Page 10

I jerk my head in acknowledgment, not in the mood for his chipper conversation.

“Did you see I spoke with Lady Clover earlier?” the young duke says with a grin, not picking up on my subtle signals that I prefer to walk in silence. “In the throne room—I held the door for her.”

I grunt.

“Clover’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He lets out a heartsick sigh. “Before, I didn’t think she even knew my name, but today, she said, ‘Thank you, Bartholomew.’ What do you think it means?”

“I think she was thanking you for holding the door.”

“Oh, but the way she said it...” He trails off as if reliving the blessed moment once again.

Meanwhile, my brow furrows as I’m reminded of the conversation I was unfortunate enough to overhear earlier. Though I know little of Clover, it’s obvious she’s thought a great deal about me. And she’s formedopinions.

“Like locking lips with a fish,” I mutter.

“Excuse me?” Bartholomew says, startled from his daydreams.

“Nothing,” I answer sharply.

We reach the king’s study, and one of the guards nods. “His Majesty is expecting you both. You may go in.”

Bartholomew scurries inside, and I follow him with slightly less exuberance.

“Hello, Uncle!” Bartholomew sets a basket on top of a desk in the massive library that the king calls his study. “Mother has made tartlets for you—raspberry, I believe.”

A smile flickers over the king’s face. “Thank you, Bartholomew.”

“She said they are a bribe, but she wouldn’t tell me what for.”

Looking slightly vexed, King Algernon sighs. “You may tell her that her message has been received.”

“Ah, good. Mother said you’d understand, and I’m glad for it—she wouldn’t breathe a word of it to me when I asked her to elaborate for the sake of clarity.” He grins. “It must be something terribly secret.”

“Yes,” His Majesty says somewhat curtly. “That’s fine—sit down, Bartholomew.”

Immediately, the boy obeys. King Algernon studies him for a moment, frowning, and then he turns his attention to me. “Henrik.”

I stand straighter. “Yes, sire?”

“Bartholomew will no longer be apprenticing Lawrence. From here on out, he will be assigned as your squire.”

I study the king, confused. “But, Your Majesty…I am not a knight.”

Wryly, he answers, “Yes, I am aware of that.”

If Algernon were anyone but the king, I would question him further. After all, a squire can only apprentice a knight—that’s how it works. Those are the rules.

Why in the kingdom would he assign his nephew—the royal military’s future duke marshal—to me, a lowly born soldier?

Instead of arguing, I bow my head, trying not to look ill. “As you wish.”

“Truly?” Bartholomew says, sounding pleased as he turns to me. “Will you teach me that thing you do with your sword?”

“Thing?” I ask hesitantly.

“The one where you lunge forward”—he leaps to his feet and extends his arm in front of him as he acts out the move—“And then you feint to the right, and then to the left, and you turn three-quarters of the way around, duck down, and sweep your opponent’s feet out from under him.”

I’ve never done that in my life.