Chapter One

Miriam stared in disbelief at the herald summoning her to court. He wore the Feltspar livery of purple and gold so she doubted this was some trick. Still, the hour was late and she had been looking forward to an early night. Could she plead illness?

“Will Daphne be there?” she queried, playing for time, and choosing not to use her sister’s official title.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he confirmed. “Her presence has been requested, also.”

Not that it would make things any more bearable if the Princess Royal were in attendance, it would just deflect some unwanted attention from her. At best, they tolerated each other, though there was dislike in the mix, especially on Daphne’s part. Miriam did not have to search too far for the reason why. A suitor had come from a far-flung kingdom and declared he favoured the dark-haired one. That was in the past now as far as she was concerned and she had taken no pleasure in it. Thankfully, she had not been required to accept his loathsome proposal, her lady mother intervening at the eleventh hour.

Her father had never forgiven either of them for that.

She sighed. Closing the volume of poetry with regret she bade the messenger send Jenna to her. Maybe she could get away with the maroon velvet which was more modest than most of her dresses. Jewellery was out of the question since she didn’t currently possess any, only the cameo on a choker which had belonged to her beloved aunt.

As the maid styled her dark brown hair into a becoming chignon, Miriam stared at her face in the hand mirror. Her almond-shaped green eyes showed her pain but she veiled it with the ease of long practice, attempting a fashionable pout which made them both smile. At eighteen she was no matron and the tip tilted nose hinted at her inner mischief.

“Will I do, Jenna?” she asked.

The girl nodded but said nothing; she had, by all accounts, been dumb from birth.

Rising, Miriam dismissed her, and walked along the passageway unchaperoned as was her wont. No-one was about. She expected they were all gathered in the Great Hall. Except for Queen Eleanor whose untimely death was still a cause for grief.

Entering, she saw Daphne at once. Who could miss that bold yellow gown, the rubies adorning her ears and the elaborate hairstyle which must have taken Ruth hours to assemble?

Miriam made her way to her customary seat beside the King as unobtrusively as possible. The room was crowded and almost stifling despite the high ceiling. Daphne would have made a show of removing imaginary dust with a lace handkerchief so she did not, lowering herself with the innate grace which was second nature.

“You sent for me, father?” she murmured. She must stop doing that, provoking him into acknowledging her. He didn’t favour her and never would.

“All is well now,” he said.

King Gregory was prone to making remarks designed to irritate and confound. In truth his ways were very simple: he looked after himself to ‘save’ the people of Vercia.

Miriam could never understand why his face was so tanned. There had been no war for some time, other than a minor skirmish, and he seldom trained with the men of the barracks. Was his fascination with animal husbandry still a motivator to roam the sheep fields? That would explain a lot.

Not long after that trumpets sounded and what appeared to be a delegation arrived. Judging by those banners they had travelled a long way. It was years since she had seen the red and white of Abadon. Were they here seeking an alliance of some kind? The two kingdoms had been at peace for generations after a bloodthirsty battle over trading rights with the east.

Glancing around, she saw representatives from several of the northern provinces. There were no tributes from any of them, she noticed. Was the King so rich he had sent out word it didn’t matter? That didn’t tally with what she had overheard his advisers talking about through the open windows when she was walking her bitch, Saffron.

Miriam examined her footwear, conscious that her white shoes were scuffed in places as opposed to her sister’s gilded sandals. On hearing there was to be an auction she wasn’t wholly surprised. What antiques had King Gregory been holding back in reserve? In response to a query from the Minister of Finance, the King stated he was reluctant to dip into the money set aside for his daughter’s dowry and so he had no choice.

She wondered why he did not use the plural.

There were strong murmurings now that it must be a person. One of the unfortunate maids, perhaps? It occurred to her to feel sorry for Daphne as she would miss hers the most. Yet, when she glanced across at her, Miriam did not care for the knowing smirk and she began to fear for Jenna.

“Stand up, my dear.”

King Gregory was looking at her and she understood straight away the benign smile was fake. This was her punishment for not marrying Prince Renaud. Her knuckles were white where they clung to the ornate arms of the chair. Just for a moment she considered defying him in front of everyone and then common sense prevailed.

Miriam rose, feeling faint. Surely a princess could not become a slave overnight?

“Twenty pieces of silver,” someone cried, to almost everyone else’s amusement. That was barely enough to purchase a good milch cow the way prices were rising these days.

“Be serious,” the King rebuked him. “My youngest child has many pleasing attributes.”

Silence. The shuffling of feet. This was humiliating indeed.

“Maybe she should dance a little,” Daphne said, and tittered behind her hand.

“Miriam, I … ” It seemed her father could not make up his mind.

“Fifty gold pieces, though I’d like to see more of the merchandise,” stated a fat man from a seaport the name of which she could never remember.

“Show us some flesh,” the jackal beside him jeered.

Shocked mutterings were outweighed by a general craving for base entertainment.

“Please don’t ask that of me, father. I’d rather die,” she murmured, hanging her head.

“Seventy-five, assuming she is still pure.”

That settled it: she would not be visiting Abadon anytime soon. Unless she must.

Miriam began to feel unwell.

“Look at them, your adoring public,” Daphne said, with scorn.

That wasn’t strictly true. Attendance at court was limited to certain classes or professions.

King Gregory signalled for calm, seconded by the Chamberlain whose resplendent robes rivalled those of his sovereign.

She raised her head. Dignity was paramount, as was her duty to her father. Concealing her anguish she stared straight ahead, choosing not to think about the peril she was in, and all because she had refused to marry without love. The majority of faces were hostile – to her! – some openly lustful.

But there was one which showed no expression at all. It belonged to the tallest of the mercenaries, a bearded man with a topknot and a thin scar which descended from hairline to jaw.

This man terrified her and had done for months. They hadn’t exchanged a single word either on passing each other in the corridor or when he moved aside to allow her to pay a rare visit to her dying mother. She’d tried to tell herself he was contemptible, a hired fighting man in a time of peace working as a mere guard, though a part of her knew that wasn’t the case.

His aura was one of power, unlike that of her father, the King.

As she watched he undid the strings of something attached to his belt, his cold grey eyes meeting hers at last, and she shivered, looking anywhere but at his otherwise flowing blond locks.

“Two hundred gold pieces.”

The deep voice reverberated around the Hall long after the suede pouch had landed at King Gregory’s feet. Her father made no move to pick it up, though she did not miss the avarice in his brown eyes. Today they were slightly bloodshot. Could it be that he had over-indulged as this didn’t sit well with him?

That didn’t appear to be the case with Daphne, who was gloating as she flirted with one of the stewards.

“This is more like it. Any advance?” the King asked, smoothing his sparse moustache. “Come now, my noble courtiers, you can do better than this.”

Miriam gasped. Surely it was an insult to the mercenary and his kind? She made the mistake of glancing at him once more and wished she hadn’t. His gaze was fixed on her and now he looked angry – nay, furious.

“No-one has the wherewithal. I told you, Papa.”

Miriam swayed on her feet. Somehow, she managed to remain upright.

“What’s the matter, Your Majesty? Isn’t our money good enough? Most of it came from you in the first place.”

“Shut up, Sigurd,” her would-be owner growled.

Miriam forced herself to look at the mercenary again. She realised she didn’t even know his name. Why hadn’t he trimmed his beard, she wondered, for such an important visit to court? Maybe he had acted on impulse – all two hundred of them! – though there was no longer any trace of emotion on that stern face.

“Let him see what she’s hiding beneath that gown,” someone yelled.

“Don’t tear it, for goodness’ sake,” her sister said. “I have had my eye on it for ages.” She twisted the ring adorning the middle finger of her right hand. The gemstone was actually carnelian though Daphne had insisted on borrowing that as well.

The gathered ladies-in-waiting began to twitter endlessly behind their hands, but nobody moved towards her – save one – as the King dithered yet again.

“That will not be necessary,” the mercenary said, loudly, and she saw he was standing just below the dais. “Can I claim her now?”

“Please, Your Majesty,” Miriam begged, kneeling in what was a last, despairing appeal to her father. “Do not make me do this.”

All hope vanished when King Gregory snatched up the large pouch, dealt with the drawstring and peered within. Was he going to test the provenance of what must once have been his own coin? It appeared not for he set it aside, his lined face breaking into a smile.

“By all means, Ketil,” he said, spreading his hands. “I have no further use for this one.”

“What about my dog?” she blurted. It hadn’t seemed right to name her ‘bitch’ in front of everyone.

“Being strangled as we speak,” Daphne said, waving to someone she knew.

Miriam’s heart began to pound.

“But why?” she asked, tugging at her father’s sleeve in defiance of protocol.

“It costs too much to feed. And if there are pups … ”

He shrugged.

“A bit like you, dear sister,” Daphne said, insultingly. She began to fan herself vigorously with yet another precious heirloom, her hazel eyes alight with malice.

Rising slowly, as if in a dream, Miriam turned to face the mercenary.

“Do what you will with me,” she said.