Hywel resists at first when Master Anarawd tells him the four of us will be working the feast at the manor. But when Gar mentions all the beautiful women arriving for Prince Arthur’s birth celebration, he changes his tune. I can’t even mock him for washing his hair and brushing his tunic.

  Master Anarawd checks our faces before releasing us. We walk through the palisades together, and Hywel chooses this moment to become conversational. He loops an arm around my shoulder and the other around Rhys.

  “You see, boys,” he says, his tone like a knowing older brother, “one day you’ll want to court a beautiful woman. And us, you see, we are the lucky ones. We don’t have to marry for peace or to make an alliance with a neighboring kingdom. We can marry for love. For beauty.”

  Rhys shrugs away from Hywel. “For beauty,” he snorts. “And what do you think you will offer these beautiful women?”

  “Well, brawn, for one.” Hywel removes his arm from around me and flexes his muscles. “I’m a strong lad. And a hard worker.”

  Gar arches an eyebrow. “You have a stash of wealth somewhere? No woman is going to fall for your rugged good looks without the promise of bread and milk on the table.”

  For a moment anger flashes in Hywel’s blue eyes, and his jaw tightens. Rhys glances at Gar, his expression uneasy, and I wonder why Gar provoked him.

  “Everything I had, I will have again,” Hywel says, and his features smooth out. “But that’s for another day. Tonight isn’t about securing a wife. It’s about bedding a woman. And in this endeavor I’m quite the expert.”

  The twisted smile he gives suggests he isn’t boasting.

  “Be careful who you woo,” Gar warns. “If you touch a noble lady and she takes offense, your life could be forfeit.”

  He gives Gar a scornful look. “You underestimate the power of virtue. Most would rather die than confess they’ve given themselves to someone like me. Even if they did take great pleasure in it at the time.”

  The conversation falls silent, and I’m grateful, because I’m suddenly remembering the prince in my mother’s home, his dirty hands creeping between my thighs, his hot blood splattering over my face and neck. My fingers clench, and I run a hand over my dagger, always secure in the rope holding up my breeches.

  There’s a mean streak to Hywel. As long as he never comes near me, I’ll never have to defend myself against him.

  Jenna meets us at the kitchen door, then immediately scurries us off to the washroom. “Wash your hands and faces. We’ll be putting new clothes on you.”

  “So much for brushing your tunic,” Rhys teases Hywel, who cuffs his ear.

  Two buckets of steaming water sit in the room, and a myriad of other boys clean themselves already. Collected from the village households, I imagine. I grab a damp linen and use it to wash my face.

  “Garments,” Jenna proclaims, coming back into the room. “Long-sleeved gray tunic first, red tunic on top, blue hose beneath, belted. Everyone will look the same. Leave your clothes here, we’ll wash them during the feast and have them clean for you after.”

  I freeze in place. Around me, the boys immediately begin to peel off their layers, one by one.

  Every one of them.

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  Up to this point, I’ve not removed my underclothes in front of the boys, only my outer tunic. I remain like a statue, not risking a glance around lest I see a dozen boys in various stages of undress. My face burns to my hair. Not that I’ve never seen a naked boy. But never in such close proximity, and never this many.

  And never this nude.

  The boys think nothing of it. They joke and talk as if being naked together were the most natural thing, like picking daisies. And they look at me odd because I just stand by the bucket, unmoving.

  Another thought sends fear racing like ice through my veins. What happens when I take my clothes off? What will they see? How deep does the glamour go?

  I gather up my portion of the clothing and move to a corner, my back to them. Some of them laugh and tease me, and they blame my modesty on being a young boy. I hold my breath as I slip my outer tunic and then my shift from my head. I quickly pull the clean royal tunics on, concealing my torso before I remove my hose. Lastly I replace Master Anarawd’s token. By the time I belt myself and turn around, all the boys are dressed also. They congregate near the door, their voices softer now, waiting.

  I join them, feeling decidedly timid, and one of them gives me a grin.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he says. “Boys always change in front of each other.”

  Yes, I suppose I will get used to it.

  A commotion in the hallway catches our attention. We straighten up, patting down each other’s clothes and hair, trying to look the part of noble servants and not the ragtag group of hired peasants we are. Two voices drift nearer, one clearly agitated while the other speaks calmly. Then they come around the corner, and my chest tightens when I spot the prince.

  He stands tall, long legs striding along beside his father, hand waving animatedly, the same distasteful expression I saw at the executions marring the chiseled features of his face.

  “It’s an inconvenient time, I admit, but he was just a servant. It’s not world-ending.” King Wthyr walks forward with utter calmness, his deep blue cloak fluttering behind him.

  In contrast, Prince Arthur wears a light-blue tunic similar to ours, with a darker pair of hose beneath. His clothing doesn’t scream royalty, and he doesn’t wear a gold circlet around his head like his father does. He could pass for any common boy—except for the way he carries himself. With his head up, his eyes flashing, and something so bold and confident emanating from him that he seems to glow, he’s clearly a noble.

  My hatred for him burns in my veins, and my hand slides to the dagger tucked into my tunic.

  His father would listen to me if I killed his son.

  For a moment, anyway, before his guards killed me also.

  The gurek whisper over my skin. I glance down at my arms and see yellow and gold flickers mingling with pulsing black, dancing over my tunic.

  I lift my eyes back to his face, and my breath stills. How can I wish him dead and yet never want to take my eyes from his face?

  It must be the magic in me that draws me to him.

  “My servants are not just servants,” Arthur replies, turning his stormy blue eyes on his father. “They are my friends. They are my brothers.”

  “And your brother chose to run off with a field maid on the same night as your birthday celebration.” King Wthyr puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “This is why family is birthed to us and not selected.”

  Arthur scowls and shrugs his father’s hand off. His eyes fall on the lot of serving boys in front of him, and I shrink away from his gaze, afraid he’ll feel the searing anger blistering my soul. This boy is what Hywel would become if he had power.

  “Why am I here?” he asks, turning back to his father.

  “To replace your manservant, of course.” King Wthyr extends a hand at all of us. “These have been selected from the finest families in our kingdom. One of them will make an excellent replacement. I suggest you pick one least likely to run off with a young maiden. In fact—”

  The king’s eyes scan us and fall on me. My mouth runs dry at the same moment that my hands grow clammy.

  “You,” he says, beckoning at me.

  “Me?” I say, and my pre-pubescent male voice squeaks in agreement.

  “Yes, you,” he says impatiently. “Step forward.”

  I do so, clasping my hands together to mask their trembling.

  “Are you a slave?”

  “No.” That blasted voice crack again. I clear my throat and say with as much confidence as I can muster, “No, my lord. I’m a free man.”

  “Who employs you?” His eyes flick to the token around my neck.

  “Master Anarawd.”

  “Master Anarawd. An excellent man. I’ll send word to him immediately letting him know you’ve left his employment.” He holds out his hand. “Hand me your emblem.”

  I spin around, my eyes seeking out Gar. He meets my gaze in the lineup of boys and gives me an encouraging nod.

  My heart races as I slip the emblem from my head and place it in his palm.

  “You’ll have one from the Ben Dragon house before the end of the night.” Wthry turns to Arthur, a satisfied look on his face. “There. You have a new servant.”