"Would Mistress like me to get her a glass of ale or wine?"

"A strong ale, Hetta. Something to fire my loins." Elana Javis stared into the mirror of her dressing table, her expression stared back - stony cold. "Am I not desirable, Hetta? Is there a flaw visible only to onlookers?" Elana swilled a mouthful of ale and set the glass down.

"M'lady is most desirable. These eyes perceive no flaw. Why do you fret so?"

"Consiflore snubbed my attention, and sent that- that horrid Counsellor of his to fetch some peasant from the town. I should be at his side. My family is of higher rank than his own, by the Gods."

Hetta kept silent knowing any word would seem provocative and only prolong her mistress's anger. She kept her council until dismissed, then hurried to a private exit from the palace to the town. A password knock on the solid wood door admitted her to the candle lit room, and the small group gathered about the rough table.

"There is much dissatisfaction within the palace. Elana is in a dark mood, having been snubbed by our prince, and young Alaric Royce made him back down from one of his lascivious dallies."

"We need to proceed with caution." One of the group said, leaning forward into the candle-light. Consiflore has entered into an agreement with Sheffield to unite their houses. He's promised his young sister's hand."

"That means there will be more activity, which could be good for us." Another of the group chimed in.

"Aye, but caution is still necessary. The union is so Consiflore can expand his tax base across both lands. That means the Royal Guard will have a bigger presence."

"Our plan is still good," Hetta insisted, "and even more necessary."

"It is. And we have found our volunteer. The perfect choice, I might add, and he has accepted both the task and the probable consequence." The group leader looked at the sharp faces around the table. "His identity will not be revealed beyond the three of us that made the choice.

There were mutters but no objections. Safety and security were paramount.

"When?" The question lingered in the candle smoke.

"Midsummer Day. All will be required to attend church, and then the festivities will take place both inside the palace walls and in the town. The bustle will aid in concealing our intent. It is but a week away, so prepare. Go over your parts in the plan, and pray for our success."

******

Mother Penwright hugged her daughter possessively, her tear filled eyes locking on Alaric's. "How can I ever thank you, Alaric," she sobbed, smoothing her daughter's hair and rocking back and forth.

"I am happy I was able to be of help. And relieved to know that she was not harmed."

"Is that true, Felicia?" She held her daughter away. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, mother. Frightened, but thankful and fine."

Jennet squeezed Alaric's arm then went to her sister and they embraced mightily.

"How is your husband," he asked, hoping to calm the mother's stress.

"He rests in the other room. The doctor said his wound was harsh, but not threatening. He should be well in a few days. Oh, Alaric . . ."

"Now, now. It's all over. Felicia is home and safe."

"But are we safe?" Jennet asked. "What if he decides to return?"

"Even Consiflore has a modicum of decency, despite his shameless indulgences. I believe your concerns are over."

"I trust your judgement, Alaric." Jennet returned to his side. "I think we should all take enjoyment from a full meal, to celebrate our good fortune. I will fetch fresh vegetables from the market, and Felicia will help you prepare that duck father caught. We can even see if he is well enough to sit with us."

She grasped Alaric's hand and dragged him from the house, waving away the mild protests from her family.

"What you did was very brave, Alaric." Jennet hung on his arm as they walked to the village.

"My father would have called it stupid." His voice choked slightly as he realized they would be passing the pillory that still held his father's remains.

"Still, you saved Felicia from a horrible experience, and my family will be forever grateful."

"Sometimes we get lucky. Hunce wasn't very pleased."

"That horrid man!" She stomped a foot while walking, and he had to keep her from stumbling.

The selection of vegetables amused Alaric, and he dutifully held each purchase while Jennet scoured the various stalls. A cry went up, drawing the worried attention from the marketplace, as a group of Royal Guards led by Hunce, marched deliberately into the square.

"Citizen Atterby! Show yourself!" Hunce did a slow circle, hands on hips. "Hiding will only bring misfortune to your neighbours!" He stepped toward a stall and grabbed an elderly woman by the arm, dragging her back to the middle of the square. "Final chance, Atterbury!" Hunce drew his sword and the crowd gasped.

"Wait! Wait . . . I am here." The old man shuffled through the crowd and stood facing Hunce. "Let her go."

The woman was pushed away, and Hunce sneered down at the old man. "You failed to pay your taxes."

"My crop was poor - and your men trampled what was left when they came to collect."

Hunce turned and addressed the crowd. "Our fault. He blames the Prince's men because he cannot pay his lawful taxes." He turned back to the man. "You know the penalty."

The sword thrust was swift and Atterbury's strangled cry was drowned out in the roar of the crowd. The guards all brandished their weapons, preventing any retaliation, as they marched away from the square. The body was gently removed, and after several minutes, commerce continued, saddened but necessary.

******

The days passed quickly, and Midsummer Day arrived. Families traipsed off to church as the law demanded, eager to get to the festive part of the holiday that allowed for a break from toiling at their various livelihoods. In a remote section of the town, three men huddled in quiet conspiracy, repeating the steps of their plan. With a slap on the back, and well wished, the volunteer set off on his mission.

Tradition called for the Prince to make an appearance in the town, and Consiflore was eager to swan among the populace, listening to their cheers and praise, however false. Members of his Royal Guard flanked his progress, physically encouraging gifts from less than grateful subjects.

His entourage came to a halt in the town square, and Consiflore stepped from his open carriage onto the cobbled street, arms akimbo and an arrogant sneer as he delivered the expected holiday speech.

With great theatre, he waved his arms about, turning this way and that as he spoke, and turning abruptly once again, the arrow meant for his heart, pierced his forearm instead. A cry went up and there was a flurry of excitement as the Guard formed a shield about the Prince, driving the citizens back.

Several of the Guards ran off in the direction of the assassin, spreading out through the streets in a frantic search.