Page 1 of The Huntsman's Heart
Guinevere
I trail my fingertips over the rough stone, sprinkled with moss, worn with weather and time. Strange how some things in this castle show their age yet others do not.
My stepmother, for example, seems not to have aged a day since I met her some twelve years ago, my cheeks fresh with tears for a mother I remember loving. Melantha’s face is strikingly beautiful, but her smooth skin and high cheekbones hold not one inch of softness.
Not like the wall. The moss is smooth under my fingertip, giving when I press harder.
My finger catches on something and I pull it back swiftly, bringing the metallic taste of blood to my mouth. No softness there either after all, just a veneer.
Pulling my hood up over my head, I ignore the sting and hurry through the courtyard, away from the keep, putting as much space between myself and the misery that lies within as I might.
I’ve sat too long today forming neat, elegant stitches on a tapestry that tells a lie. A tapestry made to commemorate the eleventh wedding anniversary of my father and stepmother, the king and queen.
I’d like to have my horse saddled and ride out, but I know Melantha has instructed the stable hands not to allow me out at such an hour. Already the sun is dipping toward the tips of the tall trees of the forest. It will not be true dusk for another few hours, but dusk comes early here in Blackthorn Keep, surrounded by the Gloamwald. The deep, dark forest is wrapped around my home, and the creatures of night prowl there. It’s not safe for humans outside our castle walls.
Not after dark anyway.
And it’s always dark in the Gloamwald.
Or so they say. Of course I’ve never even been beyond Thornvale, the town nestled at the foot of the keep. I never seenoutside the outer walls with my own eyes. Sometimes I wonder if all the folktales are true or merely superstition told in part to keep good little princesses like me in our places.
The air is cold. It bites at my nose and my breath protests in little puffs of white. My boots crunch on the brittle leaves covering the ground, the last of the autumn fall. I’d still far rather be here than cooped up inside the solar listening to Melantha lecture me on proper behavior or one of her ladies reading aloud some pathetic verse they’ve attempted to write as an ode to her beauty.
The inner walls contain the castle keep, the stables, the blacksmith and barracks, and several other outbuildings. Through a secret passageway lies the market town, still protected by the vast outer walls from the forest without, but forbidden nonetheless. A loose stone by the well is easily moved aside to reveal the trap door which leads to the tunnel.
“Where do you think you are going?” A firm hand claps down, gripping my shoulder and freezing me in place. Alaric’s touch is cool even through layers of clothing.
I shudder. “Crawl back up my stepmother’s skirts and mind your own business.”
I try to shake him off, but his grip is too strong. My petulance is met only with dark laughter.
His fingers bite into my shoulder. With a huff of frustration I squirm from his grasp, but he moves deftly in front of me before I make two more steps. He’s standing so close, I’m forced to look up to his unnaturally pale face. His long nose and sharp features are partly hidden beneath the cowl he wears. They remind me of a hawk. The strange blue of his eyes only highlights the size of his nose. I drop my gaze to his mouth rather than get sucked into their depths. There’s something hypnotic about the intensity in Alaric’s stare. As if it’s lit from within like a cat’s eyes at dusk.
“Her majesty has requested your presence at supper,” he says.
“And so you rushed out to do her bidding? Of course you did.”
His hand closes around my wrist and, with a start, I realize he means to drag me all the way back to the keep if he must. “You might do well to take a leaf out of my book, little princess. It would go easier for you if you would do as you’re told for once.” Alaric’s voice is low and gravelly. It gives me the impression of something dead being dragged across cold stone.
Or perhaps that’s my boots dragging as he half carries me along the path, back toward the great hall.
I’d fight him, but it would be pointless. He and I have played this game before, and I always lose. Sometimes I try anyway. But today is not one of those days.
After a few more moments, I gather my feet beneath me and walk beside him in sullen silence. When he apparently judges that I’m no longer a flight risk, he releases my wrist and I snatch it away, rubbing at it more for show than because he actually hurt me.
“What do you care if I miss supper?” I snarl eventually, when I can’t hold back the words any longer.
Alaric mutters under his breath. “She’ll make me care.”
I can’t imagine how my stepmother could make a grown man as powerful as Alaric care about her orders, but I suppose she has ways. After all, my father seems just as firmly under her spell as any of her men and retainers.
The surly queen’s man escorts me all the way to my chambers, opening the door and near shoving me inside before folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Change for supper. Then I will escort you to Her Majesty.”
I glare at him. “With you watching? You would like that, would you not, pervert?” Gods, how old is he? It’s impossible to tell. He could be thirty or fifty. It depends on how the light catches his face.
“If I take my eyes from you, you will only run, won’t you, princess?” His gaze bores into me, and I shift uncomfortably.
I hate the way he unnerves me. Who does he think he is? A mere servant to the queen. Whereas I am the princess.
