Chapter 9
Sometimes I wonder if Aileen might truly be a gift from above.
Since her return, the weather has improved daily, and spring seems to have found its way back to Acheron.
Charles left a couple of weeks ago, riding north to quell the Saxon unrest. There had been reports of Saxon soldiers burning grain to protest the King’s taxes and the desecration of churches in Saxon villages.
He didn’t want to leave me and delayed his departure for as long as he could.
He even sent the King’s guard under Sir Malcolm’s command to deal with the rebels, but it had become painfully clear that this would not be solved without him present.
We briefly debated whether I should go with him, but decided against it.
The road up north is not safe, and with the rebels’ sole focus on harming the King, it would have been foolish to take me along.
At first, I wasn’t sure I was going to get through the weeks without him. I missed him terribly, after all, for the past few months we had spent every night in each other’s arms. But as the sunshine returned, so did the lightness in my heart.
Letters from Charles arrived nearly weekly. Aileen joked that the King’s messengers will have to retire after his campaign, because they are constantly on the go, traveling back and forth between us, exchanging letters like youngsters in love.
The letter I received yesterday now lies on the bed next to me. I have read it a hundred times already.
My dearest Fastrada,
I find that no distance, however great, has taught my thoughts to behave.
They wander constantly back to you, unbidden and unashamed.
I adore you—there is no softer way to say it, nor any truer.
I miss you in the quiet moments most of all: when the fire burns low, when the wind howls like an old grief, when I reach for words and wish instead for your hand.
The North is as harsh as can be. The days are iron-gray, the nights cold.
Even the people are shaped by it—hard-edged, slow to trust, but not without a certain honesty I admire.
I have eaten more salted meats than I ever thought a man could endure, thick stews heavy with root vegetables, bread so dense it could anchor a ship.
Once, I was given a smoked fish so pungent it lingered in my cloak for days.
I was thinking of how you would have raised an eyebrow and teased me mercilessly for it.
I would give much to hear that teasing now.
Life here is not easy. Every comfort must be earned, every warmth protected. There are moments when the weight of command presses hard on my chest, when I long for the ease of your counsel and the calm of your presence. You have always grounded me more than you know.
Keep an eye on my court for me. Listen more than you speak.
Watch who gathers in shadows, who flatters too easily, who grows too quiet at the wrong moments.
Be my eyes and my ears, my Queen, as you have always been my clarity.
I know there is no one better suited to the task, nor anyone I trust more fully.
Take care of yourself, my heart. Do not let the days grow dull or lonely. Know that in every cold dawn and every long march, I carry the thought of you with me.
Until I return to you,
Yours, always,
Charles
I smile to myself and stare at the ring Charles gave me.
I twist it on my finger, watching the light catch in the brilliant-red stone.
It seems like a lifetime ago that I was sitting on that settee with my mother, examining the ring for the very first time.
Longing slams into me at the thought of her.
I haven’t seen her since the wedding, and her letters have been rare.
She is busy getting my siblings ready for the marriage market, and correspondence takes weeks to cross the kingdom.
I have not heard from my father either, which is even more concerning.
Has he given up on me?
I finish folding Charles’s letter with care, and place it back into its ribboned bundle tucking it under my pillow.
Aileen knocks softly before entering. “They’ve arrived,” she says. “The clergy.”
I nod, smooth my sleeves, and rise.
Charles and I agreed to this before he left: I will attend the meetings, but I will not belong to them. I am to sit slightly apart. Observe. Listen. Write. Speak only if necessary. At the time, it felt like a kindness, a senseless task to keep me busy.
Now I understand it for what it is.
Being a witness is not passive, it never is.
The council chamber smells faintly of incense today, a courtesy extended to our guests.
Three bishops sit near the head of the table, their robes pristine, their hands folded with practiced devotion.
One of them is the bishop who married Charles and me.
Behind them stand lesser clergy. I recognize the priests and abbots by their attire.
I take my seat off to the side, parchment on my lap, quill poised. I note who stands close together. Who avoids one another’s gaze. Who looks to whom before speaking.
The court is not chaos. It is a pattern.
The Bishop of Tours speaks first. His voice is steady, but there is strain beneath it. “We thank Her Majesty for receiving us in his absence,” he says, inclining his head toward the court master. “But our concerns grow more urgent.”
Lord Westfall responds, calm and practiced, “The King is fully aware of the Saxon unrest. He has committed men, supplies, and his personal attention to securing the northern territories.”
The bishop’s fingers tighten.
“Priests have been murdered,” he says quietly. “Churches burned. Sacred ground defiled. These are not rumors.”
A murmur moves through the room like a held breath released.
Another cleric speaks—young, pale, earnest. “The Holy Father has begun to ask questions. About influence. About whether His Majesty’s authority reaches far enough to protect the faithful.”
My quill hesitates for a fraction of a second, then continues. I do not look up, but I feel the room change. This is not merely concern. This is doubt, and doubt is dangerous.
“The King’s authority has never been in question,” Lord Westfall says sharply.
“No,” the bishop replies, gentle but unyielding. “But authority must be seen to act.”
The court master shifts.
Aynhard would have stopped him with a glance. But he has gone with Charles, and the result is immediate: Tempers are less contained in his absence, and in this instance, the bishop’s words sound almost insolent.
The court master rises slowly. His hands press flat against the table before he lifts his head. When he speaks, his voice is controlled, but only just.
“You speak of doubt,” he says. “I speak of destiny. His Majesty was chosen by God Himself. To unite these lands. To spread the true faith.”
I look up.
“If priests have fallen,” he continues, turning slightly toward the clergy, “it is because the enemy is desperate. The devil whispers lies into heathen ears when his grip begins to fail.”
Several priests cross themselves.
“The King will prevail,” the court master says. “He always has. To question that is to question the will of God.”
Silence settles over the chamber.
The bishop of Tours inclines his head at last. “We pray that you are right,” he says. “For all our sakes.”
I write that down too.
When the audience ends, and the clergy departs, I remain seated longer than necessary. I read my notes again—not only the words, but the pauses. The fear. The anger. Who looked relieved. Who looked unconvinced.
For the first time, I have information Charles can use.
I rise and move to the window.
Late spring has softened the world beyond the glass. Courtyard flowers bloom in careless abundance. Windows stand open. Somewhere above the rooftops, birds cry out.
I rest my hand against the cool stone.
Charles is good.
Charles is just.
Charles loves me.
These things are true.
And yet…I shake myself free of those thoughts, nothing good will come of me getting into my own head again. And today, I actually have plans.
* * *
They call it Greenwake—the day the town celebrates the return of spring.
Aileen insists it would be improper for me to leave the palace, especially without protection.
I insist it is spring, and that I will suffocate if I remain behind stone walls another hour longer.
We argue quietly, then compromise: two guards, instructed not to look as though they belong to the palace.
It is the sort of arrangement that satisfies no one and only delights the devil.
One of the guards is Rowan.
Aileen presents him with careful neutrality, as though I might not already recognize the red hair, the easy confidence with which he stands. He is accompanied by another guard I do not know, quieter and more watchful.
“Rowan knows the city well,” Aileen says. “He’ll guide us.”
The moment my boots touch the cobblestones beyond the outer gate, something in me loosens. I hadn’t noticed how tightly I’d been holding myself.
The town is already awake, already loud. Banners of green and pale yellow hang from windows. Garlands are draped over door frames, woven thick with early blossoms and ribbon. Children race past us with flowers tangled in their hair, shrieking with laughter, their hands sticky with honeyed bread.
I turn to Rowan as he sets off ahead of us, moving with the ease of someone who belongs to these streets.
“You’re from Acheron, then?” I ask.
“Born here,” he says. “Learned to walk on these stones. Learned to run faster on them.”
I smile. “Well, lead the way!”
He glances back at us, eyes bright. “If you’re trusting me to guide you through Acheron, Your Majesty, I should warn you—I know all the shortcuts and most of the trouble.”
“A comforting introduction,” I tell him. “I assume you’ll let me know which is which before it’s too late.”
He shrugs. “It’s easy. If I start running, I suggest you do the same.”
The laugh escapes me before I can stop it, too loud, perhaps, but entirely sincere. Aileen beams at me as though she’s won something.