Royal Fools

II. Chicken in the Kitchen

Two months later...

A disguise, if done correctly, can be quite effective. However, it cannot fool an arrow.

The realization hit Emory as soon as it flew past his head. The blade grazed his skin before it went through the opposite window of the carriage. It was merely a second, but it felt like it carried with it his entire life. They flashed before his eyes in an instant—everything from his childhood and the things in between that led to this moment. A hand pushed him to the floor. A body followed, tight and strong, covering him from above. Shouts from his guards, the hooves of the horses, and the speeding wheels of the carriage drew him back. Apparently, he was still alive.

It seemed to last forever, and for a time, the body of his guard felt heavier. Was he dead? He pictured the man with arrows stuck on his back. But the carriage eventually slowed down and the weight pushed itself off him.

"Sir, are you hurt?"

Emory heard the question, but he could not bring himself to answer. He almost died. Just another inch and he would have been killed.

"Sir!"

He heard the carriage door open. More voices. Orders shouted. Footsteps running. They pulled him out of his carriage, dragged across piles of snow. The next thing he knew, he was thrown into another one.

"Apprise the Black Clover," someone ordered as they sped down the cold-hardened road.

It was at that moment that he snapped into focus. His eyes darted around the carriage, from one guard to another. "Did you catch them?"

"No, Sir. They disappeared before we can."

He peered through the window, but before he could make out the view outside, his guard pulled him back. "Stay low, Sir."

Emory let out a shaky breath. "Did you not check this road?"

"We did." A short pause. "They seem to know the terrain."

His jaw tightened. "They have help." He closed his eyes and scoffed. The bastards thought it would be funny to take him down in the same road their comrades were trapped and killed three years ago during the Belcourt Conflict.

He remembered that night too well. He was there when they ambushed the French soldiers who intended to take over Sutherland. And he was there when they hanged those who survived.

They traveled straight back to Cloveshire. It had been his prisoner since they plucked him out of his childhood home.

When he was born, his mother hid him away in Birchfield. To keep him company, they sent along Henry, and together they had a taste of a perfect world. Until, of course, reality came a decade later to take them back to Coulway because he was, after all, part of the royal family. Since then, he had not left. He returned to Birchfield at every opportunity, but always, he would have to go back to Cloveshire.

Members of the Black Clover, a group of men and women he formed after the Belcourt Conflict, arrived for an emergency meeting shortly after he arrived.

"They've found allies in your enemies here, which—I'm sorry to say, Sir—is quite a lot," said Lady Eastwell, the representative from Belcourt. She was with other ladies wearing the same green cloak.

"This is serious," said Blackwood, Duke of Eaton and leader of the Royal Circus. "You cannot take this lightly. You've stripped many people of their titles three years ago. They were the same men who frequented your court. They know your movements and every place you visit."

"You're suggesting I commit myself in the palace like a bloody prisoner, Blackwood. I refuse to do so."

Blackwood shook his head. "You're not safe in Coulway at the moment. We have to check the palace first."