Page 81 of Of Blood & Bone: The Young Queen

The prince, Aaran and Barra stop walking. I turn to look at Montrose. “That’s exactly what I mean to tell you,” I reply, in a voice as sharp as the blade I recently used to cut my meat. “I trust you don't have a problem with that, Lord Montrose.”

His eyes narrow and his face turns a peculiar shade of purple. “I most certainly do have a problem with that,” he exclaims. “Is Ardvalla now to be ruled by nothing more than an Ellerban whore! You can’t bring an outsider here and marry him, especially when you are betrothed to an Ardvallan Lord held in such high esteem as Lord Greythorne.”

A collective gasp rustles around the Great Hall like the wind cuts through the trees just before a storm. It's quickly followed by the screams of some of the ladies, as within seconds, the prince levels the tip of his blade at Montrose's throat.

“I don't know who you are, sir, but if you so much as dare utter another insult about my wife then you won't have to worry about being ruled by anybody.”

I watch as the eyes of all my guests go wide with shock, Montrose’s most of all, and I bite my lip to suppress my smile. This feels better than I ever imagined it would.

“It’s interesting, sire, that you, of all people, object to me marrying outside the realm and call me a whore for doing so,” I reply, my voice like a sword, sharp and strong. “Very interesting indeed when you consider how you have brought countless women to Ardvalla for your own twisted pleasure and are nothing more than low-life scum who traffics other humans and has broken any number of laws.”

His expression turns to one of outrage again and he opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

“I believe you’ve met the commander of my private guard,” I state in a matter of fact manner, as Kes enters the hall behind me. I watch as Montrose visibly pales and his mouth falls further to the floor.

“But this man is the Emissary!” the High Cleric declares as he rises from his seat and pounds his fist on the table. His expression is one of shock and confusion, as if there’s no way the prince could be who he says he is, which of course would also mean the unthinkable, that he fooled the High Cleric.

The prince turns his head to address him. “Yes,” he replies, his voice stern and commanding, “a royal emissary.”

It’s at this point Greythorne unwisely decides to make a move. “How dare you!” he bellows as he draws his sword and lunges for the prince. “How dare you come here and take what’s mine!” Glindenbrooke, Montrose and Sutton make an equally unwise choice and decide to join him, pulling their swords free. However, they don’t so much as get the chance to raise them before each one finds a dagger at his throat. The “serving girls” they happily ordered to serve them and leered over only moments ago have revealed their true identities as deadly members of the Khaleeni.

Glindenbrooke, Montrose and Sutton stay their swords and raise their free hands, each wearing an expression of disbelief and defeat. The truth of what’s happening here tonight is obviously starting to dawn on them. They’ve been out strategised and out played. However, it would seem his fury is interfering with Greythorne’s cognitive abilities, as what’s happening obviously hasn’t fully dawned on him yet. “I declare this marriage null and void,” he shouts, as he glares at the prince. “If you are the Prince of Ellerban then you must be the one who is weak of mind, as I have it on good authority Prince Mikil has declared himself king due to his brother either being dead or mad.”

My heart jumps to my throat at his words and Aaran glances at me, his question clear – should he just run his sword through Greythorne now and shut him up? I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head, “not yet.”

To his credit the prince barely flinches at Greythorne’s words despite the pain I know they cause him.

“You are unfit to enter into a marriage,” Greythorne spits, “especially to an Ardvallan queen!”

I can see the prince trying to compose himself and I speak before Greythorne can throw another verbal dagger his way. “Prince Ronan has spent a number of weeks in my company,” I declare, injecting as much authority into my voice as possible, “and I deem him a most capable and honourable man, in full control of his mental faculties. That tragedy has befallen him, and he has suffered great personal loss, simply renders him hostage to the rigors of grief as opposed to the vagaries of mental instability.”

A hushed gasp ripples around the room. Greythorne’s face twists further with rage and bitterness, the reality of what’s happening obviously starting to sink in. “And is he fit for breeding?” he sneers.

I raise my head just a touch higher and allow myself a satisfied smile. “He most certainly is,” I announce, “I’ve never seen a man’s seed turn such a vibrant colour of blue. I am in no doubt I shall be with child by the next full moon, if I am not already so.”

My last sentence delivers the killer blow to Greythorne and I see in his eyes the point at which he changes tack. He looks at the prince, Aaran and Barra and then at Deana, the Khaleeni warrior holding her dagger to his throat. “Point your blades at me all you like,” he says through gritted teeth, “but my men will have this castle overrun by dawn.”

It’s time for me to deliver my final blow. “Oh, I doubt that,” I inform him as I walk toward the prince. “I’d say they’ve finished all the ale I gifted them by now and are sleeping soundly from the valerium I had added to it. I imagine it will be sometime before they waken, and when they do so they will find themselves without weapons and surrounded by my soldiers.”

I stand beside the prince and watch as Greythorne finally realises the extent to which he has been out played. Rage pulses through him and he goes to raise his sword, but Deana tightens her dagger to his neck and Aaran and Barra place the tips of their swords on his chest. Finally, he realises it’s over and he throws back his head and fills the Grand Hall with an enraged roar.

“You’ll pay for this, bitch!” he screams at me before Aaran jumps over the table and elbows him in the throat.

“Never address the Queen in such a manner again,” Aaran warns him in a voice of pure ice, “or I shall cut your tongue out and feed it to the castle rats.”

A shocked gasp ripples around the hall as Greythorne struggles to catch his breath.

I link my arm through the prince’s. “Come, my Prince,” I say in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “join me and take your rightful place at my side.”

We proceed to the table and I invite the prince to sit on the throne beside mine. Barra sits next to him and Aaran sits in the empty seat beside me.

“And now to the official duties of the evening,” I announce, as all eyes in the room stare at me, wondering what is coming next.

I turn to face the end of the table where Greythorne and his collaborators are being held by various members of the Khaleeni.

“Lord Montrose,” I declare, my voice dripping with contempt, “for the crime of importation of outsiders to the realm of Ardvalla with the purpose of enslavement, your lands, fortune and castle are forfeit to the crown.”

Montrose looks stricken, as if I’ve struck him with a sword, and grabs the table for support. “You can’t do this,” he croaks as the assembled lords and ladies look on in shock and horror.

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