Their Castilian Orphan (The Castilian Saga Book 4) by Belfrage Anna

Author:Belfrage, Anna
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Timelight Press
Published: 2024-03-22T00:00:00+00:00

20

Once in London, Lionel and his fellow pages saw little of the king—the man was in one meeting after the other, most of them ensconced with trusted men like St John or his brother. But every evening, Lionel was ordered to minister to the king’s toe, and at present it was a raw and hurting thing that even, on occasion, required the physician himself to attend on the king.

“Less wine, less meat, my liege,” the physician suggested.

“Less wine?” With a truculent look that reminded Lionel of Issy at her most stubborn, the king sloshed more wine into his goblet. “And how, pray, do you think I will hold on to my sanity in these trying times without this comfort?”

The physician held up his hands. “I am merely offering medical advice, my liege.”

“Pah!”

Moments later, the goblet went flying, crashing against the distant wall. “Fine, less wine,” the king growled, heaved himself upright and stalked off towards his bed. “Clean that up before you leave,” he barked at Lionel, who ducked his head to hide the tears filling his eyes. He had no notion what he had done, but of late the king was always taking out his anger on him.

“Here, lad.” The physician crouched beside him and handed him a cloth. “It’s the pain,” he added in a whisper. “For a man so used to being nigh on invincible, it is as crippling mentally as physically.”

Lionel nodded as if he understood, but truth be, he did not.

He exited the king’s chambers with his various burdens. Above, stars twinkled against the clear night sky, and other than the odd torch in a sconce, the Palace of Westminster was markedly dark. It was as if its inhabitants chose to hide themselves away the moment their lord and master retired, likely as exhausted as Lionel was by the king’s daily outbursts.

He’d attended compline with the king and the rest of the royal household before tending to the royal foot—he giggled to himself: a royal foot attached to a royal leg that led right up to a hairy royal arse—and it seemed to him that, other than the sentries, he was the only one awake at this late hour.

He should have found his bed, but instead he snuck off to the stables, where Estrella whickered in greeting when he entered her stall. He rested against his horse, arms round her neck.

“I do not understand,” he mumbled, and Estrella nuzzled him gently. Ever since that evening in Portchester with the constable of Bristol, it was as if whenever the king saw Lionel, his gaze narrowed, inspecting him from head to toe.

Aye, Lionel knew who Owain ap Dafydd was, a lad who’d been Hugh’s age when he’d been locked away, but surely the constable’s reactions did not lead the king to suspect Lionel was related to him, did it? Besides, what did it matter if he was, seeing as Lionel himself had no notion who’d fathered him and what Welsh relatives he might have. Come to think of it, he shared dark eyes and dark hair with Rhys, so maybe .

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