Conquering the Queen by Ava Sinclair Page B

time, Cynric was finding his position a dangerous one. He was now more trapped between a good king and a kingmaker who sought to run it from behind the scenes.

Chapter Twelve
     
     
    Although she realized Xander was busy wooing Ravenscroft nobles, Avin took some comfort in knowing where the king was. He’d told her roughly what his schedule would be—meetings with noblemen, a hunt, a feast, and then more meetings before the coronation.
    “It’s a good day for the hunt.” Sal motioned toward the small barred window and Avin rose and walked over. From the tower she could see the rolling hills, the glittering streams snaking through the hollows between them.
    “Yes,” Avin said. “I hope it is successful.”
    This was, of course, a small lie. The deer were just starting to return to the kingswood. The villagers were able to hunt again. It seemed unjust for the nobles to take for sport what the people of Windbourne needed to survive.
    “You can watch them ride out.” The maid moved a chair over to where Avin was standing. “It is a fine sight. At Ravenscroft, we used to line up by the stables—all us servants—and cheer them as they went. And we’d line up when they came back with stags slung over the backs of pack horses and footmen carrying trussed boars on poles. It was a dangerous business, and make no mistake. Lord Reginald’s favorite dog was once killed by a stag. There wasn’t a deer to be had the following year.”
    “Why not?” Avin asked.
    “Why, Lord Reginald was so angry over the loss of his dog that he vowed to wipe out the stag’s bloodline. Sent his men out daily to kill every deer in the Ravenswood.”
    The older woman sounded almost proud, and Avin looked at her, horrified. “That’s almost too terrible to believe,” she said, but Sal only shrugged.
    “Not if you know the man,” she said. “He is not to be crossed.”
    Avin turned back to the window. Behind her, Sal was recounting other traditions she’d observed from her years in service at Castle Ravenscroft, and grumbling about how the Windbourne way was lacking by comparison. But Avin hardly heard her. She’d spotted the riders now, with Xander at the head. They were emerging into the courtyard from the stables, as the ladies in bright dresses spilled from the castle doorways.
    One particularly fair one stuck out like a jewel. She was wearing a yellow dress, and her thick mahogany hair hung down in shiny waves down to her narrow waist. She walked to Xander’s horse, smiling as she went, and when she reached him, the king returned her smile as he leaned down and took the flower from her hand.
    Avin knew this was simply a custom; the other ladies were also handing out roses to the departing hunters. But the kind look on Xander’s face, and the way her hand lingered on his—the way he let it—felt like a knife to her heart.
    “That’s the Lady Fleur Breton,” Sal said, answering her charge’s unspoken question. “Her family has been close friends with the Gawens going back years.” She chuckled. “See how the king looks on her with such favor. But what man would not? She’s a jewel, isn’t she?”
    “Yes,” Avin said quietly. “She is.”
    She turned away, unable to watch Xander chatting with the beautiful young noblewoman. Insecurity began to gnaw at her. She was no longer a queen, not even a noblewoman. She was a slave. She touched her fingers to the collar around her neck. Moments later, when she heard the thunder of hooves leaving the yard, she was glad for the solitude in which to cry. Sal had announced earlier that she had been asked to assist in some management of the other servants, and would see that Avin’s dinner was brought up if she could not do it herself. Knowing she was truly alone gave the former queen a rare chance to indulge in a bout of hopeless tears.
    It was easier to cry when no one was watching. The weight of being strong had been such a burden. Xander’s control freed her from some of that,