Page 3 of Enamored
Grit and dirt and grass from the melee coated his armor. Perspiration flattened his dark hair to his head. A slight scar on his cheek confirmed that this brave knight fought as heartily in a real battle as he had today in this mock tournament.
Torvald was a brave and good man. I had no doubt of that. But would his bravery and his goodness be enough to satisfy me if he were to become my husband? And would I satisfy him?
I settled the laurel upon his head, then stood back.
As was the custom, he removed his leather gauntlet and held it out to me as a token of his devotion.
Although his face remained expressionless, his eyes relayed a message I could read all too well. He did not relish this exchange between us.
Perhaps he did not wish to be king any more than I wished to be queen. But he was doing his duty just as I was.
I accepted his glove and brought it to my lips. I brushed a kiss upon it, tasting the dust of battle. Then as custom demanded, I lifted the glove into the air and waved it grandly.
The crowd surged to their feet shouting and clapping and whistling. I did not deceive myself into thinking their accolades were for me. Yes, they accepted me as the next in line to the throne. But ’twas no secret the people of Norvegia loved Torvald. Almost as much as they loved Ansgar.
Torvald was also one of the ten Knights of Brethren. As prestigious as the king’s knights were, only titled firstborn sons of nobility who were in line to inherit their family’s estates could participate in the courtship week, thus enhancing the king’s lands and coffers through the marriage union.
I fought to keep a smile in place as I lowered the glove and tucked it into the golden circlet belt riding low on my hips. I nodded one final time to Torvald before I spun away, letting all pretense dissolve.
The queen slipped her hand into the crook of my arm and squeezed gently. “’Tis time for you to begin preparations for tonight’s ball.” Although I had not expressed my concerns, the kindness in her eyes told me she understood the heavy weight upon my heart.
As the queen and I crossed to the stairs, my ladies-in-waiting hastened to follow. The women who attended me were my closest companions. They were more thrilled with the weeklong celebration than I was, and their excited chatter had filled my chambers in recent weeks.
At a shout and commotion from beyond the bystanders, Rasmus paused in speaking to the king, his keen eyes homing in on several riders galloping toward the competition field, black cloaks billowing in the wind behind them.
“Who is approaching, Rasmus?” The king followed the Sage’s gaze.
“Maxim, Your Majesty.”
Maxim? My heartbeat stuttered to a stop, as did my feet, and I clutched at the railing to keep from stumbling.
The queen also halted, her fingers tightening on my arm. “Maxim is home?”
I searched the riders, looking for Maxim’s familiar form—his bony shoulders, lanky body, and hair as black as a winter night. But with hoods shielding the riders’ faces, I saw none who reminded me of Maxim.
As they reined in, the now-silent crowd watched them. Rasmus focused on the tallest of the three as they dismounted. For just a moment, I glimpsed something sharp in Rasmus’s eyes before his expression schooled into one of usual passivity.
The taller man strode forward with a confident step and proud bearing. As he drew near the royal spectator box, Ansgar and the other Knights of Brethren raised their swords in warning. The newcomer seemed as though he had no intention of stopping and only did so when the tip of Ansgar’s sword pressed against his chest.
Without flinching, the newcomer tugged away his hood and let it fall to his back.
My pulse started up at double the speed. It was Maxim. Home. After ten years, two months, and twenty-eight days. Yes, I had been counting how long he’d been gone, although angrily.
“Maxim.” The queen’s whisper contained a note of excitement. I had become her daughter, but Maxim had been the son she’d never had, and she’d loved him dearly.
As Maxim lifted his face, I sucked in a startled breath. Gone was the boy with thin, sallow cheeks and a toothy grin. In his place was a darkly handsome man. His shoulder-length hair was wavy and unruly. His skin was swarthy and his features rugged with a layer of scruff covering his chin and jaw. His expression was hard and unfriendly, and his dark brows furrowed.
“Your Majesty,” Rasmus said. “May I present to you my son, Maxim Gandrud. You may remember him from his childhood.”
“Yes, I do.” The king eyed Maxim with wariness.
Who could forget the intelligent boy who had grown up alongside me in the king’s household?
“Your Majesty.” Maxim’s voice rang out with an authority that sent prickles of more surprise over my skin. “I am your humble servant.” He had changed much in the years of his absence. So much so I could not reconcile this man with my childhood best friend.
Rasmus narrowed his eyes upon Maxim, scrutinizing his only son from his head down to his leather boots, laced up his legs with twine. “I called him home to begin his Erudite training.”
“Very good, Rasmus.” The king finished his study of Maxim and seemed satisfied. “I have no doubt someday he will follow in your footsteps and become a Royal Sage.”
