TheKingsViper Read Free Page A

distance, of course, but her
only personal contact was a single dance at the ball in the palace of
Kingsholme. He was, in her opinion, a pleasant, handsome man. He’d made small
talk and shown no sign at all that his interest extended to the matrimonial.
That decision had been laid upon her father by vellum letter at a later date.
Undoubtedly it had had little to do with Eloise’s prowess at dancing, because
she’d been so flustered that she’d fallen over her own feet.
    Severin de Meynard’s talents did not extend to dancing, or
to small talk. He was by all accounts a man of great reserve. He stood proxy
for the King during the betrothal ceremony in the chapel of Venn Keep, and his
black eyes rested on Eloise briefly as he slipped the ring upon her finger,
without emotion or interest. She squirmed inwardly then, all too aware that she
was holding the hand, and pledging herself in the presence of, the wrong man.
    Of course she knew about him. His reputation among the upper
echelons was considerably less charitable than simply one for being taciturn.
Everyone knew he wasn’t of noble breeding but of merchant stock and foreign
blood to boot, yet he’d found favor with Arnauld as a childhood companion and
been granted a baron’s title. Certainly, in a land where the men tended to fair
and ruddy countenances his sallow looks marked him out. The hair that hung to
his collar was absolutely black, as was the small beard that framed his mouth
in the fashionable style. His clothing was all somber grays and the frock-coat
that brushed the back of his ankles was the color of midnight. He had a habit
of standing with his arms folded across his chest—to hide, said his detractors,
the hole where his heart was missing. He was the King’s own man—a deal-maker, a
messenger, a voice of warning and, when necessary, a ruthless assassin. It was
de Meynard who had arrested the Earl of Arrendale for treason, and de Meynard
who had caught up with Arrendale’s fleeing son and had him butchered on the
spot, along with all his party. He had Arnauld’s absolute trust. Others called
him the King’s Viper.
    Eloise didn’t think that he was quite as offensive as he had
been painted by the Court gossips. While certainly possessed of too much
gravitas, at least he didn’t irritate by bragging or ordering people about, and
while the betrothal feast roared to its height he remained sober. He was
handsome in his own saturnine way too. It was his coldness that repelled
people, she thought—an aura of palpable disdain and disinterest. Who could tolerate
being looked at like that? His smile—which was rare, and cynical—was marred by
eyeteeth that were noticeably pointed, giving him a predatory air. And he used
his eating knife in his left hand, which was markedly inauspicious. Most people
with sinister leanings did their best to hide the fact, not flaunt it.
    The King’s Left Hand—that was the other name they had for
him. The right hand of a man was open and honest, whether in war or in
friendship. The left hand did things one did not boast about, in secret.
    She sought him out briefly before the ladies’ official
retirement from the hall. He was listening to a message relayed by a pageboy,
and nodding his approval.
    “My lord baron?”
    He diverted his attention to her, dismissing the lad. “Good
news, my lady. Our ship is readied and the captain says she can sail on the
high tide at noon tomorrow.”
    “So soon?” She was dismayed, though the betrothal feast had
been days in preparation and she’d had sufficient time to pack such of her
trousseau as would not shame her in Kingsholme. But now that the day was upon
her, she was nervous at the thought of leaving Venn and all that was familiar.
    “There’s bad weather coming down from the north, apparently,
and the captain wants to be home before it strikes.” His gaze was already
wandering out across the assembly.
    “I see. I must bid farewell to my father then.” Earl