Page 6

The morning was still early, but the hunt would stretch well into the afternoon. Whatever they managed to catch that day would be the centerpiece of the evening’s feast. A stag, surely—not even the king would be foolish enough to allow Camdyn on a hunt for something dangerous, like a boar, or, God forbid, a bear. Everild knew how easily things could go wrong on such a hunt. That’s why he’d ensured that Camdyn’s first experience in the wild would be one of relative safety.

Everild helped Camdyn pull on a new pair of boots, well-crafted but stiff. Not ideal for the hunt, for they would need to be broken in, and doing so on a long, demanding day would surely leave Camdyn’s feet sore long before the hunt ended. Especially if they ended up having to track the beast on foot, which was always a possibility. But there was little to be done about it now; the boots were the only ones available, and they were better than walking through the wilds barefoot.

His husband, as always, looked up at him with those large, dark eyes—eyes that were always full of concern, warmth, and questions. “Everild?” Camdyn’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Mm?” Everild’s gaze shifted back down. He was carefully rolling up the legs of his pants, trying to make them a little more practical for the hunt. The pants were too fine for something so rugged, but Everild didn’t want Camdyn to feel out of place, and he’d rather his clothing remain neat and clean for as long as possible.

Camdyn chewed on his lip, a habit when he was nervous or unsure. “Can I still pray?”

Everild’s hands stilled for a moment, surprised by the question. “What?”

“Before the hunt—do I still have time to pray? That’s what I do—always did—in the mornings.”

Everild blinked, caught off guard, but quickly understood. His husband had spent so many years in a monastery, where devotion and ritual were everything. Of course, Camdyn would still want to honor that part of himself, especially on a day that felt as momentous as today.

With a soft smile, Everild stood and moved closer to Camdyn, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. He enjoyed the feeling of Camdyn’s eyes fluttering closed, the soft sigh that escaped his husband’s lips, the warmth of his skin. Everild’s heart fluttered with tenderness. “Of course,” he said. The real hunt wouldn’t begin for a while; everyone would still be at the assembly, gathering and speaking with one another, getting ready for the day ahead. But even if they had to wait for Camdyn, it didn’t matter. The hunt was for them both. “Aldaay will show you to the chapel.”

Camdyn frowned slightly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “You’re not going to come with me?”

Everild froze. That simple question felt like a blow. How could he explain to Camdyn that he had not stepped foot in his chapel since the day he returned from the war? How could he explain that the idea of returning there made his insides twist, made him feel like he might be rejected? He couldn’t bear the thought of walking into that holy place only to feel it reject him as it had before, spitting him out into the hall, leaving him exposed and unworthy. Even when he’d been overcome by guilt and desperate for forgiveness, he couldn’t bring himself to go. The memories of the battlefield—the screams, the blood, the cries of the dying—were always with him, always lurking behind his prayers, mocking him for ever thinking that he fought in God’s name.

But before he could say anything, Camdyn looked at him with a deep understanding that took Everild by surprise. Camdyn was perceptive and he seemed to sense the weight of Everild’s silence. He gently took Everild’s hands in his, his expression softening. “Then I will just pray for you, husband,” he said with a tenderness that nearly broke Everild’s heart. With a peck on the cheek, Camdyn added, “You don’t need to be alone in this.”

Everild’s chest swelled with a mixture of pure bliss and quiet adoration. How could one person bring him such peace? He wanted to hold onto this moment forever, to savor this connection between them. But deep down, a part of him feared it was fleeting. This tenderness, this joy that Camdyn radiated—how long could it last? Everild was so used to pushing people away, to being the one who gave and gave until there was nothing left. He was selfish, but in this moment, he would take what Camdyn offered. All of it. And he would give as much as he could in return.

Before Camdyn could step away, Everild pulled him back, wrapping his arms around him, pressing him into a kiss that was deep and lingering. A kiss that felt like an affirmation of everything that had brought them together—like the wedding vows that had bound them, like the way Camdyn had melted against him on that day. When they finally pulled apart, Everild could see the faint flush on Camdyn’s face, spreading from his cheeks down to his collarbones.

“I’d like to meet with our stable master and huntswoman before this all starts,” Everild said, his voice low, still heavy with the emotion that lingered from their kiss. He squeezed Camdyn’s hips gently, feeling a rush of affection. “If I prepare your horse for you, would you be able to meet me at the field near the forest?”

Camdyn blinked, still looking a little dazed, but nodded. “Oh, yes! Of course, Everild. I know where the stables are. And I can ride a little bit. Don’t worry.”

They shared one last kiss before Camdyn hurried out the door, his smile wide and genuine.

Everild stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him go with a strange ache in his chest. Was it really this easy to keep Camdyn happy? To see him smile like that, so free and full of life—it was more than Everild could have hoped for. But as much as he wanted to believe it would be this simple, he knew better. After they had indulged his cousin’s whims with the hunt, Everild and Camdyn would finally have time to themselves. Time to grow together, to become the partners they were meant to be.

Everild began to think about the future—about the things he could do for Camdyn to make this place feel more like home. He could prepare the garden, for one. It might be too late in the season to grow anything now, but there would be time to plan for the next year. He could plant vegetables—beans, peas, carrots, turnips, spinach—and flowers—bright, colorful blooms that would make Camdyn’s heart smile. Daffodils, sunflowers, chrysanthemums—flowers that reminded him of warmth and light.

In time, he hoped Camdyn would flourish here, just as he had always dreamed.

◆◆◆

The stables were brimming with the horses of his guests—well-bred, finely groomed beasts, their coats gleaming in the sunlight. Their nickers and neighs echoed through the air, rising in pitch as the animals shifted restlessly. Everild could hear them even from a distance, the sound growing louder as he approached. A hearty voice broke the quiet as he neared the stables.

“There’s the newly wedded lord, come to grace me with his presence. How’s your young husband?” Willow, the stable master, called out from where she stood in front of one of the stalls. She was a tall, hardy woman, her frame built for work, with short blonde hair streaked with gray and eyes that shone with the piercing intensity of a hawk. Her expression softened into a grin, showing an old familiarity that only time and shared history could forge.

Willow had served in Everild’s mother’s household since she was a girl, caring for the horses, and had followed her mistress to the castle upon her marriage to Everild’s father. She had taught Everild how to ride as a child, a skill that had proven invaluable over the years. Even now, as Everild stood there, he knew without a doubt that she would be an excellent teacher for Camdyn as well.

Everild smiled at her, a rare moment of ease, and asked, “How’s your wife?”

Willow’s grin widened, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Finding you and yours a hart to hunt. A bit of fair warning would’ve been nice before my love was ripped right from our bed to trek for stags, though, eh?”

Everild’s smile faltered slightly as he sympathized. “My own bed’s been disrupted for this.”

“Hah!” Willow burst into loud, barking laughter. Her voice carried through the air like the crackling of a fire. “The king’s generosity knows no bounds. He couldn’t rest till he gave every couple in this household a case of longing in his quest for butchered venison.” Her laughter rang out again, a hearty sound that filled the stables. But then, as quickly as it had come, her humor faded, and she grew sober. “Ah, Everild, forgive me, I completely forgot. Will you be alright?”

Her tone softened, and the warmth in her eyes turned to something more concerned, as if she could sense the unease that simmered beneath Everild’s calm exterior.

He shifted uncomfortably, but his thoughts turned inward, recalling the brutal truth of what the hunt represented. Near the end of a hunt, when a beast was surrounded and utterly exhausted, it would stop, gathering every last ounce of energy to defend itself with desperate, wild abandon, trying to break through the hunters.

It was a scenario Everild knew too well, and one he had witnessed far too often during the war. He had seen the same wild-eyed, drained look on soldiers as they fought for their lives, shaking and panicking, their movements chaotic and desperate. The comparison had become hauntingly familiar. Eyes rolling in terror, bodies fighting to stay upright, gasping for breath. There was so little difference between the two, in fact, that Everild could no longer see one without picturing the other.

Hunting had lost its appeal for him years ago, and the thought of it still stirred something dark in him. He had no taste for it now. But the king’s demands were what they were, and appeasing him would allow Wilburg and his companions—Dustan, Gerald, and the rest—to finally leave his land and return to the indulgent comforts of the king’s palace.

It seemed like a small price to pay: a single day of discomfort for the sake of peace, quiet, and his husband’s company. Everild shrugged, dismissing his thoughts. “I can manage one hunt. Where’s Camdyn’s horse?”

His husband’s eldest brother had gifted Camdyn a horse as a wedding present. At first glance, the bay-colored mare might have seemed like a slight. She was a little long in the tooth, her coat and mane unremarkable, and she wasn’t very tall. But Everild realized quickly, as soon as he laid eyes on the mare, that Gibson had made a shrewd choice. Camdyn wasn’t an experienced rider, and the mare’s temperament reflected that understanding. She was a placid creature, calm and gentle in a way that spoke of years of careful training.

Everild and Willow carefully examined her hooves and teeth, inspecting her with practiced eyes. She stood patient and still, and as they continued, she sniffed curiously at the hem of Everild’s shirt, nibbling at it with a soft huff.

“What’s her name?” Everild asked, intrigued by the mare’s placidity.

“Seilide, the brother said. Sweet-natured creature,” Willow replied with a knowing smile.

“The horse or the brother?” Everild asked dryly, his tone flat.

Willow raised an eyebrow, her grin widening. “Ah, that man’s not very fond of you, my lord. He interrogated me most fiercely about your character. I told him that if he paid me a gold piece, I’d tell him all he needed to know.”

“And?” Everild prompted, his curiosity piqued.

Willow shrugged casually, pulling a shiny gold coin from her pocket and rolling it down her knuckles. Her eyes locked with his, and her voice dropped low. “I said that ever since the king told you that you were to be wed, you’ve run yourself ragged trying to make this place a peaceful, comfortable home for your husband. Don’t know if he believed me, but he gave me the coin all the same.”

She paused, her gaze intense. “But you remember that, Everild. Even before you laid eyes on Camdyn, all you cared about was his happiness. He’s lucky to have you.”

Everild was about to respond, but he held his tongue. Willow had a way of turning everything around, and in truth, it was really the other way around. But he’d never been able to argue with her—only her wife could. So instead, he cleared his throat and gave her a small nod. “Have Seilide ready for Camdyn when he arrives. I have to go to the assembly.”

Willow petted the mare’s flank gently. “Fine, fine. Go ahead. You’ve got to prepare the gift that the king so generously imposed upon you.”

Everild shrugged once more, as he had done so many times before. It was always the same. His cousin would propose a course of action, and Everild was left to follow through. But this time, this hunt, would be different. It would be the final time, the last time. His role as a husband had to supersede any duty he had to his cousin, king or not.

Udele, Willow’s wife and the castle’s huntswoman, was already out in the field with two of her hounds, a small army of servants at her side—servants from Everild’s household, Dustan’s, and the king’s. She waved Everild over as the rest of the group ate from a spread that appeared to be leftovers from the wedding banquet. There was chicken, its skin still crisp, and thick stew with chunks of beef, chopped carrots, and apples, the juices sopped up with loaves of fresh white bread.

“There’s my lord now,” Udele called with a wide grin, her long brown hair haphazardly braided and pinned to her head. There were bags under her bright blue eyes, evidence of the long hours she had already worked, but she still managed to maintain her usual cheerful demeanor. “Found a hart. Great, big beast. Ten tines. The rest of my hounds are all in position, my lord. Soon as the king and all get here, we’ll be ready.”

Everild grunted in acknowledgment. “Good.” Then, with a half-sigh, he added, “Willow’s angry. About the hunt.”

“I told her to expect something like this,” Udele said with a knowing look. “The king’s always been fond of the hunt. Ever since he was a boy. Trying to relive the olden days, I suppose. Remember how the three of you used to play in these woods? Your mother thought you’d be eaten by a bear.”

Everild chuckled softly, the memory of those carefree days flashing before his eyes. They had searched the woods for hours, Dustan, Wilburg, and him, convinced that somewhere in the dense forest there was a bear waiting to be hunted. They had used charcoal and parchment to map out their explorations, certain that a bear would appear, but it never did. They had been children, naive and foolhardy, and perhaps it had been a blessing that they hadn’t encountered one.

That was a lifetime ago, long before the war.

With a snort, Everild turned to his attendants, who were all gathered near the field, looking at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and spoke with quiet authority. “My husband’s not used to riding. Never been on a hunt, either. I’ll need two of you to stay with him while—”

But he was interrupted by two young men pushing their way to the front of the group. They both looked eager, their faces flushed with youthful enthusiasm. One of them shoved another man aside, causing a hunk of chicken to drop from the man’s hands. It fell to the ground and was immediately snatched up by Udele’s hounds, who were quick and alert.

“I’d be happy to do it, my lord—” one of the young men said eagerly.

“Please, allow me—” the other one chimed in.

Everild frowned, his expression faltering as he observed the ease with which these men volunteered to watch over Camdyn. There was something both comforting and unsettling about it. Comforting in that his husband would have people to look after him, but unsettling because Everild couldn’t shake the feeling that something more lay beneath the surface.

Before he could speak, one of the older hunters laughed at his bemused expression and elbowed Udele in the ribs. “Rough times ahead for our lord, eh? Stressful life, to have such a pretty helpmate.”

Udele smiled, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, I don’t know about that. My life’s been pretty easy ever since I married Willow.” She gave Everild a comforting pat on the shoulder and chuckled to herself, knowing that some things were just too complicated to explain with words.

◆◆◆

It turned out that Everild’s life was meant to be stressful after all, because when Camdyn finally arrived, he was not only in the company of both the king and Dustan, but the horse he was riding was not Seilide. Instead, it was a stallion with a coat white like bleached bone and pitch-black eyes, nearly seventeen hands high. Everild had ridden that horse into battle once and then never, ever again.

He cursed, mounted his own horse, and moved to confront the king. Dustan and Camdyn were a little ways behind him, side by side. Camdyn looked nervous. Had Dustan been accosting him? Everild would put an end to it, if so. But right now, the biggest danger was the stallion and Wilburg’s stupidity. Everild stopped his horse right in front of his cousin’s; the animal reared back in surprise. Wilburg pulled on its reins and shot Everild a quizzical look.

“That’s not Camdyn’s horse.”

The king scoffed and shook his head. “No, of course not. Dustan told me that stable master of yours wanted him to ride a nag. You’d probably get more use turning that thing into stew. You can’t honestly tell me you want that young husband of yours on a flea-bitten beast like that. Look how pretty he is—and who gave him the dark blue shirt? My compliments to them. It goes so nicely with his complexion.”

“I want him safe,” Everild growled. “That nag is slow and gentle. The one you’ve put him on is for a skilled rider, for battle—he won’t be able to control it.”

“Come now, Everild. It’s not as though we’re putting a spear in his hand or anything. He’ll be at the back of the party. All he’ll do is follow and watch. It’ll be fun—way more exciting than anything they ever had at the monastery.”

Everild gritted his teeth. “I want this done.”

“So eager for the chase? I jest, cousin. I know all you want to do is crawl back into bed and on top of your young man. We’ll catch our quarry and then you and I will have a nice talk, and back to your chambers you’ll go.” He turned to Camdyn and Dustan and called out, “A royal hart for my new royal cousin. A fitting gift, eh, Camdyn?”

Camdyn sat tense and uncertain on the stallion. Softly, he responded, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Dustan smirked. “You’ve married the Beast to a little mouse, not a lamb. How quiet he is! But I bet a skilled man can get you to sing and shout in the bedroom, hm?” His tone was different than the night before—the low croon implied not just Dustan’s usual vulgar harassment but implication, suggestion. Camdyn, trapped on the horse, could do nothing but hold on tightly to the reins and avoid the man’s gaze, embarrassed.

Everild let out a low, guttural warning. Even Wilburg, who had joked about marrying Camdyn himself while drunk and who just teased Everild about their bedroom activities while sober, balked at the discomfort on Camdyn’s face. “Dustan,” he said, “Enough. You’re upsetting Camdyn.”

“Your Majesty. My apologies, Camdyn. I only jest.”

It was a damnable lie. The way Dustan’s eyes fixated on Camdyn’s lips and followed the low cut of his silk shirt made Everild glad that his husband would be at the rear of the hunting party. He would be separated from Everild, yes, but he would also be far, far away from Dustan’s gaze. Everild glared at him as he and the king continued to ride toward the assembly.

Camdyn managed to sidle up next to him. The anxiety on his face hadn’t abated. “Most of the horses in the stable are here—poor Seilide—she’s been left out.”

Everild said, “Don’t worry. She and Willow will keep each other company.”

“I like her. Willow.”

“So do I.”

His husband was still frowning. Everild wished he could kiss him again, but he didn’t want Camdyn to tumble off the horse just for a peck on the cheek. Instead, he asked, “Ready?” and upon receiving a nod, they made their way to the waiting group.

“Everyone’s staring at me,” Camdyn mumbled. “Can they all tell I’ve no idea what I’m doing?”

Everild paused before saying, “It’s because you’re so beautiful.”

That brought a bright blush to his husband’s face. “Oh, please. You flatter me, my lord—“

“I don’t flatter. It’s the truth.” Never had even a thimbleful of charm or fawning words spilled from Everild’s lips. He was solid like a fortress’s walls, strong as a yoked ox, and blunt as a rusted knife—and he always would be. It made the king laugh, made the other nobles sniff or stammer, but Everild had always found himself warmly welcomed among the foot soldiers.

Those men whose hands had been calloused by years of hard work at their trade long before they’d ever held a sword. The sound of their laughter, the campfire’s smoke curling around them as they passed along rationed mugs of beer—it was one of his few good memories from the war.

Camdyn didn’t seem to know exactly how to respond to this, but his blush deepened and he finally gave Everild a small smile. “If you say so,” he said.

If Camdyn wasn’t aware of his charms, then how did he explain the attentive treatment from the two young attendants? As they traveled through the forest, waiting for Udele’s hounds to scent the hart, he heard Camdyn shyly ask questions and the two men all but fall over themselves to answer.

“What is it we’re hunting?”

“A hart, my lord—a full-grown stag.”

“Fully warrantable.”

“Massive, Udele said, and a full ten tines.”

“O-oh?”

“That’s the number of points on its antlers, Lord Camdyn. When you hunt red deer, you’ll only want a hart of ten or more.”

“Why?”

“That’s just sportsmanlike, my lord.”

“No honor in anything less.”

Camdyn said, “Forgive me. This can’t be very fun for you, to watch over me like this. Thank you for putting up with me.”

“No, my lord! You were at the monastery, they wouldn’t have taught you all this.”

“We all have to start somewhere! Lucky for you we’re here to help. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Camdyn said again, sounding a bit more cheerful. “I’ll do my best—”

The sharp call of a horn drowned out his words.

The hart had been spotted. The group let out a series of joyous whoops and galloped off. Everild glanced back at Camdyn, who had gone still with confusion, and jerked his head forward. The chase was on.

It was far too familiar, galloping past the others until he was riding alongside the hounds. As soon as Udele had pinpointed the possible path the hart would take, she had set a dog and a handler each along the way to be released when their quarry was found. Now they rushed after the hart, a series of snarling, barking blurs in Everild’s peripheral vision.

They’d corner the beast. However large the forest was, however dark and wooded, there would be no way for the hart to hide or to rest. Not with Udele’s hounds on their scent, and not with a determined unit of men ready and waiting to route its escape. The horn sounded again, signaling the knights to retreat behind the lines and the archers to step forward.

No, wait, that wasn’t right—

His horse crashed through a creek and lumbered up the other side of the bank. Everild allowed a moment’s rest before he spurred her on, flecks of water flying from her coat. Around them, some of Udele’s hounds lunged out of the water, panting and snarling, giving their fur a shake before they, too, continued on. In the distance, there was the flash of movement from more dogs released, the sound of their handlers urging them on with encouraging shouts.

Everild breathed in time with the mare. At the slightest tug of the reins, she immediately turned in another direction. The screams and war horns didn’t bother her in the slightest; she paid attention to only Everild’s touch. This was the way to survive a battle. Atop a well-trained horse, sword in hand.

“My lord,” a man shouted, “The hart’s headed to the edge of the forest.”

Perfect. They’d flush the man out and flank him. He wouldn’t be able to escape.

No, that wasn’t what this was. What was—he was lightheaded. Everild shook his head vigorously and spurred his horse onward through the thinning forest. He reached the tree line and flew out the other side, accompanied by dogs and the rest of the hunting party.

The hart was nearly at bay. It was still fleeing, but exhausted enough that the hounds could nip at its legs. They didn’t actually bite. Udele’s dogs were too well-trained for that. They’d merely run the animal ragged until it could do nothing but stamp and scream.

This beast was enormous, nearly seven feet long and probably over 400 pounds. This was where the danger lay, when the hart was desperate and exhausted and angry and ready to pierce its pursuers with its ten-pointed antlers.

They’d driven it to this point; its panicked eyes rolled wildly in its sockets, the harsh grunts and shrieks it emitted, the scratches on its hide seeping blood from having jumped through thorns and brambles in its frenzy to escape.

Some of the haze cleared from Everild’s eyes, and finally, he was able to think. The thought that rolled through his head was: thank God the king would kill it .

He didn’t think himself capable of it now, not in his confusion. But the highest-ranking man in the hunting party got the honor of making the kill, and there was no one higher than the king himself.

Udele whistled, and the dogs scattered, leaving the king, Dustan, and Everild closest to the hart. The attendants gathered around them, ready to trap it if it fled from the king’s spear. As they circled the hart, Everild swore he could see it watching him.

There must be care in how one pierced the hunted animal. Too many stabs ruined the pelt, and a stray stick in the guts could potentially rip the stomach or intestines, ruining the meat. It was a testament to his cousin’s skill and strength that he jumped off his horse, took his spear in hand, and lunged forward, breaking through skin and bone and straight to the beating heart.

Some said that a stag could live for hundreds of years, but this one, a full-grown hart, died twitching and panting and groaning, bleeding out on the dirt as men cheered around it.

What did Camdyn think of this display? Had it upset him? Disturbed him? Everild turned to find the stallion and his husband’s face among the crowd.

He wasn’t there.

Frowning, he searched instead for the two young men who were seeing to him. They were with Udele, speaking in low, anxious voices.

“Where’s Camdyn?” he asked, startling the trio. “Where’s my husband?”

Udele said, “He got separated during the chase, my lord.”

The young men chimed in. “We’re so sorry—“

“We thought he was right behind us.”

Everild took a deep breath. “Where—where was he last?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Maybe by the creek?”

If he got lost near the creek, would Camdyn stay along the water? Or would he have attempted to find the rest of the party? He might’ve gotten turned around and gone deeper into the forest, but eventually, the trees grew so densely that it was impossible for a horse to pass between them. No, he was smart. He would have stayed near the creek. It was the easiest identifier.

The king’s booming voice broke his line of thought. “Everild, what are you doing over there? Come congratulate me on this kill. You’ll have venison for days.”

“Camdyn’s lost,” Everild rasped.

His cousin frowned. “What?”

“My husband is lost.” The harshness of his voice and the anger in it made the two young attendants flinch and had the rest of the hunting party turn toward them, concerned.

Dustan tilted his head to the side and watched Everild’s growing panic. “Calm yourself. Look, there’s his horse now.”

A hush fell over the group. The warhorse trotted into the field, sniffing at some of the dogs and the carcass on the ground, completely unperturbed and unconcerned that it was missing its rider.

“Oh, God, no,” Everild managed.

◆◆◆