’twas murder, we need know so we can prosecute the bastard.”
“I shall, as soon as I pay my respects.” And as soon as he checked on Genny.
Britt raced to the king’s solar, then hesitated in the open doorway. His king, a white shroud drawn up to his naked waist, gold sovereigns on his eyes, a silver salver overflowing with salt at his feet, lay in unnatural stillness on the massive bed. Britt took a deep breath, anguish roiling in his belly. The small hope he’d been secretly harboring, that his king’s death was all just a dreadful mistake, died. He approached the bed on shaking legs, tears burning at the back of his throat. Lord have mercy. Had he not spent a decade in Alexander’s constant company, Britt would not have recognized the man to whom he’d sworn fealty. His king’s handsome countenance had been all but destroyed by rock and pounding surf, his once muscular body was now bloated and fish-belly white.
He placed his hand over Alexander’s, something he would never have dared do in life. Head bowed, tears flowing, he choked out, “Why, sire? Why did you not wait for your guards? Why?”
Yolande, flanked by a dozen guards bearing royal standards snapping in the wind above and around her, shuddered passing through the gates of Edinburgh Castle. She would now be tested as never before. Within lay her dead husband and king.
And the fault was hers.
Had she not been so impatient to get him in her bed, had she just waited, sent the missive in the morning when Alexander would have had ample light as he traveled the road to Kinghorn to be with her…
But no, she’d been so anxious to set her and Anton’s plan in motion, she’d sent it after midday.
Only adding to her fear was not knowing whether or not Alexander had left her missive where others might find it or if he’d had it on him when he fell over the cliff. If the former was the case, then the Privy Council would be well within their rights to blame her for Alexander’s demise. If the latter be the case, then her missive was likely destroyed by the sea, and she’d be safe…at least for a while.
She could maintain her lie—of being with child—for only so long before others noted she was not enlarging as she ought. She’d be discovered.
Please, dear God, please let me find Anton within these formidable walls.
She needed his advice on what to do next, else she find herself cast out without so much as a coin or place to go.
“Your Highness?”
She looked down to find a guard waiting to help her dismount. Another was already at her mount’s head, his hand fisted about the bridle. All around her, somber men stirred, most looking in her direction and bowing.
How long would that last?
“The queen!” echoed about the bailey. Doors were thrown wide before her, and she strode into Edinburgh’s great hall, where eerie quiet engulfed her.
“Your Highness.” Her husband’s trusted advisor Ross bowed before her, then murmured, “My condolences, Your Highness. How may I be of assistance?”
“Where is Monsieur Montre?” Surely he’d heard her entourage arrive.
“He has yet to return, Your Majesty.”
“I see.” She looked about, at a total loss as to what to do next. What was expected of her? What would keep her safe among these heathens?
Holding out his arm, Ross asked, “May I escort you to the king, Your Highness?”
“Yes, thank you . ” Of course a grieving widow and mother-to-be would wish to see her husband. What on earth was the matter with her?
She placed a shaking hand on Ross’s thick-boned wrist. On the second landing, her steps faltered. “Sir Lyle, what happens next?” When he frowned in confusion, she clarified, “Within Scotland.”
“Ah.” He took a deep breath. “The Privy Council will convene.”
Fearing the answer but having to know, she said, “To what end?”
“They must make arrangements for the funeral.” He paused, cleared his throat, then said, “They shall then summon the
“I shall, as soon as I pay my respects.” And as soon as he checked on Genny.
Britt raced to the king’s solar, then hesitated in the open doorway. His king, a white shroud drawn up to his naked waist, gold sovereigns on his eyes, a silver salver overflowing with salt at his feet, lay in unnatural stillness on the massive bed. Britt took a deep breath, anguish roiling in his belly. The small hope he’d been secretly harboring, that his king’s death was all just a dreadful mistake, died. He approached the bed on shaking legs, tears burning at the back of his throat. Lord have mercy. Had he not spent a decade in Alexander’s constant company, Britt would not have recognized the man to whom he’d sworn fealty. His king’s handsome countenance had been all but destroyed by rock and pounding surf, his once muscular body was now bloated and fish-belly white.
He placed his hand over Alexander’s, something he would never have dared do in life. Head bowed, tears flowing, he choked out, “Why, sire? Why did you not wait for your guards? Why?”
Yolande, flanked by a dozen guards bearing royal standards snapping in the wind above and around her, shuddered passing through the gates of Edinburgh Castle. She would now be tested as never before. Within lay her dead husband and king.
And the fault was hers.
Had she not been so impatient to get him in her bed, had she just waited, sent the missive in the morning when Alexander would have had ample light as he traveled the road to Kinghorn to be with her…
But no, she’d been so anxious to set her and Anton’s plan in motion, she’d sent it after midday.
Only adding to her fear was not knowing whether or not Alexander had left her missive where others might find it or if he’d had it on him when he fell over the cliff. If the former was the case, then the Privy Council would be well within their rights to blame her for Alexander’s demise. If the latter be the case, then her missive was likely destroyed by the sea, and she’d be safe…at least for a while.
She could maintain her lie—of being with child—for only so long before others noted she was not enlarging as she ought. She’d be discovered.
Please, dear God, please let me find Anton within these formidable walls.
She needed his advice on what to do next, else she find herself cast out without so much as a coin or place to go.
“Your Highness?”
She looked down to find a guard waiting to help her dismount. Another was already at her mount’s head, his hand fisted about the bridle. All around her, somber men stirred, most looking in her direction and bowing.
How long would that last?
“The queen!” echoed about the bailey. Doors were thrown wide before her, and she strode into Edinburgh’s great hall, where eerie quiet engulfed her.
“Your Highness.” Her husband’s trusted advisor Ross bowed before her, then murmured, “My condolences, Your Highness. How may I be of assistance?”
“Where is Monsieur Montre?” Surely he’d heard her entourage arrive.
“He has yet to return, Your Majesty.”
“I see.” She looked about, at a total loss as to what to do next. What was expected of her? What would keep her safe among these heathens?
Holding out his arm, Ross asked, “May I escort you to the king, Your Highness?”
“Yes, thank you . ” Of course a grieving widow and mother-to-be would wish to see her husband. What on earth was the matter with her?
She placed a shaking hand on Ross’s thick-boned wrist. On the second landing, her steps faltered. “Sir Lyle, what happens next?” When he frowned in confusion, she clarified, “Within Scotland.”
“Ah.” He took a deep breath. “The Privy Council will convene.”
Fearing the answer but having to know, she said, “To what end?”
“They must make arrangements for the funeral.” He paused, cleared his throat, then said, “They shall then summon the
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