Silent Knight (EBOOK)

Astipian Kingdom, Isle of Astipia

Princess Charlotte’s Bedroom, Royal Palace

“It’s in all the papers.”

“And social media is having a field day,” my brother bemoaned from somewhere above me.

“This is a calamity. Shall I issue a press release?” 

I tried to block out the voices of my family and employees standing around the bed. Stubbornly, I pressed my face into my pillow, determined to stay cocooned under the blankets for all eternity. 

If I ignore them, they’ll go away. 

“Charlotte, my love, you need to deal with this,” my mother coaxed. “Come out from under the blankets.”

Booger.

“I don’t want to,” I muttered into the silk of my pillowcase. “Go away.”

“What did she say? Did she say no?” Someone—my brother, no doubt—began to tug at the blanket. “Charlotte, let go. We need to deal with this.”

“No.” I hung on for dear life. “Go away.”

“Leo, leave her,” Mother admonished. “She’s grieving.”  

The mattress dipped beside me, my body rolling toward the depression. Even from under the blanket I could smell mother’s familiar perfume. I drew in a deep breath, taking comfort from the subtle scent of rose water and cinnamon.  

“Charlotte.” My mother placed a warm hand on my back. “Come out, darling. Speak to us.” 

I adored my family, don’t get me wrong. But all I wanted to do was crawl into a hole and lick my wounds. I had no desire to talk about what had to be the most embarrassing moment for this family in many a generation—and that was saying something considering one of my great-grandparents declared war on a country that didn’t exist.

“A princess never hides, Lottie. She faces the world head-on.” 

Ugh. 

With a resigned sigh, I rolled over, peeking out from under the weighted blanket. “I don’t like you very much right now.”

“We know.” Mother reached over, running a hand across my hair. “But we’re here to help.” 

I groaned, dropping my head back to the pillow, staring up at the canopy of my bed. 

Last night I thought I’d never sleep under it again. And now look at me. Hiding like a child. 

I screwed my eyes shut. “This is so embarrassing.” 

“It’s not your embarrassment to hold. It is completely his.” 

I blew out a wet laugh, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “We both know that a man is rarely vilified in these kinds of situations.” I rose on my elbows, finding my brother hovering anxiously near the bed. “Let me guess, the narrative is that I’m not woman enough to have kept—“ I stumbled over my ex-fiancé’s name. “Frederick?”

Leo winced, his tawny gaze skittering away, a flush darkening his cheeks. “Not entirely. But—”

I sighed, closing my eyes. “I knew it.”

“We can fix this,” my press secretary said, dropping to a seat beside the bed. “You’re the wronged party. We can—“

I heard a commotion outside my bedroom—angry voices followed by a clatter. For a moment my heart leapt as I imagined Frederick storming into the room to lie prone at my feet, declaring his love for me as he begged me to take him back. 

I wouldn’t take him back, of course. But it would do my pride a great service to see him so apologetic. 

“I will murder him!” 

My sister, the Queen, waddled into the room, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, the other pointed at Leo. “Call the Minister for Defence. Call the Prime Minister. We’re declaring war on Morocco.”

A shadow of a smile graced my lips, warm gooeyness pooling in my belly. “Kit, a war isn’t necessary.”

“Oh,” she said, halting at the foot of my bed. “I can absolutely assure you it is.”

“She’s hungry,” Jonathan, her husband, explained, joining the crowd. “She needs to eat.”

“I do not. I need to fuck up the man who—”

He handed her a cookie, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Eat, Queenie. You can declare war after we get those sugar levels up.”

She glared at him as she took a bite, her jaw moving furiously as she chewed. 

The handsome ex-politician adored my sister, and I adored him for his love of her. Katherine had inherited the crown from my father upon his death, and for many years I’d fretted that she’d never let anyone into her heart. She’d been so lost in her duty to our people, that anything even remotely constituting an emotion had been locked away—hidden from the pressures of the world. 

Until Jon. Seeing her trip into love had been its own kind of blessing. Watching her lose all sense of propriety with this pregnancy had delighted the entire family. 

The child, we were convinced, would be a hellhound.  

“Better?” Jon asked, his fingers tangling in my sister’s dark hair. 

“Maybe.”

Amusement hovered like a shadow, the barest hint of it touching my shame. 

Watching Kit and Jon interact, I was reminded of their wedding day. Watching my beautiful sister perform the traditional marriage dance with her groom had been a privilege I would hold dear for the rest of my life. 

Yet another example of why your own marriage was doomed from the start. 

My fiancé had refused to learn our customary dance and had politely but firmly refused to wear our tribe’s traditional wedding attire—despite knowing how important it was to me. 

He professed to love you and yet didn’t bother to learn a single thing about you. 

All the small voices I’d suppressed for months rose as one, the choir of doubts I’d stubbornly willed away now finding footholds. 

Did he ever love me? Did he ever even care? 

“Berryn?” My mother asked, turning to the short man seated beside my bed. “Thoughts?”

My press secretary straightened, his lips pursed, a frown marring his brow as he considered my options. 

Berryn was young for a press secretary, but I’d hired him for that youth. When considering who would look after my diary and interactions, I’d wanted someone who understood the importance of engaging on the platforms where people were. I wanted someone who cared about what I cared about—climate change, good policy, supporting the fight against inequality and racism. And the young Manari man more than met the brief. 

Berryn swallowed. “We could release a statement stating it was a mutual decision—”

Leo snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“—though we should expect Frederick to counter noting that he… he….” He trailed off. 

“You can say it.” I sat up, the blanket dropping to pool in my lap. “He ran out.”

The words flopped into the middle of the room with all the grace of a piglet performing ballet, my statement placing a freeze on its inhabitants. 

“He ran out on me during a worldwide televised ceremony. And I—” I sucked in a breath. “I followed him to toss cake in his stupid face.”

“Stupid is an understatement,” Kit muttered, her hands rubbing across her distended stomach. 

I looked down at my dress, the beautiful bespoke wedding dress that had held so many hopes and dreams in each stitch and seam. 

Why am I still wearing it?

“Well,” my mother said, her tone light. “I would say you had reasons to act with less restraint than is normally appropriate.” 

“Reasons?” Leo barked, running hands through his dark hair. “Mother, the bastard—”

“Berryn,” I interrupted, weary of this conversation. “Be straight with us. What are the best options?”

“We release a statement and then you, temporarily, retreat.”

Jon coughed, drawing our attention. 

“Retreat how exactly?” He gestured at the windows on the far side of my room. One of the maids had thoughtfully drawn the curtains, blocking out any possibility of someone witnessing this conversation. 

“The palace has been mobbed by reporters. The entire Kingdom is in uproar—not to mention all the royal fans internationally. The King of Morocco is threatening to disown his kin.”

And therein lay the crux of my issues. Being a princess required decorum. It required poise and grace. It required one to rise above petty emotion and put the future of the country first.

It did not allow for the throwing of cake in the face of lying, cheating fiancés—no matter how well deserved.

“I have an idea.” Berryn paused, looking meaningfully at the gathered crowd in my room. 

In addition to Berryn and my family, guards hovered in each corner, staff fluttered around, and—for some reason—a gardener held a bouquet as he leaned against my bathroom door. 

Mother rose, the epitome of style and grace in her mother-of-the-bride plum-coloured morning dress.

Yet another relic of the wedding-that-will-never-be.  

“If the family might have some privacy?” she asked, though her tone brooked no protests. 

The staff stepped from the room, the gardener closing the door behind him. 

Alone with the Royal family, Berryn flushed—appearing suddenly tongue-tied.

“Out with it,” Kit said, her hand rubbing circles on her belly. “Hurry now.”

“Croydon Knight.”

My heart kicked, my belly dipping. Mother sucked in a breath, her face pinching. I reached out, clasping her hand in my own. 

“He’s my cousin,” Berryn hurried on. “And, as you know, imminently qualified to protect her Highness.”

“Who is he?” Jon asked, registering the change in the room. 

“Father’s ex-bodyguard. After his death, I offered Croydon the head security position but he—“ Kit swallowed. “He decided to retire instead.”

Jon frowned. “It was a fraught parting?” 

“On the contrary,” Mother whispered, letting go of my hand to brush a stray tear from her cheek. “Roy’s loss was greatly felt.”

I swallowed. “It’s because of him that Daddy’s illness wasn’t leaked to the press. His ruthlessness meant Father was able to announce the news in his own time.”

There was a beat of silence as we remembered that hard period of our lives. 

Father’s illness had been a long, slow ending to his otherwise vibrant life. Our family had lived with the grief of knowing he would be gone long before we’d announced his terminal illness to the public. 

Roy’s determination had delivered the one thing of which my family had so little—privacy.

“He’s a good man.” Leo reached out to touch my leg. “He’ll ensure you get the time you need to heal.”

“Our family owes a great deal to Croydon Knight.” Mother dapped at her face with a handkerchief. “I’m not sure he would be willing to take on this duty.”

“He already agreed.”

I stared at Berryn, my hope rising.

“But on one condition.”

“Anything,” I said. 

“He’ll only do it if you go to him.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “And where exactly is he?”

“Polar Bear, Alaska.”