The King's Spinster Bride Read online

  The King’s Spinster Bride

  Ruby Dixon

  Ruby Dixon

  Copyright © 2018 by Ruby Dixon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover: Kati Wilde

  Edits: Aquila Editing

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  The King’s Spinster Bride

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Royal Wedding series

  Ruby Dixon Reading List

  Want More?

  The King’s Spinster Bride

  Sixteen years ago, Princess Halla of Yshrem saved the life of an eight-year-old barbarian boy and watched her kingdom fall to ruin, all on the same day. Now, she is a forgotten spinster in a quiet temple, living her days out in solitude. The last of her line, she exists in the hope that she has been forgotten, for to be remembered by the enemy is to be certain death.

  One person has not forgotten her. Mathior, now twenty-four, is the fierce warrior king of the Cyclopae. Yshrem is in turmoil and his advisors have a suggestion – kill the last remaining member of the royal line, and there will be no rivals for the throne.

  Mathior has a different idea. He’s loved Halla for sixteen long years, and it’s time he claimed her as his wife. But a barbarian’s wedding customs are unlike any other…

  1

  Sixteen Years Ago

  HALLA

  “I thought cyclops were supposed to have one eye, not two,” titters one of my attendants. “Are we quite sure that he’s Alistair’s son?” The other women in the room giggle behind their sewing.

  I ignore them, gently pushing my needle through my embroidery. The boy in question stands by the castle window, looking out over the city. Yshrem is unnaturally quiet this time of day. It’s because the walls are manned against the army waiting outside, ready to put us under siege unless my father the king surrenders.

  My father won’t surrender, though. He’s too proud. Yshrem and all its lands belong to him. He is a good ruler, I think. Fair and wise. Maybe a bit intractable when crossed, but I adore him and hope to rule like him someday. King Gallin the wise. King Gallin the just. King Gallin who stands at the gates of the city, confronting Alistair and his Cyclopae warriors. I cannot help but worry, and my stitches are calm but uneven. My father is not a warrior. His hair is snowy white, and while he still stands straight, I know his knees pain him on rainy days. He surrounds himself with scholars, not generals.

  Alistair’s people are…not anything like us.

  I think of the legends I have been told. The Cyclopae are utterly fierce and fearless. They have but one eye, stand seven feet tall and drink the blood of wolves when they are born. Their mothers do not suckle them but abandon them to the wild, and when they grow of age, they join Alaric’s fierce band. They ride upon the backs of beasts and eat the flesh of their enemies. They are not civilized, not in the slightest.

  I pretend to keep my eyes on my stitching and let my gaze slide over to the boy that stares out the window, his hands on his little belt. Mathior has been with us a month now, a prisoner of war. A guarantee against Alaric’s wrath, my father said. It has not seemed to work, because Alaric has shown up at Yshrem with an army, and I worry things will not end peaceably. Mathior does not look much like the legends, I have to admit to myself. He is just a boy of eight, and while he is tall and browned from the sun, he does not look as if he eats the flesh of his enemies. He has two eyes, and they are a soft brown that is almost as dark as his long, braided hair. Although he has been with us for a month, he chooses to wear the clothing of his people, preferring his fur vest and soft suede leggings to the decorated fabrics of my father’s court. His hands rest at his waist, as if he is hoping for a dagger to appear there.

  And he watches the walls of the city intently.

  The handmaids giggle again. “If he’s not a cyclops, then what is he?” one of them asks.

  “A bastard?” suggests another.

  I push my needle through my banner. “Enough. Mathior is a guest, and an honored one.”

  “He is a savage, my princess—”

  I give her a sharp look and she goes quiet. Of course she falls silent. She would not dare displease Crown Princess Halla of Yshrem, sole heir to the throne. It doesn’t matter that I’m barely sixteen. I’ve never been allowed to be a child. I am the heir first, a marriageable bride second, and a daughter last. For the last few months, ever since my birthday approached, the kingdom has been besieged with suitors from distant, far-flung kingdoms who wish to marry me and “help” rule Yshrem. I know my marriage must be one of convenience and not love, so I have kept all at arm’s length and showed interest in none…even if my girlish heart secretly yearns for one or two of the more handsome, dashing lordlings.

  Marriage will be a certain part of my future. To choose otherwise would make the kingdom unstable, because right now I am the only heir. I have always known that I will be married off for a strong alliance, so I have never allowed myself to dream of love except in secret.

  Not that love matters. Or marriage. On this day, marriage is the furthest thing from my mind. It is the fate of the kingdom itself I worry over. The walls of the castle shake, and screams echo up from the courtyard, and my next stitch is shaky. I force myself to remain focused even as a few of my ladies nervously get to their feet, heading for the window. They stare down at the siege below us, and when one of the women pales and returns to her seat next to me, I know it is not going well.

  Alistair has come for his son. The Cyclopae, savage barbarians all of them, have laid siege to the graceful, cultured kingdom of Yshrem. I tell myself they are the barbarians, not us. I tell myself that we are far ahead of them in advancements and armor and courtly tactics on the battlefield. We should win handily.

  But the Yshremi have lost every battle against the cyclops. And now they are on our doorstep, and I am filled with fear.

  “Princess,” Lady Tamira retakes her chair next to mine, and her face is white with fear. “They have broken through the gates. Shall we go into hiding?”

  I swallow hard and force myself to do another calm stitch. “No. My father’s troops will handle it.” I can’t retreat. To do so would show that I have no faith in my father to defeat his enemies. If word of that got out, we would be attacked from all sides even if we were to repel the cyclops invaders. It does not matter. Fight one enemy or fight all of them.

  I notice Mathior comes to my side. For such a small boy, he’s remarkably observant and acts far older than he is. He watches me with dark eyes as I do my best to continue my embroidery even though my hands are shaking. After a moment, he puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, Halla. My father’s going to win this day, but I will tell him of your bravery.”

  I look at him in surprise, at his tanned face and dark eyes, the long, wild hair decorated with feathers and fur. Even though he has been with my people for nearly a month, he refuses to dress like a courtier and prefers to seem a barbarian.

  “How dare you!” Lady Tamira exclaims, rushing forward to snatch young Mathior’s hand from my shoulder. “First of all, she is Princess Halla to you. And you are not allowed
to touch her!” She sniffs indignantly at the thought.

  “But I am a prince,” Mathior says, his expression growing childishly stubborn. “Why can’t I talk to her as if she’s my equal?”

  “Because you are a barbarian,” Tamira hisses. She holds her skirts out as if blocking him from my view, and my lips twitch with amusement when Mathior simply crosses his eyes at her. “Your people are strange and crude and are not fit to lick the princess’s shoes.”

  “Lady Tamira,” I begin again, ready to correct her.

  Before I can, Mathior speaks up. “It is your people who are the strange ones,” Mathior says. “Mine are warriors.” He holds himself up proudly to his full seven-year-old height. “And by the end of this day, you will be bowing to me.”

  My lady-in-waiting squawks indignantly, but before I can step in, the door to my private chambers flies open. The royal guard rushes in, accompanied by Lord Balun, one of my father’s close friends and advisors. I jump to my feet, forgetting to be ladylike and calm. Balun’s clothes are streaked with blood and his eyes are wild. He scans the room and at the sight of Mathior, points a dagger. “There he is, men. Grab the little heathen.”

  I suspected this might happen, and that is why the barbarian prisoner is in my apartments this day, with my ladies. I calmly step in front of Mathior, as if this is nothing out of the ordinary, and give Lord Balun a cool look. “What are you doing? Who gave you permission to enter my chambers?”

  “Forgiveness, Princess,” he tells me breathlessly even as I shift and hide the cyclops boy behind my skirts. His hands clutch at them and I can feel his small form tremble behind me, for all that he’s never shown fear before. It reminds me that he is still very much a young child, nine years younger than me. It might as well be a lifetime. Balun straightens, his face pale. “We are lost, Princess. The Cyclops king Alistair has broken through our defenses and slaughtered your father and his guard. They are overtaking the castle.” His voice breaks on a sob. “They cut him down like he was nothing! Like he was filth!” His nostrils flare and an inhuman look crosses his face. “Give me the boy. We can avenge your father and make Alistair pay, but we must be quick.”

  I stand there in shock. His words hit me like crossbow bolts. Father dead. The castle lost. The cyclops warriors have won. Our kingdom will be ground beneath the heel of a barbarian usurper.

  I want to be strong and decisive. To be the queen they need. “My father is dead?” I whisper brokenly.

  I feel Mathior’s small hand clasp mine. He gives me a squeeze, as if comforting me.

  Balun nods, grief and rage written on his features. Behind him, the royal guard are restless but also tormented by their failure. They do not lie to me. They have tears in their eyes, all of these men. Their king is dead and they have failed him.

  “Give me the boy,” Balun says again. “We can have vengeance for your father. We will cut his throat and throw his body from the battlements to show Alistair that we are unbroken—“

  “No.”

  Lord Balun looks astonished at my refusal. His face darkens and he takes a menacing step forward, moving far too close to me for comfort. My ladies, who are not trained to be more than companions, retreat. I stand my ground and hold Mathior behind me. “Give me the boy,” he says again. “This is a man’s matter, not a woman’s. You do not know of war. You did not see your father’s death under their spears—“

  “My father is dead,” I say crisply, and even though I am screaming inside, I sound cool and efficient. “And your response is to kill a small boy who should not have been stolen in the first place? We are a kingdom of light and learning. That is a cowardly move and we are better than that.”

  I sound strong, even if my knees are weak.

  “Kill him or be put to the sword yourself, Princess. Do you think the cyclops will have mercy on you? The daughter of their enemy? They will cut you down,” he snarls in my face, so close that I can feel his spittle fleck my skin.

  Mathior tries to move forward, but I push him behind my full skirts and press closer to my carved chair so he cannot do something as foolish as trying to save me.

  “Do not stand in my way—“

  “If my father is dead, I am now the queen. You are my royal guard.” I give Balun and his men an imperious look. “Do you go against my wishes? Mathior is an honored guest. He will remain so. I will not let you touch him so long as I live.”

  “Then you will only live for an hour,” snarls Balun. He turns to the royal guard.

  They look at him, then at me, and drop to a knee, bowing their heads in my direction. Loyal, brave men. I stand a little bit straighter at their allegiance. I know I am right. It is not our way to kill prisoners, especially a small boy who has done nothing wrong save be born to the enemy king.

  Balun turns his back to me and storms out of the room.

  I blink rapidly. Everything is happening so fast. I take a deep, steeling breath as the sounds of battle below grow louder. Mathior’s small hand squeezes mine, lending me his strength, and I remember who I am. Yshrem is supposed to be a good place, a cultured kingdom of learning and beauty. We are not murderers. Even if we are conquered.

  Even if I am queen for ten minutes, I will be the right kind of queen.

  I turn around and look at the seats scattered about my chamber. “Cosira, bring your chair next to mine,” I say, indicating the next largest carved seat. “Mathior will sit at my side as the guest he is.” My ladies bustle into activity and I sit back down on my chair—now my throne—and ignore the pulse hammering in my throat. I swallow hard and lift my head to address the guard waiting for my orders. “If the castle is lost and my father dead, then I would have no more blood shed on this day. Go and give the orders to lay down their weapons. Not all of my father’s men need to die for Yshremi pride.” I smooth my skirts and gaze upon them as a queen. “We will wait here to greet Alistair the Conqueror.”

  I pray that when Alistair puts his sword to my throat to kill me—as he surely will—I will be as composed as I am in this moment.

  Mathior puts his hand over mine, his skin dark against my milk-pale, his hand childish against my larger one. “I won’t forget, Halla.”

  I give his hand a squeeze and then wait to meet my end.

  2

  Sixteen Years Later

  MATHIOR

  I stare at my father’s funeral pyre, the flames of it growing higher by the moment. Songs rise into the night, my people singing up to the stars of my father’s deeds. Of the many bloody battles he fought and won. Of how he made the cyclops a kingdom to be feared. Of his conquest of Yshrem with its weakling king and neighboring Alassia, whose citizens threw down their arms the moment they heard the barbarian king had turned his eye their way. On and on, I hear songs of Alistair’s many feats—some not entirely true, but all glorious and praising of his name.

  This is a time for fine words in his memory. This is a time to drink and praise him. In the morning, there will be kingdoms to govern and my people to lead, but tonight is for him. At least, that is how it should be. Already his advisors look to me with questions in their eyes.

  And I am the one that must give them answers.

  I rub at the scar over my eye, the symbol of my strength as a warrior. The day I sacrificed my eye to the god Aron of the Cleaver to prove that I did not need two eyes to be a brutal fighter. That a fierce Cyclopae warrior only needs partial sight to ruthlessly slaughter his enemies. It is a tradition as old as time amongst my people, and I submitted willingly. That was the day I became a man, but sometimes the scar itches, even though the eye there has been long gone these ten years.

  I lower my eyepatch once more and cross my arms, deliberately staring into my father’s funeral pyre. I keep my gaze focused, daring the Yshremi ambassador who skulks at the edges of the celebration to come and demand answers.

  I will give him answers at the tip of my spear if he does.

  But the man has some brains. He gives me worried looks but does not disturb m
e as I pay tribute to my father. I celebrate with the others, raising my voice in song and lifting drinking horn after drinking horn in his name. I do not drink from all of them, but the revelers who celebrate my father’s life—warriors and widows alike—do not notice. All they know is that they must shout their joy of my father’s deeds to the heavens so the gods will hear them. Tomorrow will be a time for mourning, but not tonight.

  The hours wear on, voices grow hoarse, and the fires grow dim. When the last of the flames have gone out and my father’s funeral celebration is complete, I am weary but pleased. My father has been sent to the gods with great honor.

  Tired, I toss my furred cloak over my shoulders and leave behind the funereal fires, toward the largest tent in the encampment. Now it is my tent.

  “A word, King Mathior,” I hear a voice whine from behind me.

  I grit my teeth. I had hoped to wait until tomorrow to answer this. I know what he will ask. I know my answer. I have always known my answer. But I do not have the time or the patience to explain it to him or anyone else. Of course, a king should not have to explain…but warriors and diplomats are very different kinds of people. Diplomats insist on words for everything, even when I would rather shove a spear down their throats.

  My father would laugh at my sourness. He would tease me and tell me that even the word-sparring is still a battle that a king must fight, and it must be approached as seriously as any battlefield combat. My throat aches and I feel a sad sense of longing that he is not here, that I must take the throne upon his death. I would give a thousand good horses if he could rule forever. I have always wanted to be king, of course, but never at his expense.