Page 7 of The Rightful Highland King (The Last Celtic King #4)

Chapter Four

As the feast came to an end, Ansel had the sense that he had escaped one certain death sentence only to ride straight toward another.

He had spent the whole feast minimizing his interaction with anyone, staying in the wings of the room and watching as much as he could.

He danced with Nessa twice under his father's watchful gaze, though neither of them had made eye contact with the other, and neither had spoken a word.

The rest of the time, he'd stayed silent to the side, only speaking when one of the guests approached to wish congratulations.

Now, as the guests filed out of the hall, Ansel could still feel the King's gaze upon him.

His time was running out. He watched as the headmaid, Jessie, led Nessa out of the room, presumably showing his tired betrothed to her temporary bedchamber.

He hoped that the O'Sullivan girl would enjoy her rest while she could get it.

He imagined neither of them would be getting much peaceful sleep in the immediate future.

"Do ye want me tae sneak ye out of here, Ansel?" Baldric asked in his ear. He'd approached moments before with a cup of wine in his hand that, strangely, seemed untouched. "I'm sure we can find some excuse. It wouldnae be the first time."

A part of him longed to agree. As a thirteen-year-old child, the arrival of his two-years-older cousin had seemed an impossible gift.

Baldric hadn't often been able to protect Ansel from his father's rages and judgment, but even so, he had been the sole source of support in a world that had otherwise seemed filled with only darkness.

Every so often, Baldric would find an excuse to sneak Ansel away or otherwise distract the king, and for just one brief moment, Ansel would be free.

These precious moments had faded to nothing as the boys grew into men, but having Baldric by his side was still the main reason that Ansel had been able to keep going.

"Nay," Ansel replied after a short pause. He straightened his shoulders, settling the neutrality on his expression he'd spent a lifetime practicing to perfect. "There's nae escapin' this one, cousin. Ye may as well get out of here. Nae use ye bein' caught up for me own mistakes."

Baldric frowned. "At least let me stay. I?—"

"That's an order from yer prince," Ansel said firmly. "Off ye go. I'm sure ye've got much work ye could be gettin' on with."

Surprise flashed across Baldric's face, then he sighed. "Aye, yer Highness," he said at last. He shook his head before he turned and left.

At last, Ansel and the king were left alone. Ansel took a breath, then slowly turned to face his father.

"Follow," Edric commanded, then turned on his heel and walked out through a small door at the back of the room, which Ansel knew led to a private study. Ansel swallowed but did not dare argue. He set his jaw and then followed his father through the little door.

It closed behind them with a slam. They were completely isolated, alone together in this little room, and the rest of the castle's residents seemed a long, long way away.

Ansel stood still, watching his father's back the same way he might watch a wolf prowling around his campsite. He dared not move or speak. He didn't even want to breathe too heavily until his father gave him permission.

A clock measured the trickle of time on the wall. Each tick kept the rhythm of Ansel's heart and breath, each movement of the second hand a lifetime of anticipation.

At long, long last, his father broke the silence. "Well?" the king asked in his same steady, calm voice without turning around. "What have ye tae say for yerself?"

Ansel inhaled sharply. "Father, I?—"

"Father, ye call me!" Edric suddenly roared in a deafening shout.

He spun around so fast that he was a blur, and Ansel ducked just in time as something came flying toward him.

He heard a shattering just where his head had been, and suddenly, wine and glass shards rained down upon his hair and clothing.

"Ye dare call me Father ? Ye think ye have earned that right? "

Without blinking, Ansel straightened back up. He would not slump before his father. He did not raise his hand to get rid of the mess, but instead stood in a soldier's stance of respect. "Forgive me. Ye are right, Yer Majesty."

Edric glared at him, his eyes burning. "Forgive ye. Ye, who has so many sins tae forgive. I should kill ye where ye stand."

Ansel did not move. Edric strode across to him, drawing out a long knife and holding it directly in front of Ansel's face.

"What do ye think, lad?" he asked in a growl. "Do ye want another scar tae go with that ugly mark on yer face?"

"Ye must do as I deserve, Yer Majesty," Ansel replied. He kept his voice mild, ignoring the screaming child who had awoken inside him at that memory. "Just as ye did then."

Edric lowered the knife, then roughly grabbed at Ansel's chin, his eyes darting over the scar that ran across the prince's jaw.

Ansel had been twelve the first time he'd disappointed his father, and the rage his father had shown had almost been the death of him.

After his punishment, bleeding and weeping, he'd been forced to kill the captured rebel he'd been trying to defend before his father would allow him to get his wounds treated.

Neither he nor his father had ever spoken of that moment again, but Ansel had learned since that moment that to ask for clemency was to ask for pain.

There was no such thing as mercy, not while Edric was king.

There was no point trying to fight it. Ansel had been born to be a weapon, and so that was all he allowed himself to become.

No mercy. No hope. It was safer that way for everyone. After all, the pain was inevitable.

"Aye. Ye learned a lesson that day," Edric said, then roughly pushed Ansel away.

Ansel resisted the urge to rub his jaw where his father's fingers had pressed into it.

"Or so I thought. But here ye are now, worse than ever!

Ye've served as a mockery of me power as the rightful king of this country.

Ye're supposed tae be me son! Me heir! How can ye ever be a king when ye fail at the single important task I have ever laid at yer feet? "

Part of Ansel wanted to argue. He had done much important work in his father's service, more than anyone, but he did not dare contradict the king in his rage. Instead, he kept his chin up and looked into his father's face, accepting the verbal beating as he had done so many times in his life.

"Ye think yerself irreplaceable because yer useless mother died before she could give me more sons?" Edric snarled. "Ye think ye're untouchable because I've been sure none of me bastard children lived long enough tae claim that they and their filthy mothers have a right tae me throne?"

Ansel's hand tightened into a fist, but he quickly hid it behind his back.

Most of his father's women who had found themselves with child had been clever enough to disappear, often with the help of other servants, and Ansel himself had indirectly aided in such efforts.

Others had returned to their husbands, sparing their child's life by claiming it as the seed of their lawfully wedded spouse and swearing they would never let the king's name pass their lips again.

But a few women, too foolish or too brave, had brought their sons and daughters before the king, claiming he must take care of his kin.

The mothers and children had always disappeared, never to be heard from again.

How many children who carried Ansel's blood still lived out there?

There must be a number of them if they had not died in poverty.

Most likely, none of them knew the truth of their birth, but it wouldn't matter even if they did.

By the very circumstances of their conception, they were not Ashkirks.

They were not part of the legacy—they were free to live.

Their world could not be further from Ansel's.

Sometimes, he pitied them. Mostly, he envied them.

That was if they even existed. Perhaps they were only a dream.

"Ye arenae. I am still virile. I could wed some lassie tomorrow and make a son. I could make twenty sons," Edric growled. "I could take Nessa O'Suilivan and have her carry me heirs instead of givin' her tae ye. What do ye think of that?"

Ansel thought of the pallor of Nessa's face.

She'd seemed so scared. "Ye must do as ye think is right, Yer Majesty," he replied evenly.

"Though while ye could produce many mighty heirs, they will take time tae grow.

A grandson can be shaped much more easily while ye still contain the power through yer already faithful heir. "

Edric narrowed his eyes. "Ye always were a clever lad. Perhaps that's why ye're such a coward." Suddenly, he spat at Ansel's feet. "A coward! Just as yer mother's father was when he let me steal her away. Just as that rebel pretender is, hidin' behind the name of a dead prince."

What would Edric do, Ansel wondered, if he knew the truth?

How would his father react if he knew that Cailean McNair was no pretender, and that the rebels followed the legacy of the true king?

Instantly, a flash of horror filled him at his thoughts.

His father was the true king. Nobody else.

He could not believe he had allowed such a slip even in his mind.

Grabbing the front of Ansel's shirt, Edric pulled him close.

"Dinnae forget, I brought me useless sister's son here all these years ago for a reason.

He shed his dead father's name the moment I brought him intae me castle.

Baldric can be made me heir in an instant.

Shall I do that, lad? Shall Baldric disappoint me less than ye? "

Ansel kept his mouth shut. Anything else he could say would make it worse.