Page 35 of Reign of Wicked Temptation

Henry vanished beneath the surface. He had been so weak already, too much time spent in this frigid water would certainly kill him. Panic clutched at his chest, sinking into his bones like the icy embrace of the river. He dove beneath the surface grasping for whatever he found.

Hindered by the sword in his hand, Crispin fought the current and the cold. When something soft collided with his thigh, he dove beneath the water and grasped it. Breaking the surface, Crispin gasped for air and groaned using all his strength to pull.

Henry’s limp body broke the surface. Crispin held tight and swam toward shore. When his feet found the river bottom, he pushed harder. With his sights set on a small outcropping of trees, Crispin pulled Henry from the water.

The cold air against his wet skin made his teeth chatter. He pushed aside the discomfort and deposited Henry in the grass beside the river. Crispin collapsed beside him. He shook Henry, discouraged by the tint of blue beneath his skin. He felt for any signs of life, but nothing.

“Breathe, damn you.” Crispin beat his fist on Henry’s chest. Water dripped from his hair, spattering on his friend’s pale, lifeless face. “I forbid you abandon me now.” The panic turned to anguish in his gut and a sob wrenched from his throat. Tears mingled with the water trailing over his cheek.

In defiance, Crispin grasped Henry by the shirt and hoisted him across his lap. “You cannot die. Not now. Not when you are the only person I can trust.” He shook him again. “Henry.” Resignation filled his voice. His friend was gone.

Fury engulfed him. Rage replaced the grief hovering in the back of his mind. He touched his friend’s cheek gently before rolling him aside and climbing to his feet. He could not remain here. They would soon come searching for him.

Movement by his feet made him jump. Henry twitched retching water into the grass. He gasped and color filled his cheeks.

“You glorious bastard.” Crispin dropped to his friend’s side and helped him rise. “I thought you died and left me to do all the damned work.”

Henry’s teeth chattered and his lips were still a soft shade of blue, but he smiled. After another bought of coughing and retching water, he glanced at Crispin.

Relief filled him. Henry was not dead. He would live, but they needed to find shelter. A place to hide and warm themselves until dark. Then they could return to the castle. Crispin had little idea where they were and how long their journey would take.

“Can you walk?” Crispin tugged on his friend’s shirt. “We need to seek shelter. Get out of these wet clothes and find something to eat.”

Henry nodded, struggling to climb to his feet. Crispin grasped his friend by the arm and came around him offering support. He grabbed the discarded sword, and together they pushed through the brush into the forest.

The deeper they ventured into the thicket, the sound of the river slowly faded. Henry trembled with each step, his skin cold and damp.

“O—ver the—re.” Henry stuttered and struggled to get the words out. But Crispin recognized a small structure through the trees ahead.

Together they limped toward it, praying it was abandoned.

As they approached, the building came into view. A barn tucked into a small clearing. Beyond it, a cottage stood with smoke billowing up from the chimney. Not abandoned, but they would have to take their chances. Henry’s steps grew heavier with each passing moment spent in the cold.

When they reached the cottage, Crispin pounded on the door. “Is anyone here?”

It opened beneath his hand. A dour, but familiar face appeared. The northern villager from the night of the feast. The man’s scowl disappeared instantly. “Your majesty, what are—?” His gaze took in Crispin’s soaking form and then fell on Henry. “Come in.”

Crispin carried Henry into the cottage and deposited him in front of the fire. “My thanks. I do not wish to impose, but he will not survive unless—” The words choked him. He refused to think on it.

“I shall gather some blankets.” The man jumped into action, leaving Crispin to peel the nearly frozen clothes from his friend’s trembling form.

Henry closed his eyes and let Crispin work. The warmth from the fire brought comfort. He prayed it did the same for Henry, who was far too weak from the ordeal to speak. The older man returned as Crispin peeled the remaining fabric from over Henry’s head. He wrapped a warm blanket around him and set to removing his own wet clothes.

“What happened, sire?” The man placed a soft cushion beneath Henry’s head where he lay before the fire.

“The queen was taken. We tracked them to a keep up the river but were captured as well.” Crispin modified the tale enough to sate the man’s curiosity but kept the details vague. “We managed to escape and ended up in the river.” He shrugged and hung his wet clothes near the fire.

“And the queen?” The man’s soft voice solidified Crispin’s resolve. “Where is she?”

“Gone,” Crispin growled. “Taken again.” He pushed aside his failure and focused instead on the task at hand. With the blanket wrapped around him, the heat finally began absorbing into his flesh.

“How may I be of service, your majesty?” He looked much like he did the night he arrived at the doorstep of the castle the night of the feast requesting aid.

“Where are the soldiers I sent?” Crispin asked, distracted by the juncture in which they found themselves.

“In the village. They have secured it for the moment, but I fear the bandits will return once more when they depart.” The man shook his head and retrieved two bowls from a shelf beside the fire.

“I see.” Crispin pondered his words. Until he purged Francis, he could do nothing to ensure the safety of his people. Francis enlisted the Balmonts’ aid, promising them absolution from their prior sins. There would be reckoning for their betrayal.

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