Chapter Eleven

After staring at the stone medallion for several long seconds, Ranald let out a slow whistle.

“What is wrong?” Alys asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he replied, “but now ‘tis my turn to show you something. He reached into his jerkin pocket and pulled out the shattered stone he’d accepted when he’d been given his commission. “Look, Alys.”

She took the stone and stared, then picked up her stone and fitted the two together, frowning a little as she looked at one side and then the other. “Ranald, it has the same marking as the gold coins.”

He nodded. “That mark is the lyon, the monarch’s own sigil. The same as I have on the hilt of my sword.”

“What does it mean?”

He was still uncertain, but…“I’ll tell you what I know. I never completely explained my commission. I was sent to find the monarch’s nephew. Twenty years ago, when he was a youth, he and the monarch, his guardian, quarreled. The nephew, Prince Haran, was banished for a month. He left the palace and was never seen again. He disappeared in the vastness of the monarch’s lands, maybe even left them. 

“A year ago, the monarch commissioned me to search all the territories until I found some trace of him. I took an oath to do so. He gave me that stone, saying it was part of a token he’d given Haran. When they parted in anger, the lad smashed it on an anvil, saying he would break it to signify his rift with his uncle.”

“Why did they quarrel?”

“That I was not told.”

Ranald watched Alys as she stared at the joined halves of the sigil and bit her lip. “Ranald,” she said at last, “my father was Haran the mason.”

In the long silence, he heard every breath she took. It seemed her heartbeats echoed off the low ceiling. “Alys—” he started.

She shook her head, holding up her hand to silence him. “Give me peace, Ranald. I have to think!”

So did he. They had traveled side by side for five days, and never once had he imagined…How could he? He’d been sent to find a middle-aged man, not a maid—or a maid who was no longer a maid because of his passion.

He waited, while a log shifted on the fire, and a servant knocked on the door with a jug of hot water. When she had gone, Alys took a deep breath. “I am utterly confused, Ranald. Does this really mean my father was the monarch’s nephew?”

“Unless I am much mistaken, yes.”

Another long silence. Ranald would have given his life’s pension to know what passed through her mind—or would he?

“What happens now?” She sounded resigned, but fearful.

“We must ride, at all haste, to the metropolis. Show your stone, the books, and the lyons to the monarch. He, and he alone, can speak on this, but he also knows the substance of the argument that caused the rift.” He reached across the table. “Are you afraid?”

“I am anxious, yes. Who would not be in my position? But…” She smiled at him, her cheek dimpling as her face lit up with anticipation. “There is one thing that pleases me greatly.”

“What?”

“Did you mean what you said on the road this morning?”

“You know I did, Alys!”

“So, if I am the daughter of the monarch’s lost nephew, you have accomplished your commission and therefore are free of your vows!”

She stood, smiled, and slowly unlaced her bodice.

He stood and stepped around the table to help her.