Page 3 of The Huntsman's Heart
Around the table, the queen’s ladies lift their glasses and chorus their congratulations.
The princess and the king are the only ones not moving. Guinevere stares down the table at Melantha in horror, her fists suddenly tight on the silver knife and fork.
So she did not know.
This doesn’t surprise me. Melantha does nothing that isn’t a calculated move, and I cannot imagine Guinevere going along with this easily. She is far too headstrong.
Finally she lifts her goblet and shoots an icy smile at her stepmother. “Ma’am, you’ve taken me by surprise. Who will I be fortunate enough to call my husband?”
Without missing a beat, Melantha sets down her drink. “Why, the prince of Dolmire. A worthy match for a princess of such beauty and renown.”
Her ladies clap and pay no attention to the icy stare Guinevere directs at Melantha. “The prince of Dolmire? A man old enough to be my father?”
“My dear, you know very well that age has nothing to do with how well you are matched. Look at your father and me and see how happy we are. Are we not, my dear?”
The king looks up, blinking, and bestows another addled smile at his wife. “Yes, my love. So happy.” His gaze drops back to the bowl of broth a servant has placed in front of him.
A low growl of frustration escapes Giunevere.
Melantha’s dark brows crease just a fraction. I’m not certain they can actually move much more than this. Not with all the dark magic coursing through her veins. “Now, now, my dear. What will your noble prince think of us all if you were to make such noises in his hearing? I must remind you to mind your table manners. Even your great beauty will not be enough to distract him if you insist on behaving like an animal.”
“But I—”
“Enough.” Melantha waves her hand, and the musicians start up again.
I do not catch the sound that comes from the princess’s mouth this time, but I can imagine it. The petulant whining of an angry child.
Only is that fair? I have met the prince of Dolmire, and what Guinevere protests is true. He is old enough to be her father. And he was not a handsome man even in his youth. But such is the fate of the highborn whose lives are not our own. She would hardly be the first girl to be married off for the political advantage of her family rather than for love. Nor for that matter would her fate be any different should she have been born male. The same fate awaits as many princes as princesses.
A low chuckle beside me finally draws my attention from the princess. One of the footmen who carried in the king nudges his companion and leans close to whisper in his ear. “And from what I hear, that prince will have a time of it on his wedding night.”
The shorter man snorts. “Why? Too old to get it up? I hear they make special potions for that now.”
“No,” the other replies. “Our sweet princess is as like to bite it off as suck it, and I doubt she’ll let him put it in without a fight.”
“She is a feisty one, that,” agrees the second man. “Perhaps we should offer to help hold her down for him. The old man might need a helping hand.”
“Enough.” I round on them, stepping forward to tower over them.
The stupid grins fall from their faces.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head while you wait upon the queen’s table, or you’ll lose it.”
“Yes, Sir Alaric.”
“Yes, sir.” They stare at their toes until I step back, irritated with myself for letting it get to me.
What do I care what they say about Princess Guinevere? She deserves it and more, and no doubt her new husbandwillhave trouble keeping her in line.
And if my mind wanders to the moment he pushes up her skirts to claim his marital prize, it is because I’ve no soul left to check my baser impulses. Nothing to teach me compassion when I imagine pushing a finger roughly between her virgin lips to sample her ripeness.
With a curse, I turn away from the scene. I need to be gone from here before I imagine more.
No white clouds of breath escape from my lungs to decorate the air as I stride toward the stables. The young boy on duty tonight scrambles from his hay bed as he catches sight of me, wiping his arm across his pale face and looking as if he might shake his trousers loose with the way he trembles. “Sir Alaric! Shall I saddle your horse?”
I dismiss him with a curt gesture. “No. A brush and oil will do.”
“I-I can groom him, sir. If it please you.”
