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Chapter Eighteen

Five months later

“T
he messenger Renwick from Lydia to see you, Your Highness.”

Luke startled awake and peered through the darkness of his chamber to see the Illyrian soldier Kai, who’d formerly been Omar’s assistant, standing in his doorway holding a torch. The man still bore a scar under one eye from the mother bear who’d attacked the Illyrians in the ravine the night Luke and Evelyn had escaped from them. Whatever the man’s allegiance, he served Luke faithfully.

“See him in,” Luke told Kai, wondering what had brought Renwick in the middle of the night. Luke hadn’t been to Lydia since he’d left Evelyn and Bertie there, and though his brother had sent messengers to inquire of his well-being, the gap between visits had grown longer—perhaps because Luke had little to say to his brother. Instead, he’d stayed busy working as an ambassador at Fier, where he’d first appeased those who’d wanted to attack Lydia after Garren’s death and now busied himself learning all he could of the Illyrian tribes that lay beyond Warrick’s borders.

“Prince Luke?” Renwick panted as he took the torch from Kai, who quickly left the two of them alone.

“Yes?” Luke wasn’t used to Renwick being out of breath. The man was accustomed to traveling long distances, often quickly, to deliver timely messages.

“The queen Gisela has gone into labor.”

Luke scowled. He hadn’t expected any news about the coming child for another month. “Isn’t it early?”

“I’m afraid so.” Renwick’s voice sounded strained. “The queen may have overexerted herself and brought on the pains before their time. She struggles.”

Concern gripped Luke. King John had lost his first wife in childbirth. He’d sworn never to marry again for fear another woman might die trying to bear his child.

Luke had made up his mind long before not to return to Lydia, but he wouldn’t leave his brother to bear this trial alone, no matter what secrets John had kept from him or how much Luke held his brother’s silence against him still. “Did John send you to bring me back?”

“No, Your Highness. He specifically told me not to come.” Renwick’s eyebrows bent upward imploringly in the flickering light of the torch.

Renwick had defied orders, then, to alert Luke to his brother’s trouble. The messenger had always been a faithful servant of the crown, but like all Lydians, his allegiance was first to God, then to the king. Clearly Renwick’s conscience hadn’t allowed him to stay away.

Nor would Luke scorn the risks Renwick had taken to deliver the news to him. He reached for his boots. “You must rest. I will ride for Lydia at once.”

“I will follow soon. I cannot rest not knowing.”

Luke set one hand on Renwick’s shoulder. “How bad is she?”

“I did not see her, but her cries echoed through the courtyard. The king—” Renwick shook his head, his voice catching. “When the midwives shooed him from the queen’s chambers, he went to the chapel to pray. When last I saw him he lay on the floor in tears, pleading with God to forgive him for bringing this danger upon the queen.”

Luke breathed out a long sigh and for a moment couldn’t quite breathe in again. “He blames himself, then.”

“I fear he does. Can you console him?”

“I’m the worst person for that job.” Luke grabbed his habergeon and tugged it over his head. “But I’ll try. Thank you for bringing me the message.”

Luke stopped by the stables and asked for the fastest horse they could spare him. During his time in Fier he’d been given many privileges. Warrick had proven to be a far more gracious host than his father, Garren, had been.

“Would you like a party to ride with you?” the officer on duty asked.

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.” The borderlands had been peaceful since Garren’s death, so Luke felt no need for any guard. Besides that, he had a great deal of praying to do and wished the freedom to voice his cries to God out loud without anyone overhearing.

He rode quickly, sticking to the roads he’d had improved during his time of service as ambassador between the kingdoms. While his reason for clearing and smoothing the pathways had been increased trade between the kingdoms, he now felt grateful for the even paths that allowed his horse to run at a full gallop, without fear of jutting branches or stumbling blocks in the road.

His prayers were first murmured pleadings that God would preserve Gisela’s life and that of the child she carried, but his imploring soon turned to confession that he’d stayed away far too long. Perhaps if he’d been at Castlehead, whatever exertions had brought about Gisela’s early labor may have been avoided. Certainly the stress of his absence and the strained relationship between him and his brother couldn’t have helped any.

Guilt clawed at him as he urged his horse faster toward Castlehead and all he’d left behind.

Aachen, AD 802, late summer

Evelyn heard footsteps in the courtyard behind her and turned from her parchment, settling the quill securely in its tray.

“Grandfather?” She rose to greet her mother’s father. “How was your afternoon in Emperor Charlemagne’s courts?”

Her grandfather studied her face a moment before speaking. “Another suitor has asked after you.”

“That’s the third this month.” Evelyn hung her head.

“Don’t think I’m trying to pressure you to marry. You are welcome to be part of our household for as long as you like. Your grandmother and I love having you back again. I simply thought you ought to know.”

Evelyn absorbed this news while looking down at her hands, which bore a smudge of ink from a day spent transcribing scriptures—an activity inspired by the prayer book Prince Luke had given her. Since her arrival in Aachen, she’d tried to make herself useful, but her grandparents already had plenty of servants and wouldn’t allow her to do any work.

Perhaps the best thing she could do would be to marry and oversee a household of her own. She didn’t want to be a burden on her grandparents. She looked up into her maternal grandfather’s round, aged face—so much more caring and loving than that of her paternal grandfather.

“I’m sure I ought to marry,” she confessed, hearing the strain in her own voice as she forced herself to speak the painful words. “It’s simply that—” She shook her head.

“You love another.” Her grandfather’s voice bore no judgment, only understanding.

Evelyn nodded, grateful for his perceptiveness. “How can I marry one man when my heart belongs to another? It would be a horrible deception, and I refuse to tell another lie—I certainly won’t live a lie.”

“Perhaps,” her grandfather said as he patted her hand with his wrinkled fingers, “this man will come for you one day.”

“I’m sure he’s forgotten all about me.”

“Have you forgotten about him?”

She had not, but had he forgotten her?

* * *

As he approached Castlehead, Luke saw to his relief that the flags that fluttered in the breeze off the Mediterranean were those of prayer, not of mourning. He’d have preferred to see flags of celebration hailing the birth of a new heir, but at least the palace wasn’t grieving.

Yet.

As Luke slowed his horse and entered the courtyard, an officer approached, and Luke dismounted, handing the man his reins. “My brother?” he asked, panting as heavily as Renwick had when he’d arrived at Fier.

“In the chapel.”

“How is the queen?”

“No news yet.”

“Thank you.” Luke hurried into the chapel, past the guards stationed there, who looked for a moment as though they might stop him from invading the king’s privacy but let him pass the moment they recognized him.

John stood at the front of the sanctuary, his head bowed over the large codex of scriptures that was kept there. His voice echoed through the vast vaulted space. “Lord my
God, I call to You for help.”

Luke recognized the words from Psalm 30 a moment before John looked up and spotted him. He did not speak.

Nor did Luke, but he continued forward toward his brother, approaching slowly but steadily until he took his place beside him, his throat so full he wasn’t certain he could speak. Instead, he placed one hand over his brother’s clasped fists where they rested atop the sacred pages.

“Renwick carried the message?” John asked.

Luke nodded, his throat still full.

“I told him not to bother you.”

“I would prefer to be bothered than to have the truth withheld from me.” Luke didn’t want to argue with his brother and so addressed the real purpose of his visit, painful though it was. “How is she?”

“Resting, or supposed to be. The midwives hope to delay the birth if they can.”

“And the child?”

“Still kicking—and apparently not very pleased with the disturbance.” John almost smiled. “Mother and child are fighting already.”

Luke felt relieved to hear it. There was still hope, then. “I’m sorry I stayed away so long,” Luke confessed honestly.

“Why did you?” John asked.

Though he could have boasted to his brother about the peace he’d established between Lydia and Illyria, Luke knew he could have visited Castlehead without spoiling any of those efforts. And he was tired of secrets. “I was upset with you.”

John scowled. “I fail to understand what I’ve done that grieved you so. Yes, Gisela realized the identity of Evelyn’s father, but we had no reason to believe you wouldn’t be back any day to hear the truth from us. And I’d hoped to give Evelyn the opportunity to confess the truth herself.”

Luke’s heart, already heavy with concern for the queen and the child she carried, now sank even lower in his chest. “I hadn’t thought about it from your perspective.”

“Well, now you know.”

“Then I’m doubly sorry for my long absence.” Luke hung his head. He’d clung so fiercely to his anger, which now seemed trivial, even foolish.

John nodded, his mouth working silently for a moment before he spoke. “All is forgiven. Will you pray with me?”

“Gladly.”

Together Luke and John prayed through the rest of the thirtieth psalm, making their way through to the forty-second before the door burst open and the old deacon Bartholomew stood outlined by sunlight.

Luke’s heart sank. Had the pious man come to deliver bad news?

But Bartholomew shuffled quickly toward them. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I was only told this morning.”

“Do you bring news of the queen?” John asked quickly.

“They told me at the gate she is resting. I have not been to see her.”

John sagged forward with relief.

“Shall I pray with you?” Bartholomew asked.

“We have done nothing but pray and read the psalms,” John explained. “Give me some hope. My heart is too heavy with fear.”

“I know you fear for the worst—” Bartholomew began.

“Does it surprise you?” Luke would have taken the old deacon to the side and chastened him, but John wouldn’t have let them out of his hearing anyway, so he said what he had to say in front of him. “John lost his first wife in childbirth. Now Queen Gisela struggles.”

“You fear death?” Bartholomew leaned close as he spoke, and Luke was tempted to shake him.

“Of course he does.” He asked the man the same question he’d asked Evelyn along the road. “Can you raise the dead?”

“Which is easier,” Bartholomew asked, “to raise the dead, or to forgive sins?”

“To forgive, obviously,” Luke answered.

But the old deacon only shook his head. “Is it? Everyone dies, but how many know true forgiveness?”

Luke didn’t like the old man’s riddle of an answer at all, but before he could form a retort, the doors opened again.

This time, Hilda stood in the doorway, her eyes wide.

John looked at her with fear on his face.

Hilda panted—she’d obviously exerted herself more than usual. “King John? The queen is asking for you.”

John ran down the center of the chapel and fled through the doors after Hilda.

Luke was tempted to follow, but Bartholomew snagged his sleeve.

The deacon addressed Luke in an age-worn voice. “Do you know how to forgive?”

Unable to answer a question he wasn’t sure he understood, Luke remained silent.

Bartholomew’s smile was gone, replaced by a solemn look of utter sternness. “What good is life when you harbor condemnation in your heart? To be alive on the outside but dead inside? Far more blessed are those who die to this world but are alive in here.” His pudgy finger prodded Luke in the chest.