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The flaming arrow stunned the crowd into silence, giving Lady Thornton’s voice a void to fill.
“Pretty words, indeed, from a criminal who makes it appear that you, people of Nottingham, have a say in the matter. You do not. Your only option is to obey your regent or die.”
Prince John frowned as if to complain, I was about to say that.
I leaned over to hiss to him. “You find her annoying? Just wait until the day she slits your throat.”
A guard pushed a knifepoint into my back, but I held my contemptuous gaze steady. Even if I failed in everything else today, I could at least drive apart those two cruel allies.
Lady Thornton nodded to one of her men, who brought the knife closer to young Tom’s throat.
Bess screamed. “No! I beg you! No!”
Lady Thornton jerked her chin at the prince, and her eyes blazed with a clear message. Hurry up and give the signal, you fool. It’s time to end this.
I clamped my hand over the prince’s, pinning it to the balcony in the first voluntary contact I’d made. Any delay I created gave the crowd a chance to rebel.
He tried to yank it away, but I held firm. So firm, he stared at me while pulling helplessly at it.
“What is that? Witchcraft?”
I gave him a dry chuckle. “No, just the power of a woman who will do anything to stop you.”
A white lie, because much of the power coursing through me at that moment came from the ring that practically burned my finger. The Ring of Aquitaine, a gift from the king himself.
’Tis a family heirloom, and my mother’s favorite, he’d said at the time. May it serve you and this country well.
I’d been honored beyond words, because the king’s mother was Eleanor of Aquitaine, a legend in her own time. Prince John was her son too, but I couldn’t imagine she approved of his leadership style.
“Surprised that a woman can wield such power?” I smirked.
The prince’s face went so crimson with anger, I thought he would punch me with his free hand. Unfortunately, he found a better use for it, giving the executioner the signal to proceed.
My blood went cold, because this was the end.
Thank goodness a shrill voice rang out first.
“Wait! Wait!”
The crowd murmured, looking toward the source. A thin, pale monk in a brown robe — one of a dozen men standing below the wall where Lady Thornton, the sheriff, and Lady Winthrop stood.
“And who are you?” Prince John demanded.
The man threw his hood back and gave a little bow. “Friar Cyril, at your service. Before you proceed, we must pray for this poor, wayward soul.”
I stared. Cyril, the monk with the naughty artwork?
His group was made up of ten equally pale, scrawny monks plus two big, hulking ones. My mouth cracked open, and my heart leaped.
Tuck? And John the bear shifter? With those deep, heavy hoods hiding their faces, there was no way to be sure.
“And who is we?” Prince John called impatiently.
Cyril grinned and motioned to his companions. “Just me and a select few of my fellow clergy. And in all humility, sir, I can assure you we are Winslow Abbey’s finest choir.”
Chapter Twenty
TUCK
