Osian caught the offending fruit with a calm, easy movement.
Faina clapped her hands over her mouth.
The prince presented the startled fruit to his startled consort, and Meilyr’s impolitic heart dared stumble. The sun caught the gold of Osian’s hair and the band about his head, a flicker of even purer light in his gaze.
He wasamused.
Meilyr took the strawberry, tamping down whatever budded in the wake of his own mirth. The prince’s eyes were very striking with that warmth in them.
‘Your Majesties! All good peoples gathered!’
He jumped – again. But it was only the herald, announcing the next event: archery. He had been looking forward to this.
As the contestants presented themselves to the royal box, he studied the strawberry before taking a bite. It was delicious, filling his mouth with sweetness, somehow undamaged by its journey.
He looked out in time to catch Kenelm Radnor’s eye. The young Marcher heir bowed exquisitely, holding Meilyr’s gaze as he straightened. The pennant he set down bore a wrapping of Bran’s alder.
The taste in Meilyr’s mouth soured.
‘I will win for you, Highness.’
Murmurs, behind hands and fans.
So, this was his angle. Kenelm Radnor had approached Meilyr twice since their talk beside the tree, had presented himself as a shoulder to lean on, a confidant. But he only sought to garner information and sow doubt, exploit potential cracks in a marriage he had a vested interest in breaking apart.
Did he hope for rumours? Scandal, to cast doubt?
He would do anything for his family.
Lord Gelens sat further down the royal box, beside Prince Wystan. Had they planned this together?
The contestants set up before their targets. Arrows flew and struck, and the buzz of applause grew more eager.
Meilyr glanced at Osian. Had Pedr told him about their interactions?
Radnor made a very fine first shot. The applause thickened. Meilyr clapped because he had to, his stomach protesting that the odd smatterings of fruit and wine were not the best combination.
The archer beside Radnor matched his shot. She dipped a flourishing bow to the royal box as the applause rebounded, then winked at Radnor.
On Osian’s other side, Aldreda barked a laugh.
‘Armiger Kynaston,’ Osian said to Meilyr. ‘The favourite.’
She became Meilyr’s favourite, sailing one point ahead of Radnor and into the lead as the contestants reached their third and final round of arrows.
Radnor would shoot first. Though he exuded calm, he drew the arrow to full knock – and slowly drew down again. Shook his head and blinked as though the sun were in his eyes.
‘He’s nervous,’ Faina whispered excitedly, not quietly.
Radnor drew, visible tension in his form. His hands shook. He drew down yet again, clearing his throat.
‘Is he well?’ Demelza murmured.
Faina giggled. ‘Probably something stuck in his throat.’
Radnor drew back his bow sharply, frustratedly.
‘You know,’ Faina continued, behind her hand, ‘from sucking too much—’