“But you didn’t even look at it,” Anne protested, glancing at the chain mail that lay draped on the floor.
“I will in the morning,” he said, regarding her with a playful smile. “Or perhaps not. Who knows? I may not put it on. I may not put it on tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Perhaps I shall take the armor and toss it off the edge of Ulyndia. We stand on the brink of peace, my dearest wife. My queen.”
Reaching out his hand, he loosened her long coil of hair, fluffed it to fall around her shoulders. “What would you say to a world where no man or woman would ever again wear the accoutrements of war?”
“I would not believe it,” she said, shaking her head with a sigh. “Ah, my husband, we are a long way from such a world, even now. Agah’ran may be weakened, desperate, as Rees’ahn assures us. But the elven emperor is cunning and surrounded by loyal fanatics. The battle against the Tribus empire will be long and bloody. And the factions among our own people—”
“Nay, not tonight!” Stephen stopped her words with his lips. “Not tonight. Tonight we will speak only of peace, of a world we may not live to see, but one which we will bequeath our daughter.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” said Anne, resting her head on her husband’s broad chest. “She will not be forced to wear chain mail under her wedding dress.” Stephen threw back his head and laughed. “What a shock! I will never get over it. I embraced my bride and thought I was hugging one of my own sergeants! How long was it before you left off sleeping with a dagger beneath your pillow?”
“About as long as you had a taster sample any food I cooked before you ate it,” Anne said briskly.
“Our lovemaking had a strange excitement. I was never quite certain I’d live through it.”
“Do you know when I first knew I loved you?” Anne said, suddenly serious. “It was the morning our baby, our little boy, disappeared. We woke to find the changeling in his place.”
“Hush, don’t speak of such things,” said Stephen, holding his wife fast. “No words of ill omen. All that is past, gone.”
“No, it isn’t. We’ve heard no word...”
“How can we expect to? From elven lands? To ease your mind, I will have Trian make discreet inquiries.”
“Yes, please.” Anne looked relieved. “And now, Your Majesty, if you will let loose of me, I will brew mulled wine, to keep off the chill.”
“Forget the wine,” Stephen murmured, nuzzling her neck. “We will relive our wedding night.”
“With the soldiers standing right outside?” Anne was scandalized.
“That didn’t bother us then, my dear.”
“Nor did the fact that you brought the tent down on top of us and my uncle thought you’d murdered me and nearly ran you through with his sword before I stopped him. We’re a staid old married couple now. Have your wine and go to bed.”
Stephen, laughing, let her go, watched her fondly as she stirred the spices into the warm wine. He came over, sat beside her, lifted a lock of her long hair and kissed it.
“I wager I could still bring the tent down,” he said, teasing.
“I know you could,” she replied, handing him his wine, looking at him with a smile.
41
“Halt!” Cried the King’s Own, bringing their spears up, holding them in front of two muffled and heavily cloaked strangers—one tall and one short—who had approached too near the ring of steel that surrounded Their Majesties. “Turn aside. You have no business here.”
“Yes, I do,” a shrill voice cried. Bane dragged off the hood that covered his head, stepped into the light of the sentry fires. “Captain Miklovich! It’s me! The prince. I’ve come back! Don’t you recognize me?”
The child poked his head beneath the crossed spears. The captain, at the sound of the voice, turned in frowning astonishment. Both he and the sergeant peered into the night. The firelight reflected off steel swords, spear points, and polished armor, cast strange shadows that made it difficult to see. Two guards started to lay their hands on the squirming child, but—at Bane’s words—they hesitated, looked at each other, then glanced back over their shoulders at their captain.
Miklovich came forward, his expression hard and disbelieving. “I don’t know what your game is, urchin, but you...” The rest of the words vanished in a whistling breath of astonishment.
“I’ll be damned,” the captain said, studying the child intently. “Could it—? Come closer, boy. Let me get a look at you in the light. Guards, let him pass.”
Bane caught hold of Hugh’s hand, started to drag the man along with him. The guards brought their spears up, blocking the way. No one was watching the dog, who slipped between the soldiers’ legs, stood watching everyone with tongue-lolling interest.
“This man saved my life!” Bane cried. “He found me. I was lost, near starving to death. He took care of me, even though he didn’t believe I was really the prince.”
“Is it true, Your Worship?” asked Hugh, with the groveling manner and the thick accent of some uneducated peasant. “Forgive me if I did not believe him. I thought he was mad. The village wisewoman said the only way to cure the madness was to bring him here and make him see—”
“But I’m not mad! I am the prince!” Bane glittered with excitement, with beauty and charm. The golden curls glistened, the blue eyes sparkled. The lost child had returned home. “Tell him, Captain Miklovich. Tell him who I am. I promised I’d reward him. He’s been very kind to me.”
“By the ancestors!” the captain breathed, staring at Bane. “It is His Highness!”
“It is?” Hugh gaped in befuddled wonder. Snatching off his cap, he began to twist it in his hands, all the while edging his way inside the steel ring. “I didn’t know, Your Worship. Forgive me. I truly thought the boy was mad.”
“Forgive you!” the captain repeated, grinning. “You’ve just made your fortune. You’ll be the richest peasant in Volkaran.”
“What is going on out there?” King Stephen’s voice sounded from inside the tent. “An alarm?”
“A joyous one, Your Majesty!” the captain called. “Come and see!” The King’s Own turned to watch the reunion. They were relaxed, grinning, hands slack on their weapons. Bane had followed Hugh’s instructions perfectly, pulled the assassin in with him. Now the child let go of Hugh’s sword arm, skipped nimbly to one side, out of the assassin’s way. No one was watching the “peasant.” All eyes were on the golden-haired prince and on the tent flap. They could hear Stephen and Anne inside, moving hastily toward the entrance. Parents and child would soon be reunited.
The captain walked a little ahead of Hugh—to the assassin’s right—a step or two behind Bane, who was dancing toward the tent. The dog trotted along after, unnoticed in the excitement.
The sergeant opened the tent flap wide, began tying it back. He was on Hugh’s left.
Excellent, Hugh thought. His hand, beneath the cover of his cloak and loose-fitting peddler’s rags, was stealing to his belt, fingers closing around the hilt of a short sword—a poor choice of weapon for an assassin. The wide flat blade would catch the light.
Stephen appeared in the entrance, his eyes blinking, trying to adjust to the glow of the sentry fires. Behind him, clutching her robes around her, Anne stared out over his shoulder.
“What is it—?”
Bane dashed forward, flung out his arms. “Mother! Father!” he cried with a joyous yell.
Stephen paled, a look of horror crossed his face. He staggered backward. Bane behaved flawlessly. At this point, he was to turn, reach out for Hugh, draw the assassin forward. Then the child was to fling himself out of the way of the Hand’s killing stroke. This was how they had rehearsed it. But Hugh muffed his part.
He was going to die. His life was measured in two, maybe three breaths. At least death would come swiftly this time. A sword through his throat or chest. The guards would not take chances with a man about to murder their king.