Page 36 of The Dead Queen

I want to laugh. Or scream. I’m not sure which, but the humor in his eyes softens me. “Let’s get on with it then.”

“Fear not, good lady. ‘Tis a short one.”

I narrow my eyes at him, sensing a joke. “How short?”

He fishes several leaves of parchment from his belt pocket and unfolds them with a snap. “A mere fifty verses.”

I groan as my smile falters. “Make it quick. For the love of …”

Hunter clears his throat, then projects. “The great poet, Archibald, once said that true love comes but once in a generation.” Hunter pauses as nobles gather nearer to listen. “We must be those lucky few, my sweet, for our love is one for the ages.”

The growing audience claps politely.

I attempt to flee, but Hunter reaches for my hand and holds me in place. I lean down to hiss into his ear. “I won’t let you forget this little stunt, if it’s the last thing I do.”

He turns his head to whisper back, his nose nudging my ear like a caress. “I’m looking forward to it.” His eyes shine with laughter.

I sigh, hoping the courtly ladies think it’s from adoration rather than frustration.

Hunter continues, “So here I kneel, ready to pour my heart out to you in verse. I wrote it this morning as I gazed into the depths of your eyes over our breakfast porridge.”

I close my eyes, thinking murderous thoughts. My fingers grip the edges of the green poetry book. I briefly consider smacking Hunter with it.

He clears his throat.

What beauty is a flower when compared to your sweet complexion?

What softness is velvet when set next to your soft skin?

What sweetness does a berry compare to your lips?

I raise an eyebrow, and he gives me a slight shrug. He tosses one hand up toward the sky theatrically.

None! I say.

For thou art more beautiful, more soft, and sweeter than anything yet known.

I am but a humble man, who knows not many things.

I try to hide my scoff behind the book. He continues on, reciting something about birds and rainbows—or maybe it’s honeybees and dewdrops?—I’m far too embarrassed to pay attention.

Finally, the torture ends to scattered applause. The ladies in the garden have flushed cheeks and stars in their eyes. Hunter stands, wiping the dirt from his knees, and bows to the audience. When they’ve turned their heads to giggle and whisper together in small groups, Hunter leads me down a path of impeccably trimmed boxwood shrubs.

“I’m reluctant to praise you for this little stunt,” I say. “But if the point of this exercise was to endear us to the people, I think you might be something of a genius.”

He laughs. “All I heard you say was that I am a genius.”

I groan.

He bumps his shoulder into mine. “It’s easy to give the people what they want.”

“Speak for yourself,” I grumble. “Public humiliation doesn’t come naturally to me.”

“It’s less about humiliation and more about humility.”

I give him a skeptical look. “Nothing about that poem screamed ‘humble.’”

He snickers. “No, I guess you’re right. What I meant was, it’s less about you than it is about them. People want to believe in love and hope. Is it really so bad to give them that?”