Chapter 47 Alain
forty-seven
Alain
Movement caught my eye. A flash of brown and the flick of a horse’s tail disappearing around the edge of my tent.
I set down the blade I’d been inspecting and stepped to the entrance, squinting against the late afternoon sun.
A servant woman rode past, her hood raised despite the warmth, head bowed low as if avoiding notice.
Something about the set of her shoulders, the way she gripped the reins with white-knuckled determination, sent a jolt of recognition through my gut. My stomach swirled in anxiety like I needed to give chase to her.
It couldn’t be. She was supposed to be locked in her tower room, guarded by men who answered only to me. Yet as the hooded figure disappeared into the crowd on the road, the hollow feeling in my chest told me what my mind refused to accept.
Isabeau.
“Your Highness?” My squire’s voice pulled me back to reality. “They’re calling for you. The mounted knife throw begins in moments.”
I lingered at the entrance, straining to catch another glimpse of the rider, but she had vanished among the tournament-goers like morning mist under harsh sun. My fingers clenched around the tent flap, fabric bunching under my grip.
“Your Highness?” the boy repeated, anxiety creeping into his voice. “The king is waiting.”
Of course he was. Father was always waiting for me to disappoint him, to fail as the second son where Theron merely had to exist to earn his approval as the first. I turned back to my squire, forcing my features to compose themselves into the mask of royal confidence my position demanded.
“Hand me the blades,” I said, voice clipped as I fought to focus on the competition rather than the sickening certainty growing in my chest. “And ready my horse.”
My mount, a spirited black stallion bred for speed and obedience, stood waiting outside.
As I swung into the saddle, my gaze swept the crowd once more, searching for that distinctive brown cloak, but there was no sign of her.
Had I imagined it? Projected my fears onto some random servant going about her duties?
No. I knew it was her. Just as I knew when she was in pain during her fever, or when she needed water before she asked.
Some connection had formed between us that defied explanation, a tether that pulled taut when she moved too far from me.
And right now, that tether was stretching, threatening to snap.
“Prince Alain!” The announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “Champion of the archery contest! Does the second son of Durand seek to claim another victory today?”
The crowd roared its approval, their enthusiasm amplified by the free-flowing ale and wine that always accompanied tournament days. I raised a hand in acknowledgment, the gesture automatic while my mind raced elsewhere.
How had she escaped? The guards I’d posted were my most loyal men, incorruptible and vigilant. And the window, I’d personally ensured it couldn’t be used again after finding her makeshift rope.
Yet she was gone. Riding away from me even as I prepared to demonstrate martial skills that suddenly seemed meaningless.
My first competitor finished his run, striking two of the five targets to moderate applause.
The course was simple in concept but demanding in execution.
Ride at full gallop past a series of targets, striking each with a throwing knife.
Points awarded for accuracy and form. I’d won this event three tournaments in a row, my precision with blades second only to my archery.
Today, I couldn’t have cared less even though it would help me beat Coventry.
“Ready, Your Highness?” the starter asked as I approached the line.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The blade felt wrong in my hand, its balance suddenly unfamiliar after years of practice.
I adjusted my grip, forcing myself to focus.
Father was watching. Theron was watching.
Gaspard was watching. That last thought sent fresh anger surging through my veins.
Gaspard Coventry, the man who had broken Isabeau before I ever found her, sat in the royal box beside my father like an honored guest.
The flag dropped. My heels dug into my stallion’s flanks, and we exploded forward.
Wind rushed past my ears, the thud of hoofbeats matching the frantic rhythm of my heart.
The first target appeared, and I threw without conscious thought, muscle memory taking over where concentration failed me.
The blade struck center mass. The crowd cheered, but their voices seemed to come from very far away.
Where was she going? Back to the forest that had nearly claimed her life? Back to the beasts that had left those marks on her shoulder? Or somewhere else, somewhere new where neither Gaspard nor I could find her?
The second target. Another throw, another perfect strike.
What would Father do when he discovered her missing?
What would Gaspard do? The thought of that man anywhere near Isabeau made my blood run cold.
I’d seen the fear in her eyes when his name was mentioned, watched the color drain from her face, fucking watched her attempt suicide to escape his coming.
Whatever he’d done to her went beyond ordinary cruelty.
Third target. Fourth. Fifth. Each blade finding its mark with deadly precision despite my fractured attention. The crowd’s roar washed over me as I completed the course, pulling my stallion up at the finish line.
Perfect score. Better than perfect. I’d struck the kill zone on each target, a feat rarely achieved even by seasoned competitors. Ironic that I performed my best when I cared the least. My year to beat the best was faltering from the woman he hurt.
“Remarkable performance, Prince Alain!” The announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “A new tournament record!”
I dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting groom.
My father stood in the royal box, goblet raised in salute.
Beside him, Theron looked bored, and beyond him, Gaspard watched me with calculating eyes, his expression a careful mask of admiration that didn’t reach those cold depths.
Then I watched all three stand to leave.
A servant appeared at my elbow and blocked my view of them, offering water and a towel. I accepted both, using the moment to scan the crowd once more for any sign of Isabeau. Nothing. If it had indeed been her I saw, she was long gone from the tournament grounds by now.
“Your Highness,” the herald approached, bowing low. “The announcer requests your presence for the medallion ceremony.”
“Inform him I will attend shortly,” I replied, making a show of checking my saddle girth. “My mount requires attention.”
The herald hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with delivering anything less than my immediate compliance. “But you’ve won this event.“
“And I am most concerned about my horse,” I cut him off, letting a hint of steel enter my voice. “I will attend when I am satisfied he has been properly tended.”
The man bowed again, backing away to deliver my message. The moment he was out of sight, I turned to my squire. “How long until the joust?”
“An hour, Your Highness. They need to prepare the lists.”
Perfect. Long enough to get to the castle and back without arousing suspicion.
“See to my horse,” I instructed the boy. “Tell anyone who asks that I’m changing armor for the joust. I’ll return before the next event begins.”
I didn’t wait for his response, already striding toward the castle, keeping to the edges of the crowd where I’d attract less attention.
The weight of the crown—metaphorical rather than literal today—had never felt heavier.
Second sons weren’t supposed to feel its burden.
We were the spares, the insurance policies against primogeniture’s fragility.
Yet I’d always carried responsibility like a sacred trust while Theron treated it as an inconvenience.
The guards at the castle entrance straightened as I approached, offering salutes I barely acknowledged as I passed. My boots echoed on stone floors as I took the fastest route to Isabeau’s chambers, taking stairs two at a time, heart pounding with exertion and dread.
I rounded the final corner and froze.
The guards I’d posted at her door were gone. In their place stood royal guardsmen I didn’t recognize, men who answered to my father rather than me. The door stood open, and from within came the sound of multiple voices. My father’s deep baritone rising above the others in anger.
I approached slowly, the soldier in me assessing the situation before charging in. Four guardsmen flanked the doorway, their expressions hardening when they saw me. Not my men. Not men who would follow my orders over the king’s.
“Prince Alain,” one began, stepping forward to block my path. “The king has ordered—”
“The king is my father,” I cut him off, injecting every ounce of royal authority into my voice. “And I will speak with him.”
The guard hesitated, then stepped aside. Smart man. Defying a direct order from a crowned prince was more trouble than it was worth.
I entered the room to find exactly what I’d feared. Father stood by the window, his back rigid with fury. Theron lounged against the wall, seemingly bored but with eyes that missed nothing. And there, examining the remains of Isabeau’s makeshift rope from two nights ago, stood Gaspard Coventry.
“How convenient you’ve joined us, brother,” Theron drawled, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Your little pet has flown the coop.”
I maintained a neutral expression through years of practice hiding my true feelings at court. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play the fool,” Father snapped, turning from the window. “The witch is gone. Escaped. And I want to know how.” His eyes burned with accusation. The word witch froze my blood like nothing else could.