Once Upon a Romance 02 - As The Last Petal Falls (42 page)

The cook returned and gave the pot of stew a judicious stir, but never noticed the additional ingredients. He set the water to boil for tea and whistled while he checked the trail bread.

After half an hour, Fain began to hear sounds coming down the corridor from the great hall: chairs scraping, benches thumping, and voices laughing, signs that the troop was preparing to eat. The chef carried the bread out first, then returned with helpers to transport the large steaming pot off to the other room. Fain, overcome with curiosity, sneaked down the hall after him, keeping close to the wall and trusting in the shadows to hide him. He arrived in time to see the cook send a portion of the stew out to the men on the walls, and then present the rest to the king. Brannon took a huge helping, and began shoveling it into his mouth.

It was the first time he’d seen Brannon since the day his father had been murdered, cut down for this evil man’s ambition. He was heavier, no longer the lean, grasping whipcord he’d been as a prince. His face was sallow with dissipation, and his eyes were full of self-satisfaction. Fain’s fingers curled into fists, and he felt his mouth pull back in a hideous, silent snarl. He wanted to run from his hiding spot and throw himself on the king. He wanted to tear Brannon’s black, traitorous heart from his chest. He wanted to whisper in his dying ear that this was payback for the life of his father.

Instead he tore his eyes from the table where Brannon sat. Vivi was here in the keep with him. He couldn’t risk alerting them to her presence. Not for a wild impulse that likely wouldn’t succeed. He began looking around for something, anything to distract himself, and found it when he spotted the man they’d come to rescue.

Fain saw, with a pang, that Marlplot sat alone, chained in a corner farthest from the fire. While he watched, a surly man with a great ring of keys on his belt tossed a hunk of bread over to the prisoner. Fain was sorry his friend was missing a hot meal, but was relieved that he and Vivienne wouldn’t have to corral a drugged giant out of the keep. He wasn’t sure they were up to the task.

Connelly had said the mushrooms would require about half an hour to take effect, so Fain lingered as the men finished their meal and pulled out their flasks. A few sat in the corner to play cards, and several others went back for a second helping. Fain grinned. He had no idea what a double dose would do, but it was going to be entertaining to find out.

Brannon had been the first served, and so was the first to begin acting strangely. The king lifted his hand in front of his own face and stared, wide eyed, while he wiggled his fingers back and forth. Then he repeated the motion with his other hand, before weaving both in front of his eyes like a gypsy dancer. The men around gazed at him strangely, and then got mesmerized looks on their faces. Before long they, too, were watching their own hands dance, or staring into the fire, or trying to look at the tips of their own tongues.

The men who had eaten last were alarmed, and tried to intervene, but the damage was already done. The surly key-bearer stood abruptly and charged for the kitchen, yelling about poison, while the others looked at each other with white faces. Fain quick stepped backwards, and when the guard came charging in he tripped the man and then fell on him, banging his head into the floor with force. The fellow dropped into unconsciousness, and after listening a few moments to be assured no one else was following, Fain stripped him of his blue regimental jacket and key ring. He needed to go fetch Marlplot, and while the men were drugged, they weren’t completely oblivious, so he threw the regimental jacket on over his own. It could still get dangerous in there if they noticed him.

He slipped down the hallway and eased into the great room, trying to move casually so as not to attract attention, but it hardly mattered. The men of the troop were so absorbed in the new sensations they were feeling that they barely noticed anything. Brannon was trying, with steadfast devotion, to walk up the wall. Fain suppressed a snicker and hurried to Marlplot’s side. The young giant’s eyes widened when he saw who was approaching, but he had the sense to keep quiet. Fain unlocked his chains and rubbed at the chaffing on his wrists and ankles before pulling the young man to his feet. Marlplot smiled at the chaos around him, and gestured for Fain to lead the way out.

“You!” One of the men blocked their way. “What are you doing?”

Fain cursed inside. This man was obviously resistant to the mushrooms.

“I said, what are you doing?”

They could fight their way out, but that was likely to turn into a brawl, and John was unarmed. Fain tried to think of something, but his wits failed him.

“I’m going to ask you one more time.” The fighting man’s voice was slow, and menacing. “
What are you doing with my jewelry?!
“

Fain glanced down at his hands, where the chained cuffs still lay.

“Forgive me, I didn’t realize these were yours.” He handed them to the enraged soldier, who slung them grandly on his own wrists and then sashayed across the floor, calling back over his shoulder,

“Don’t let me catch you in my gemstones again, boy.”

They picked their way carefully through the men. Fain let Marlplot go ahead of him, motioning towards the corridor to the kitchen. The young man hurried, eager to leave, but Fain went slower, observing the effects that the stew had on Brannon’s men. Some were counting the stones on the floor, others were plucking hairs off their own heads and staring at them with fascinated concentration. Brannon himself was gathered with several others around the stew pot, eating, with great delight, the remainder of the mushrooms.

Fain stopped midway across the floor. Marlplot was free. The soldiers were so drugged that they would never find Vivi, even if he
told
them where she was. Here, in this very room, was the man who had killed his father, and the prince and rightful heir to the throne. Here was the man who wanted Vivienne’s kingdom for his own, and who had tried to keep her captive. Here was the tyrant who starved his people and stole their children. Why should he walk away? His chance for revenge had finally come.

Fain’s hand came to rest on his belt knife. The room was full of Brannon’s men, but he was essentially unprotected. One strike with his dagger and the reign of the usurping king would be over. It felt right. It felt like justice.

“Fain.”

He heard Vivienne’s soft voice coming from the corridor to the kitchen. A small part of his brain wondered how long she’d been there, but mostly he was focused on the traitor. On the spot between Brannon’s shoulder blades where his knife would drive home.

“I know you want to do it, love. But you can’t. You can’t put your sister at risk for vengeance’s sake.”

Bianca would be safer without her father. Fain knew it in his bones.

“She’d be safe from him, but not from the nobles. Not once they start thinking that they don’t need a puppet from the old bloodline. Not when they can just crown one of their own.” She stepped into the great hall, moving slowly, but making her way unerringly towards him.

“I could get to Inisle and get her out before anyone knew he was dead.”

“Could you? And what about the rest of the people, Fain? You can’t take every man, woman, and child out of Toldas. Will you really condemn them all to civil war?” She was almost at his side.

“He deserves to die!”

“So he does.” Tears stood out in her eyes, and she laid her hand atop his wrist, just above the hand that was clutching the hilt of his dagger. “But not at the cost of so many other lives.”

The tears fell, and Fain felt the hot drops on his hand. He sighed, and slowly took his hand off the dagger, lifting it to wipe the tear tracks from Vivienne’s cheeks.

“Promise me we’ll find a way to make him pay.”

“I promise. For my mother, and your father, and the people of Dorshire. We’ll find a way. Now, please,
please
… come with me.”

Fain turned himself for cibly away from the man he’d sworn to kill. Vivienne clutched the hand on her cheek, uncertainty in her eyes. He took her hands, kissing her fingers gently before drawing them cl ose to his chest. He watched the relief surface, as she realized his decision even before he spoke aloud.

“Let’s go.”

As they hurried back to the kitchen they heard the rasp of a sword being drawn from a scabbard. One of the nameless troopers sang out.

“Watch me dance the Gillie Callum!”

“You’d need another sword for that.”

“
I’ll
give you another sword!”

“I’ll give you a whole arsenal!”

Calls arose, and more swords were drawn. Fain, Vivienne, and John all looked at one another, and then began running for the main entrance as the clang of metal arose behind them.

They pounded through the gates of the keep, and no voice called out to stop them. Connelly and the Shapherds were waiting for them by the frozen stream. Tonight they would put miles between themselves and the mounted troop, and by the time the men were sober enough to sit a horse, they would be halfway to Albion.

Connelly put a hearty meat roll into John’s hands, first thing. “Eat that, lad, ye look like the blaggards only fed ye enough for two men, when any fool can see ye need twice that much.” Then he handed out their traveling packs and whistled sharply.

A wolf howled long in the distance.

Fain started as he realized something. “They aren’t coming, are they?”

“Nay, lad. They’d not do well in a city. For that matter,
I’ll
not do well in a city, but for ye an’ the bonny lass here, I’ll risk it.” He winked broadly. “Dinna worry, man. The wolves will always be here, if ye wish ta return. For now, yer place is with the Princess.” Connelly trudged off through the snow to pace beside Marlplot.

Fain turned to Vivienne.

“Come on, Princess, let’s get you home.”

“I can’t wait for you to meet my father.”

“I’m not sure he’ll like me that much.”

“Trust me. He’ll hate you. But he’ll get over it.”

Christopher Maximillian Wellesley threw his cravat on the floor in annoyance.

“Blast these things! Why can’t you make them go out of fashion?”

“Because, Max,” his wife, Ella, explained as she patiently picked up a fresh cravat and began tying it for him, “as long as the king insists on wearing one, there is only so much a simple seamstress can do.”

Max snorted, but held still while she finished the intricate pleating. “Why do you think he’s summoned me?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess. You’ve been unwelcome in the Palace for so long. Could he have word from Vivienne?”

“With the snows still so deep? Unlikely. I suppose I’ll just have to go find out.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“I think that’s only likely to increase his ire, sweetheart.”

“Good point.” Ella stood back and surveyed him with a critical eye. “Well, he won’t find fault with your dress, at least. You look wonderful.”

“Wonderful enough for a trip to the attic?” Max waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Fool. If we went to the attic, you would be monumentally late.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps when you come home, though.”

He laughed and swooped in for a kiss, before running for the door.

“I’m already going to be monumentally late. Perhaps he’ll forgive me when he sees how masterfully my cravat is tied.”

“Flatterer.” Ella spoke lightly, but frowned as her husband thundered down the stairs. Why on earth was the king summoning him
now?