Page 7 of The Prince or the Bard?
It seems Queen Fiadhhas thought of everything. Or so I tell myself when Cillian Cloudtongue’s long shadow peels itself from the wall. A brilliant smile greets me.
Instantly, the two maids I walk with dissolve into giggles.
“I think I forgot something her ladyship requested of me,” Mairi says, nudging me with her shoulder as she turns to leave.
“And I’ve just remembered a bit of stitching I must get started on,” Fiona says.
“As if you would sew at this hour,” I hiss after her. “Don’t leave me!”
Mairi winks at me from over her shoulders, already hurrying down the hall. “Sounds as though our Queen's Maid Laoise is an actual maiden.”
“Don’t be afraid,” Fiona calls out. “I’m sure he’ll be gentle!”
They giggle like a couple of ninnies as they abandon me.
Slowly, I turn toward the bard. The one my heart beats for even now.
The one who is only pretending to court me.
It’s been two weeks of “clandestine” meetings designed to get the court talking—and to make them forget Prince Ruairí ever spoke to me. Two incredibly awkward weeks of showy acts of love, poems slipped into my hands and serenades outside my window. It seems the only one who hasn’t fallen for our acting is Prince Ruairí himself.
I’ve never seen a man glower through a musical performance like he has on each night the Connacht Bard performs for the court. Worse still, the pretty Lady Taliana, a recent arrival from the continental undercourts, has made no secret of her interest in the prince. Unfortunately, he is either very clueless or completely unwilling to give his attentions to anyone but me, and it does not go unremarked upon around these stone halls. I’ve begged High Queen Fiadh to warn him not to ruin our deception, but she says no one else must know of our scheme.
“This is a secret between the three of us,” she warns me. As if she is afraidIwill tell Prince Ruairí the truth.
As if I haven’t done everything in my power to avoid being seen with the prince.
He has found me in the castle library, the garden, and in one rather uncomfortable moment, the kitchens while I brewed some herbal tea to ease the High Queen’s stomach symptoms during one of her bad headaches. Each time, I’ve narrowly managed to brush him off before someone gets the wrong idea.
Even if I searched all the undercourts of the world, I doubt I would ever find another position in which fussing over a queen, having my heart broken, and fighting vicious rumors just to stay alive were in the job description.
When I write my letters to my family in the mornings, it's all I can do to keep my tears from dampening the pages.
And here, before me, is another sight to make me cry. Cillian Cloudtongue, smiling warmly at me as though he means it, when I know he really doesn’t.
“My dear Laoise, would you care to stroll the gardens with me? The sky is clear, and the court astronomers predict shooting stars tonight.”
I cannot keep pretending like this. Resolve filling me, my back straightens as I close the distance between us. I’m barely a hands-width from him when I whisper, “Enough pretending, good sir. No one is here, and I don’t think my heart can take it right now.”
He lifts a brow. “Your heart, dear maiden?”
“Please,” I beg him, “stop talking like that.”
“Like what?”
“As if you mean it.”
“What if I do?” Again, he arches that brow. I recognize this mischief in his eyes from when he sings one of the bawdier tunes, towing the line between poor taste and a good time for his audience. We stand so close, I can count the freckles on the arch of his nose.
“But you don’t. You don't mean any of this," I reply, fighting to keep the trembling from my voice.
He shifts his shoulders, his towering height seeming to diminish by several inches. “In truth, Laoise, I really do wish to walk with you. Our arrangement is making me a touch—uncomfortable.”
“Then you’ve much catching up to do, good sir. I’ve been uncomfortable for a fortnight.”
“Then why can’t we learn to be at ease? We can get to know each other. Perhaps we’ll even like one another.”
I do like you, I almost say. But he’s right. I only know Cillian the performer, not the person.
