Prologue

Murdering a Child

King Gervase set the goblet down but didn’t release the stem. It was already past sunset, and he had a splitting headache, which even the wine had failed to quiet. He felt his left eye begin to twitch. He hated when it did that, especially when someone was looking at him. Particularly the way Lord Gilbert was looking at him, with a little bit of sympathy and a greater portion of contempt.

“What did you say?” Gervase asked, tightening his grip on the stem of the goblet.

“My lord, he said he won’t relinquish the castle.”

The pounding in Gervase’s skull felt like a smith’s anvil. The words were incomprehensible through all that noise. “Lord Barton won’t?”

“Yes—Lord Barton. He’s strengthening its defenses as we speak.” Gilbert had a sheen of sweat on his brow, and his tunic was mud splattered. Clearly he’d just ridden all the way from the Heath and up the hill to the palace.

Gervase stared at him in disbelief. “He gave me his sworn oath that he would relinquish that castle. He had no right to build it, no royal permission, and it is close enough to pose a strategic risk to the royal castle at Beestone if he finishes it. Yet he has proceeded anyway, bold as you please, and the only reason I didn’t raze it earlier was because of that nagging whelp and his army!”

“That’s the one, for certain,” Gilbert said, rocking back on his heels. “He’s defied you again, my lord. His loyalty may shift like a weather vane, but he’s betting on Devon Argentine winning this conflict. We can’t let Argentine use that castle as a stronghold. Nor can we let open defiance from such an insignificant lord go unpunished.” The middle-aged noble stepped forward and planted his palms on the dining table in Gervase’s state room. “You can toss a coin in the fountain of Our Lady to pray Barton will come around, but I’d wager that coin he’ll be supping with Argentine before the end of the month.”

“B-but I have Barton’s son,” Gervase said, his voice suddenly strangled with emotion. “I have his little brat as a hostage.”

The look in Gilbert’s eyes was cold. “I know, my lord. Which leaves you with one choice: you must kill the cub to tame the bear. John Barton clearly doesn’t believe you will execute his son. You must prove him wrong. If you don’t, you will lose every bit of leverage you have with the other hostages. You think Archer will still stand by you? He dotes on his daughter, but he’s not afraid of you. None of them are. Because they don’t think you have the spleen to do the hard thing. Prove them wrong, my lord. Or give that empty crown to Devon now and save us more needless bloodshed.”

Gervase saw the palms on the table turn into quivering fists, saw the knuckles bleach white with the strain. Lord Gilbert had no soul left. This civil war had destroyed not only the morale of the men—it had destroyed the men themselves. No one was faithful. Everyone wanted to see him fall. He shut his eyes, unable to bear the accusing look coming from the other man, his distant cousin, who had lost sons of his own in the conflict.

“You have to,” Gilbert said dispassionately.

The words echoed within the clanging noise of his brutal headache. Gervase Hastings, King of Ceredigion. He’d loved the sound of it twenty years ago. Now it was a curse. He should have let someone else claw after the prize. Even with his eyes closed, he felt his eyelid twitching still.

So be it. His enemies thought he was weak. He had to prove them wrong. The thought of that innocent boy’s face came into his mind amidst the hammer strokes. When Gervase had brought the boy, Marshall, to Kingfountain, the child had held his hand as they walked the main corridor of the castle, something children did out of a natural instinct of trust. The memory of that touch plunged a knife of despair into his heart. A little groan almost came out, but he stifled it, knowing it would further unman him in Gilbert’s eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Gilbert said evenly, his voice like chunks of ice from Dundrennan, that distant stronghold Atabyrion still held. It should be part of Ceredigion, but he hadn’t the strength to win it back. “What are your orders?”

Gervase opened his bloodshot eyes, lifting lids that felt swollen. A dull pain sizzled in his abdomen, and his heart clenched with dread. He glared at Gilbert. “What does Barton call that castle again, the Heath?”

“Aye, my lord.”

“We leave at dawn for the Heath. Send the trebuchets tonight and my riders to protect them. When they get there, tell them to start building a gallows within sight of the walls. We’ll hang the boy first. Then the sire.”

He picked up his goblet of tepid wine and nearly choked trying to get his next sip down. Gervase knew he wouldn’t sleep that night. He might never sleep again if he followed through with the plan.