Chapter 17
Aileen remains behind at Tassilo’s estate. She dislikes riding horses and grows sick in the saddle too easily. The huntsman has drawn a map for the ladies, marking safe routes along the forest’s edge, and I seize the chance to take in some fresh air.
The horse prepared for me is an old mare—slow, but dependable.
Her name is Chamomile. She delights in stopping along the road to graze on fresh grass and bask in the sunshine.
Her dark brown coat is warm beneath my hand, her gentle snorting a quiet comfort, a reminder that not everything must move at the pace of kings and hounds.
Of course, I am not truly alone. Charles’s men follow me everywhere, though today they keep their distance.
They must be bored beyond measure. They swore themselves to the King’s guard—to defend the monarch with their lives against enemies foreign and domestic—and now they trail a mere woman on an aging horse, halting now and then to pick flowers or watch a flock of birds rise from a field.
I laugh aloud at the thought of them—grown men trained for battle, condemned to spend their morning watching me admire wildflowers. I slow the mare and turn halfway, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Gentlemen,” I call cheerfully. “You may as well ride closer. I promise not to bolt for the woods.”
They do not answer. One of them inclines his head, the barest acknowledgment, and keeps his eyes on the tree line. I try again, asking whether they prefer the quiet or find it as dull as I do, but the forest swallows my words. Conversation, it seems, is not part of their orders.
I laugh again, softer this time, and face forward.
If they will not speak, I will not force them.
The mare ambles on, content in her unhurried way, and I let myself sink into the rhythm of her steps.
Sunlight filters through the leaves in shifting patches.
Somewhere nearby, a bird sings, answered by another further off.
Then something rustles in the undergrowth.
I straighten, my hand tightening on the reins. The sound comes again—branches brushing, leaves disturbed. An animal, surely. A deer, perhaps, or a fox startled by my passing. I peer into the bushes, but see only shadow and green. The forest has gone oddly still.
The mare snorts, ears flicking back. A prickle of unease curls low in my stomach. I am being foolish; the guards are only a few strides away. And yet the sensation does not pass. It feels as though the trees themselves are watching, holding their breath.
Hooves thunder suddenly behind me.
I cry out, and the mare jumps sideways, then steadies as a familiar voice calls my name. Tassilo draws up beside me, his horse flecked with foam, his expression apologetic—and amused.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he says, smiling. “Though I see I have succeeded.”
I exhale, shaky, and press a hand to my chest.
“You nearly frightened me out of my skin. Why are you not with the hunt?”
He shrugs. “I followed a deer off the path and lost it in the woods. It seemed foolish to pretend skill I do not possess.” His gaze flicks to the guards in the distance. “May I ride with you, or will I offend protocol?”
“I think they will survive,” I say, and to my own surprise, I mean it.
“Rules exist to teach restraint,” he says thoughtfully. “I have never been particularly skilled at restraint.”
“That must be inconvenient,” I say.
“Only for those who expect it.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I can’t help but smile back.
We fall into step together, our horses moving easily side by side. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then Tassilo clears his throat.
“I wish to apologize,” he says. “If I made you uncomfortable at the Placitum. My concern was…perhaps too plainly shown.”
I keep my eyes ahead.
“You worried for me.”
“Yes.” He hesitates. “I know my cousin’s temper. I could not—” He stops himself, then continues more carefully. “I could not reconcile it. That a woman such as you would want to spend her days with my cousin…”
I choose my words with care.
“I am capable of keeping myself happy and safe,” I say. The sentence sounds convincing, even to me, though I know its limits. “And I do not expect others to fight my battles.”
He nods, accepting the rebuke without offense.
“Still,” he says gently, “you may always count on me.”
I glance at him, a faint smile tugging at my mouth. “I shall remember that. One can never have too many counts in one’s favor.”
He laughs, surprised, and the sound eases something in my chest.
After a moment, I ask, “May I be impertinent?”
“I would be disappointed if you were not.”
“Your wife,” I say. “There are certain…rumors.”
He considers me, then inclines his head.
“I appreciate your directness. Yes—she is valued. We respect one another greatly. But our marriage was forged for politics, not passion. Tale as old as time…” His voice softens. “She misses her home terribly. So for now, we live apart. We care for each other…differently.”
I nod, absorbing this. “I wonder,” I say, almost to myself, “whether I know what love is at all.”
He answers without hesitation. “If you must wonder, then you have not known it. True love is unmistakable. It strikes you full in the face. It is all-consuming, undeniable. It leaves no room for doubt.”
“You seem to know a great deal about it.” I watch his face as he considers his answer.
He does not look at me at once. His gaze drifts ahead, to the path unfolding beneath our horses’ hooves, as though the words lie somewhere there.
“I know only that it is rarely what we are taught to expect,” he says at last. “We are told it arrives in one shape, follows one course, and ends in one acceptable place.” A faint smile touches his mouth. “Life is far more inventive than that.”
I remain silent, sensing that this is not a speech meant to be interrupted.
“Love changes us,” he continues. “Not always loudly. Sometimes it works in small, quiet ways—teaching patience where there was none, courage where we thought ourselves lacking. It asks things of us we never anticipated, and gives us gifts we would not have chosen for ourselves.” He exhales softly. “Yet we are better for them.”
“And if it does not lead where it should?” I ask.
“Should is a dangerous word,” he replies with a chuckle. “Not every love is meant to end in marriage and children and open celebration. Some are not built for daylight.” He glances at me then, his expression open, unguarded. “That does not make them lesser.”
After a short pause, he adds, “Some love stories are made of stolen moments and closed doors. Of loyalty instead of possession. Of choosing one another again and again, even when the world offers no place for that choice.” His voice lowers.
“They are no less true for their silence. Often, they are more precious for it.”
I feel something shift in my chest, though I cannot name it.
“And are they enough?” I ask quietly.
He smiles—not sadly, but with a kind of settled certainty. “They must be. Because for those who live them, there is no other measure.”
I smile, a little sadly. “Then it is not for me.”
He studies me. “You could take a lover,” he says quietly.
I shake my head. “There is no one I would want. And even if there were, no one would dare risk Charles’s displeasure.”
Before he can reply, something whistles through the air.
There is a sharp, sickening sound—impact, breath driven out of a body—and Tassilo gasps. An arrow sprouts from his chest. He pitches sideways and falls from the saddle, hitting the ground hard.
I scream.
The mare rears, panicked, and bolts as another arrow thuds into the earth where Tassilo lay. I clutch the reins, tears blurring my vision as the forest explodes into motion—shouting, hooves, the hiss of arrows slicing the air.
And the serenity shatters.