to dance with men they thought suitable. But right now she would have appreciated a familiar face. What good was it to have a large family if none of them were around when she needed them?
The second song was ending. It was time for her to go. She was too frightened to look around—too worried that people would see where she was going and know what would happen to her.
The guards at the door seemed reluctant. They only stepped slightly out of her way, and opened the door the merest slit. She was forced to turn sideways to fit through. She certainly wasn’t an honoured guest.
Once inside, she heard the door shut with a heavy metal clank. Immediately, the crowd and music were muffled. It was too late for her to realise that she had taken comfort in the noise and people.
The room was lit by tall, narrow stained-glass windows. The natural light was calmer than the glitter and torches of the throne room. The sun had not set, which surprised her. It seemed that more time had passed since she had started the game.
The walls were finely decorated with red fleur-de-lis. Dark green velvet draperies hung from an elaborately carved four-poster bed. The huge fireplace was not lit, but shone brilliant white from many cleanings. On the far wall was a small round nook that was overpowered by a large golden cross.
King Edward sat in the middle of the room, next to a rectangular table that was laden with fine pewter and food.
There were no guards, no nobles nor courtiers vying for his attention. They were alone, and this was not an antechamber but his bedroom.
It was not these facts that gave her pause. It was the feeling of the room. Fine refreshments on the table, the King sitting and enjoying a repast, drinking wine... It was all so private, so...personal.
He turned his head to her. Bedroom or not, she was still before a monarch. She gave another curtsey.
‘Come, there will be no formality here.’ He waved for her to sit across from him at the table.
She did, her eyes never leaving his. His face remained unreadable, his eyes shadowed.
‘Would you like some refreshment?’ he asked, his eyes resting on the horn she had laid in her lap.
‘No, thank you,’ she replied, as deferentially as she could. She wouldn’t be able to get anything down her throat even if she tried. She was surprised she was able to speak.
‘You are nervous,’ he said.
She hesitated. ‘I am.’
King Edward sighed. ‘It cannot be helped. I wondered how you would fair, being of the softer sex.’
She was being judged. Had she disappointed him by being nervous? She had every reason to be uneasy—even to fear him. He was one of the greatest rulers in the world. But she realised that her nervousness stemmed from something more than simply knowing his power.
She was in a situation she couldn’t comprehend. Why would a king come back from war to play a game, and why she was in his private counsel, alone with him in his bedroom?
‘My fear is for what is expected of me, Your Majesty, not necessarily at your august company,’ she said.
He set down his goblet and raised surprised eyes to hers.
Her answer had gone too far. She had practically challenged a monarch.
‘I did not mean—’ she began.
King Edward gave a low chuckle and shook his head. ‘No, do not recant your answer. I am pleased with your honesty and I am relieved that you have no fear of me but of what is expected of you.’
‘I did not say that I did not fear your company—simply that I fear what I am doing here more.’
He leaned back in his chair, his creased brow softening. ‘Ah, it is good to know that you are wise. It would be remiss of me to say you should not have fear.’
She boldly strode on. ‘What is expected of me, sire?’
He reached for the flagon of wine between them and gave it a swirl. The wine’s floral scent filled the air as he poured. His actions allowed her to watch him without his too knowing eyes staring back at her. Although he would not remember, she had been presented to him at Court when she was very young. He had changed much since she had last seen him. The shadows under his eyes and the cynical way he held his body told his age more than the grey of his beard.
‘How did you escape my guards?’ He set down the flagon.
It took her a moment to realise he was talking about the game. ‘I waited in the dark until they were occupied by the other players, Your Majesty.’
‘Although I am not pleased that my guards should be so easily distracted, it is good that you show both intelligence and patience,’ he said. ‘You will need both.’
She didn’t reply. Being the last of three daughters, she had learned patience. The King was weighing his words and she was still waiting for an answer to her question.
‘Did you enjoy finding the seal?’ He grabbed a loaf of bread and tore it. The crumbs scattered across the table.
‘I did, thank you.’
He chewed slowly. ‘You hold your prize as if I will take it back,’ he said. ‘I promise that it is yours, but I do desire you to place it on the table so that I may enjoy it in these last moments.’
Her eyes fell to the horn still clasped in her hand. She placed it on the table.
He set down the bread and pointed at the horn. ‘You have not looked at it closely, have you?’
There had been little opportunity for her to inspect her prize. She shook her head, fearing she would offend him.
‘Did you not find it odd that the prize is a hunting horn?’
‘No, Your Majesty, it is a fine prize.’ She glanced at it, and noticed that numerous pictures had been carved into the thick silver bands.
He picked up the horn and turned it in his hands. ‘There are many tales told here.’ He touched the smallest band by the mouth of the horn. ‘This is the resolution of the story, although how it is resolved makes little sense in comparison to the tales told by the first two bands.’
‘And those tales, sire?’ she asked.
The King seemed in little hurry for their meeting to be over. And if he thought he was putting her at ease by talking about a decorative horn he could not be more wrong. She felt tighter than the silver bands.
He gave a slight shrug. ‘It tells of kings warring and lovers being torn apart. It is a typical story for troubadours.’
‘And what is shown in the resolution that does not make sense?’ she asked.
‘We only see the lovers joined again, their arms cradling a child between them.’
‘And this does not make sense?’
He set the horn down and reached for his wine. The liquid sloshed against the sides of the blue glass. In the light streaming from the stained-glass windows the dark red colour looked like blood.
‘We do not see what happens to the kings. I have to admit I am biased, but there should be some balance between