Everything seemed like a dream. No, it was a nightmare. Gervase refused an offering of bread to break his fast and took up his position by the gallows. And then there was young Marshall Barton, smiling and holding the hand of Lord Gilbert, who led him toward the king. When Marshall saw Gervase, his smile brightened, his expression a marked contrast to the malice on his companion’s face.
“Do I get to go home to Papa today?” the child asked innocently.
Gervase’s throat clenched. He stared at the boy, his brown hair and hazel eyes. “Not today, lad,” said the king, trying to wrestle the words out.
“But that’s his castle,” young Marshall said, pointing.
“Aye, it is. I just wanted to get a better view of it.”
“It is a pretty castle,” said the boy. “But it’s not as pretty as Kingfountain.”
It felt like one of the hot coals from the fire lay sizzling in Gervase’s chest. It was painful, a slow torture of agony. “Do you miss Kingfountain?”
“Aye. Can we go back soon?”
He saw a soldier wipe away a tear, turning his face from the scene. Gilbert’s eyes blazed with fury. His expression showed he thought Gervase was daft for talking to the boy before killing him. He looked determined to march him up to the barrel and do the deed himself. But no, there was a soldier who’d been paid to do the deed already standing by the barrel, holding the noose in his hands, which hid it from the boy’s sight. The man looked greensick but determined.
Gervase’s stomach clenched. Was he going to be sick?
“I want you to stand on that barrel,” said Lord Gilbert, releasing the boy’s hand and putting his own on the boy’s shoulder instead. “You’ll see your father’s castle better.”
“Oh,” said the boy and started walking toward it.
Gervase thought he would choke. He gazed at the battlement walls, clearly visible in the morning haze. And yes, he saw soldiers standing there as silent witnesses. No sound of wailing had begun. Did Barton’s wife know what was to happen? The coward probably hadn’t told her anything. He would likely lie and say he’d been given no warning.
Someone stifled a groan. The whole camp was as quiet as death. As the boy reached the barrel, he was lifted up by his executioner. The boy stood on tiptoe, one hand above his eyes to help him see better.
Gervase stared, his throat dry and clenched. Then he saw one of his knights, the youngest of the mesnie, Sir William Chappell, turn away from the scene. He was so young he still had a few freckles across the bridge of his nose. The knight pretended to cough to stifle his tears.
Gervase looked back at the barrel and watched the hangman put the noose around the boy’s neck. Marshall shifted enough to glance at the king. He looked confused, and there was a little spark of worry in his eyes.
Lord Gilbert nodded to the hangman to kick the barrel.
“Stop,” Gervase said, marching forward suddenly, his heart sizzling with unbearable pain. “Stop, or you’ll hang next!”
The hangman backed away from the barrel, eyes wide with surprise and mouth grinning with relief.
Lord Gilbert whirled on him, eyes blazing. “If you do this, you’ll lose. We all will! Think on what we’ve already lost!” For an instant, the king thought Lord Gilbert might defy him and kick the barrel himself.
The boy, Marshall, lifted the noose away from his neck with trembling hands. Many of the men were weeping openly, and the boy was clearly frightened. Even if he did not understand precisely what was happening, he knew something was terribly wrong.
The king reached the barrel and gripped the boy by the ribs, lifting him up and setting him down on the dewy turf. He knelt beside the child and took his hand, afraid at what he’d almost done. What he’d almost allowed himself to be persuaded to do. The hollow crown sat in a chest in his tent, but he still felt the weight of it. Would King Andrew have ever stooped to murdering a child? Even the child of an enemy?
Never.
The boy gave a quizzical look to the king kneeling before him.
“Did you get a good view, Marshall?” he asked.
“It-it was . . .” His voice trailed away, and tears gathered on the young man’s lashes.
The boy’s father had rejected him. Gervase stared over the lad’s shoulder at the small castle and the men hunkering at the walls. That meant the child was forfeit.
“Let’s go home,” said the king in a kind voice. “Let’s go back to Kingfountain. I’m your father now.”
Four years now. I’ve been at Kingfountain for four years. But the king has died, and now there is no more requirement to hold a hostage for obedience, so we’re all going home. I’m finally going home to Connaught. My homeland. My true people.