Page 55 of North Queen
His hands were at his side. One flicked open. So subtle, but she saw it. And it called her to him.
She could do this, and she stepped forward again.
Her steps came easier.
His smile grew, and so did her courage.
As she reached the front, the high priest held out his hand, taking hers, and helped her step up. An ornate chair stood in the center of the dais where she turned and sat, just as she’d rehearsed, or rather, as she thought she’d rehearsed. She didn’t know anymore. Every rational thought—every instruction she’d been given, every piece of advice—abandoned her now. She could only sit and hope it was right.
The priest held his arms high. “We assemble in the hall of our great kings, whose wisdom we call upon, and under the eyes of our gods, whose favor we seek, to crown Mercia’s new queen.”
Norah glanced at Alexander and found him staring back at her. He didn’t move, but the air between them carried his strength to her—strength she drew in. Her eyes drifted to her grandmother, whose gaze sat firmly on Alexander. She prayed he didn’t look to see the regent’s daggered glare. But his eyes were only on her.
“You are charged with the protection of our people,” the priest said, “of our lands, of our traditions, of the values that are the very foundations of our souls.”
Her heartbeat drowned the rest of the priest’s words. She was sure he said something about the gods, probably another responsibility as queen. A prayer, maybe. She couldn’t focus.
The priest pulled her crown from the velvet box and stood before her, bringing her attention back to the ceremony. He placed it on her head. A servant held the sacred scepter, which the priest took and placed in her right hand.
“Rise,” he told her.
Norah stood, holding the scepter tightly, and looked out across her people.Her people. The priest draped a long robe over her shoulders. Had that been part of the rehearsal? She wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. She was cold, and it helped.
“Do you vow to govern the people of Mercia, to lead them, protect them, serve them, and deliver judgment and justice according to our laws and our customs?”
Her heart pulsed in her chest. Heat flushed through her. Hot. She was too hot now.
“I vow,” she managed. She’d spoken the two words Alexander had mentioned only a few moments before. Of course, he expected no more.
“And so, you are named Queen Norah Elizabeth Andell, Regal High, and may the gods guide your hand for the strength of our people.”
Regal High. A king’s title. Her eyes shot to Alexander, and he winked at her. How had he…
Cheers rang out from the crowd, and she looked across the hall. There were so many smiling faces, so many people depending on her. So much responsibility.
And she wavered.
The responsibility—she was queen now.
She wasqueen.
Norah wanted to sit down again, but with all eyes on her, with the sacred scepter and the coronation robe, she could only stand and do her duty.
She had a responsibility—and she’d never been more certain. There was nothing James had told her that morning that she hadn’t already known. Her eyes found the councilman in the front, not far from her grandmother. He gave a nod.
Norah raised her hand, bringing the people to silence. Her heart beat like it would break from her chest, but her voice came steady. “My first act as queen shall be to appoint my lord justice.”
She breathed deeply, refusing to look at Catherine. She already knew the icy gaze she’d find. “Alexander Rhemus, come forward.”
The priest gave a nod, extending out his hand for Alexander to approach. Alexander stepped in front of her. His eyes burned a brilliant blue.
“Kneel,” she told him, following the sequence James had walked through with her.
Alexander dropped to his knees and held his hands out, palms up. His face was calm, but there was an exaggerated rise and fall to his chest. This was his moment, the day he followed the path of his father. The emotion pulsed from him.
“Alexander Rhemus,” she said, “I appoint you lord justice of Mercia, high commander, proxy of the Queen, and protector of Mercia and her people.”
Not a word had been forgotten. Norah had said it in her mind a thousand times, and what made it flow so easily was that she believed it. There was only one right decision, and it was Alexander. She dipped her fingers into the bowl of oil held by the priest. Slowly, she drew her fingertips along his palms. “May your hands be my hands.”
