Honour

Chapter 3-2

Four men—men-at-arms, Emmett couldn’t help but remind himself—flanked the two of them. They’d brought mounts, for what purpose Emmett couldn’t understand; the walk would have been short enough. It had been a long time since Emmett had sat on a horse and he wasn’t enjoying it, though the beast between his legs was hardly the only reason for his tension. The procession felt too similar to a call to court—for all the wrong reasons. And Emmett could tell by his father’s stern expression that he felt the same way.

At least they hadn’t asked for Aleyn, a fact that Emmett was eternally grateful of. Throw yourself on the mercy of the church, Emmett had told Aleyn before they left. If we don’t come back do not return to the ship.

Not that the church would probably serve Aleyn much better, but one could dream.

A box of fine tobacco lay in Emmett’s carry pouch and a collection of soaps that he’d been given in France and had no inclination to use due to the outrageous floral scent. His father had six sable furs secreted somewhere also. God could only hope they weren’t bringing gifts to their own sentencing.

Interested stares followed them, as did mumbles behind hands, and, in some instances, outright gaping. Emmett’s father nodded politely to the few that caught his eye while Emmett, in stark contrast, rode with eyes trained forward and jaw set. If asked, Emmett would not have admitted he was praying.

Tall gates were drawn away at their arrival, the journey over the wooden bridge that offered the estate protection somehow even more menacing than the one into the city. The guards were quick and sure as they dismounted. Emmett and his father were not nearly so, but it was by front door and not servant’s entrance that they were accepted.

The front room was immense and lavish; oil lamps burned brightly even though the daylight was more than sufficient and a huge hearth offered the warmth of a briskly burning fire. Tapestries and artwork decorated high stone walls and statuettes of angels, women, and beasts watched over them from floor, pedestals, staircases, and ceiling corners.

A soft giggle drew Emmett’s interest and he lifted his attention to the upper structure of the most prominent set of stairs. Two sets of eyes watched from between slats of railing. The giggles became squeals of delight when the children realized they’d been caught and they rose in tandem, one boy and one girl, the boy old enough to be breeched yet young enough to still find the game amusing, and a girl slightly younger. They raced to somewhere out of sight with sharp footfalls and a flurry of cloth.

“You will come this way,” a guard prompted and Emmett noted it was about the eighth sentence he’d heard from the men during the entire trip. Emmett held back a sigh, straightened his shoulders and was about to follow when the silence of the room was granted reprieve by a voice that made Emmett cringe in memory.

“Ah, yes. My siblings told me you had arrived. Apparently this time they were not lying.”

Turn, Emmett told himself. Do not stand with one’s back to the prince. But as obvious as the command was, Emmett couldn’t bring himself to force the directive from mind to fruition.

“It’s been a game of theirs all morning,” Prince Andrewe continued. “I will never understand what amusement children find in the things they do.”

Emmett kept his eyes lowered, forced himself to face the prince and dropped to one knee. “Your Highness, thank you for your hospitality and once again, please accept my apologies for—”

“Bore.” Emmett’s speech was cut short and Andrewe continued as though Emmett had never spoken. “Perhaps you can tell me, yes? About the minds of children? As you seem far more schooled in them than I am.”

Emmett swallowed hard. “Your Highness, I have no doubts that any manner of your schooling would far outweigh my own.”

“Your Highness,” one of the assembled guards said. “Your presence, as that of our guests, has been requested in the Great Hall.” Andrewe flashed an annoyed glance at the speaker who, as though verbally reprimanded, quickly added, “On demand of your father, the King.”

Andrewe’s expression darkened. “I am more than aware that my father is the king, Mathew. I do not need you to remind me of his title whenever you refer to him.”

“Of course, your Highness,” the guard—Mathew, Emmett assumed—bowed his head and stood, waiting.

Andrewe extended his hand, palm down, and paused while Emmett secured it and kissed Andrewe’s knuckles. It was not Emmett’s imagination that had the prince’s grip tightening around his own. He looked up while Prince Andrewe’s lips twitched in the beginnings of a smirk that was caught, contained, and forced back. Yet Emmett’s hand was not released. Darker, Emmett thought, the look in the prince’s eyes. It reminded him of something wild, something hungry, and it sent a wave of heat into entirely inappropriate areas of Emmett’s body. He lowered his eyes to hide the flush.

“Your Highness…” Mathew began again.

Andrewe sighed dramatically. “Do rise, ship rat.”

“Emmett, your Highness.” Emmett advised, finding his feet. “Though I mean no correction.” He watched Andrewe wave off his words and walk past him without further regard. Blue silk whispered seductively as Andrewe glided through the room and Emmett shot a look at his father.

Behave. The unspoken word flashed in his father’s eyes and, resigned, Emmett followed behind.