Knight from the Ashes by Shari L. Tapscott
Clover
Henrik’s handsome in a brawny,beautiful sort of way. He’s a head taller than the average man, with broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist and a way of moving that humbly proclaims his graceful strength. With his dark hair, steel blue eyes, and controlled demeanor, he’s a favorite with the female members of the court.
The soldier strides into the throne room, carrying what appears to be a limp rabbit and a large set of antlers. Around me, the ladies giggle. I scoff under my breath, tired of hearing the girls’ breathless sighs every time the blacksmith’s son makes an appearance.
Mind you, I don’t hold any ill-will toward the soldier—I don’t hold any will toward him at all. Perhaps I admire his perseverance and his skill with a sword, but my heart certainly doesn’t beat faster the moment he walks into the room.
Despite that, like everyone else, my gaze stays firmly on the man.
What is that thing?
Inarrow my eyes at the strange creature in Henrik’s arms. It isn’t a rabbit and a set of antlers; it’s a rabbit wearing a set of antlers.
The soldier’s face is stone, and he looks very much like he’s trying to veil his emotions. With his chiseled jaw clenched, he carries his chin slightly tilted in the air. It’s an almost indignant look, one that intrigues me.
Court is dull, but judging from the look of distaste on the soldier’s face, this has the makings of something amusing.
“Sire,” Henrik says as he lowers himself to one knee in front of the king, holding the rabbit-creature for inspection. “I have slain the jacquesalaupe that plagued Danmire.”
Several titters break free from the mouths of the well-dressed courtiers. They loiter in the throne room, bored and stitched up like peacocks. They possess no skills or talents, but they cozy themselves up to the king in hopes of gaining his favor. They’re like dogs, all fighting for the table scraps of His Majesty’s attention. I don’t have an ounce of patience for the lot of them.
It’s for that reason alone I fight the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Though there’s undoubtedly something amusing about tall, strong Henrik offering the king the pathetic creature, I refuse to join the vapid, bleating sheep who are my peers.
King Algernon doesn’t laugh either. He frowns at the miserable creature, looking almost saddened. He’s having a good day—one of his best. The royal physicians have kept His Majesty’s condition quiet, but word has leaked out that our king suffers from a sickly heart. He’s plagued with weakness, chest pains, and a plethora of other ailments that often leave him bedridden.
Today, however, the Phoenix King is on his throne, sitting in front of the massive tapestry that bears his family’s crest. He looks frail compared to the firebird that graces the coat of arms—not old, but tired.
His brow knits, and he presses his lips into a thin line, perhaps trying to organize his thoughts. “Rise, Henrik.”
With a stoic expression firmly etched on his face, Henrik does as he’s told.
“This is the fearsome jacquesalaupe?” King Algernon asks.
In answer, Henrik gives a curt nod.
His Majesty’s mouth works, and now he, too, attempts to hide a smile. “I’m afraid I find that difficult to believe.”
“It became larger when threatened, sire,” Henrik explains in clipped tones that betray the fact that he knows how ridiculous his words sound, and he hates saying them aloud.
The king’s eyebrows jump with incredulous disbelief. “It became larger? I’m afraid you must explain.”
Much to his apparent chagrin, Henrik entertains the court with every detail of his fateful night in Danmire. By the end of his report, the king and his guards, along with all the courtiers in attendance, don’t bother to hold back their laughter.
Henrik’s face is a mask, void of expression, but I’m positive he would like nothing more than to climb into the hole that creature in his arms once crawled out of. I don’t blame him. If I’d come strolling into court with that story, I’d want to hide, too—especially if I were trying to obtain my seal. Which, of course, I cannot because I’m a woman.
Not that I want to be a knight. I have different aspirations, ones that have nothing to do with my current position as one of Her Royal High-and-Mightiness’s ladies-in-waiting.
As I think it, I glance at Camellia, flower of all Caldenbauer. The princess is rumored to be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. Her hair is golden, her cheeks are pink, and her lips are the color of a dusky rose. She’s perfection tidily wrapped up in a willowy princess package.
Yes, I can believe Camellia’s the most beautiful girl alive, just as I’d wholeheartedly agree the princess is the most spoiled, obnoxious, poisonous woman to ever grace our kingdom or any other.
“I’m sorry, Henrik.” King Algernon rises and reaches up to clasp a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I cannot grant you your seal, not for this.”
Henrik nods, his expression schooled. The soldier had to know the king’s answer before he stepped into the castle, but he’s worked harder than any man before him, and his disappointment must be great. Though he’s the youngest man to become a commander after entering the military in the infantry, he’s determined to wear that coveted medallion on his arm before the year is complete. Or at least before the king abdicates his throne to make way for Lawrence, our crown prince and Henrik’s unofficial, undeclared nemesis. At least, that’s the rumor.
And since I regretfully spend a significant portion of my waking hours with the women of the court, I know every rumor involving Henrik.
A sharp elbow jabs into my side, making me whip my head to the right to glower at one of my fellow ladies.
“Look at the way Camellia watches him,” Lily whispers low, so only I can hear. The girl is the sole daughter of Sir Renault—an old curmudgeon of a knight—and the largest gossip at court.
Though I couldn’t care less, I turn my attention to the princess. Sure enough, Camellia’s eyes are on Henrik, and her expression is unreadable. That’s another rumor—that the princess and the soldier are together, secretly and passionately entangled in shallow love.
Though this particular rumor is thoroughly unconfirmed, it’s one of the few I do not doubt. Henrik’s handsome, and the princess is vain. Why wouldn’t she want him?
They’re a match made for the bards—a fair princess and her valiant, soon-to-be knight. If Henrik can overlook her noxious personality and caustic tongue, then they’re certainly destined for each other.
And is that perhaps the real reason I hold no admiration for the strong, driven soldier?
Possibly.
I watch the spectacle for a while longer, and then I excuse myself, claiming a headache. Camellia waves me away, glad to be rid of me. No one notices as I slip from the ladies; no one cares that I’m leaving.