Title Page

Copyright Page

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or

events are entirely coincidental.

THE KING'S MAN

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First edition. June 20, 2015.

Copyright © 2015 Elizabeth Kingston.

Also By Elizabeth Kingston

Also by Elizabeth Kingston

Ladies of Scandal

A Fallen Lady

House of Cads

The Misadventures of a Titian-Haired Goddess and an Outrageous Hellion

Our Heroines Suffer a Scandal

Welsh Blades

The King's Man

Fair, Bright, and Terrible

Desire Lines

Watch for more at Elizabeth Kingston’s site.

The King's Man (Welsh Blades, #1)

For Snezana*

(Like, literally: I actually wrote this for you.

Thank you for being my friend.)

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*the original Snookie, accept no imitations

Historical Note

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Before turning his attention to his famously brutal campaign for Scotland, Edward I (known as “Longshanks” and “Hammer of the Scots”) was determined to ensure the conquest of Wales. Faced with this ambitious leader, the Welsh princes faltered. Consumed by their own ambitions, they fought among themselves as they had done for centuries, until the time came when they must unite as one in rebellion, or bow in defeat to the ruthless English King.

CHAPTER 1

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Wales, 1280

When first he woke, he thought he must be roasting in the fires of Hell. Later he would know that it was a raging fever that burned him, and she would tell him it was a delirium that caused insensate visions. These were practical and unromantic explanations that were true enough. But earthly truths would never be as real as hellfire, and angels, and the moment he put the tattered remains of his soul into her hands.

No, to him it would always be a memory of waking in the fires of the damned, and feeling the pain sharp across his chest and down his arm, his head in an agony of hurt. The pain made him wish for death, and that wish made him realize that he was still alive. Not dead, and the bitter disappointment of it grasped at his heart until he thought he might actually weep.

But then he inhaled. The smell was not that of rotting flesh on the battlefield, but rather the familiar putrefying of a wound, a prelude to long suffering. When death did come, it would come slow, and he would not be like to meet it with eyes open. But it would come.

That was when he sent up a prayer, a simple request, knowing he was not like to have it granted. But he thought it might not be overmuch to ask that the angel of death would greet him with a mug of ale stout enough to silence the accursed pounding in his head. While he was at it, he saw fit to add a request for a lemon tree. Why not? It was God, after all, and fruit would improve the smell of the sickbed. He imagined its roots dug in the ground near him, yellow globes overhead as he drew his last. A pretty picture.