Royal Fools

II. Chicken in the Kitchen

"Then where should I hide myself while the lot of you clean my little prison?"

"A safe place. An estate not associated to you."

"We have villas around Sutherland," Eastwell offered . "We can take you to one, and it's going to be surrounded by our trusted Soldiers."

"No."

Eastwell's brow arched. "You don't trust Belcourt?"

"No, but I'd rather stay somewhere familiar," he said before his eyes fixed on Blackwood. "Is this necessary?"

"Until we're certain the palace is not compromised, yes."

He looked around and his eyes landed on his most trusted guard, Marius. "I have a place in mind."

"Where?" Blackwood asked.

Emory grinned at the man. "As I said, I'd rather stay somewhere I'm familiar with. All I can say is it's in Herst."

"An island is a good place to hide, but it's also the worst to be in if you're under attack," said Blackwood.

"I'll be with my trusted guards, Blackwood." He turned to Marius, who nodded and left the room. "I'll leave tomorrow. I prefer to travel in daylight. If you need to send word, have them delivered to St. Vincent in Herst. I'll have someone drop by once a week."

"At least let the Clover send men with you," Blackwood said.

"If you want me to hide, I'll do so in my own terms." Turning to another of his guards, he ordered, "Send for Henry and tell him to pack."

Facing the members of the Black Clover once more, he said, "I want this matter dealt with as soon as you can."

"We shall," promised Eastwell as she stood and bowed. "We'll be investigating everyone who may have been hurt by you."

Emory scoffed.

"And we'll clean the palace," Blackwood added. "But we cannot do our job if you don't stay safe."

Emory grinned. "Hiding is my forte, Blackwood."

***

Emory could think of a number of reasons Henry would not want his company. Living in the palace changed him. Now, he was a perfectionist. Everything had to be planned ahead of time. For his cousin who preferred adventure, Emory had long ceased to be the best companion. Rarely would he let himself relax with others he could not trust. Most especially if it was around family.

As the second son, and the spare heir, Emory had the privilege to lead a private life secluded from the eyes of society. He always thought it was an advantage, and today, it proved to be so. Even now as king, the common folks had not laid eyes on him.

When they were children, they created a little game. He and Henry would dress as each other. His cousin would take his clothes and Emory would guise himself as Henry. It didn't matter that they didn't look alike because for people who never laid eyes on them, it was just the garments that mattered.

However, on this trip to Herst, they were dressed the same. The four guards were not wearing their stiff uniforms. To those who may have joined them on the journey to the island, they were just a group of traveling men.

Birchfield Manor was located in the only mountain in Herst. It was small and meek, a far cry from all other estates his family owned, but it was quiet. Calm. It was far enough from the sea where the air was sticky, and near enough the lake where he and Henry spent many afternoons when they lived there as children.

Winter was harsh in this part of Sutherland. The roads were hard and slippery, the land strikingly white, and it extended to the birch trees that surrounded the estate.

"We're here." The carriage rode into a tunnel of birch trees and emerged into a small driveway. The small stone manor stood quiet as they stopped in front of it, but Emory saw the white curtain on the second landing fall close when he looked up. "No, you stay here a moment," Henry said, stopping him when the guard opened the carriage door. "Someone's here."

"That's just Mrs. Fitzwilliam."

"No," Henry said, blocking his exit with one arm. "Stay here."

Emory waited impatiently inside the carriage for five minutes. Five more later, he was outside, stretching his legs, pacing by the carriage with his hands on his hips, his guards spread out nearby.

Marius met his scowl with a shrug. Patience overdue, he turned on his heels and stormed to the front doors.

"If I'll ever be dead, it's because I froze to death, Henry," he announced as he emerged into the hall, brushing snow off his sleeves.

At the sound of his voice, Henry appeared from the kitchen with a curious look on his face. "You did not order Mrs. Fitzwilliam to prepare supper, did you?"

"No. I could barely send my own valet an order these days. Why?"

Henry pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "Something is stewing in the kitchen."

Emory sighed, just as Marius and the three guards stepped into the hall. "Check every room," he ordered. As the men climbed up the stairs and disappeared, Emory's brows arched at his cousin. "Mrs. Fitzwilliam may be a witch, after all. She knew we were coming."

But before his cousin could say a word, a small figure rushed through the open front doors, her muddy boots leaving two straight wet lines as she skidded to a stop in front of Emory.

Her wide eyes looked up at him and the words she was about to say turned into a sharp cry for help when she slipped on the wet trail behind her and the chicken in her arms flew straight at him.

"What in the devil!" he cried out as the woman scrambled to her knees and then her feet. And flew past him to run after the chicken.

Henry's surprised chuckle echoed in the hall. Emory snapped his head to his cousin, who laughed harder.

"Please forgive me, Sir!" the woman said behind him as she appeared in front of him again, this time with the chicken tucked under one arm. Her giant smile dominated nearly half of her small face. She was small, standing just as tall as his chest. Her short blond hair stopped just under her jaw, the cut uneven as if she did it herself in front of the mirror using two left hands. "But may I know who you are?" she asked. "We were not told about visitors. We've been here two months and never had any, save for the Fitzwilliams, of course. And the milk boy." She stopped talking and her eyes rounded even more when she realized he was not amused.

This woman thought they were visitors.

As Emory stood there in disbelief and confusion, the woman boldly asked, "And who might you be, Sir?" When he only continued to frown at her, she let out a nervous chuckle. "Please don't tell me I just threw a chicken at the king." When he remained silent, she stepped back with a nervous laugh. "Are you—Are you the king?"

Still astounded by her boldness, he twitched his jaw. "No," he heard himself say. "I'm one of his advisers, Daniel Stanton."