Evidently, no one had expected him to come right out and say it. Lord Agravaine coughed, and King Uther twisted the stem of his wineglass. Lord Howell was suddenly fascinated by the crenellated ceiling.

“Seriously?” Arthur muttered.

“It has been nearly a year since you pulled the sword from the stone,” said Uther. “And while I’m relieved you finally did something to prove yourself, with every passing month, it becomes far less impressive.”

The council members nodded their agreement.

“Wow,” Arthur said softly. “Better lock in the child bride now, huh? Before everyone figures out I’m such a massive disappointment.” He pushed to his feet. “My answer remains no. Especially to Princess Anne.”

Arthur strode from the room, his chest tight. He wasn’t going to lose it in front of his father and the entire council. They may have humiliated him, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing it.

The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, flanked by guards who insisted on bowing as he passed. His own guards trailed behind him, silent and impassive. Even at a distance, Arthur found their presence stifling. The whole castle pressed in on him, making it hard to breathe.

Finally, he pushed open the doors to his chambers, collapsing onto his bed. The sarding sword was mounted on the wall over his fireplace, and he eyed it with hatred.

“What are you even for?” he wondered aloud. “What am I supposed to do?”

Whatever it was, agreeing to marry Princess Anne was out of the question. He couldn’t believe his father had suggested it. At first, Arthur had assumed his father was only humoring the French king. That he wasn’t truly considering such a match. The girl was seven years old.

He shook his head in disgust. The way his father had announced that an offer so advantageous might never come again. In front of the entire council.

Was he truly such a disappointment? Arthur grimaced, wishing he had evidence to the contrary. But after so many years being called a bastard and a spare, how could he be anything else? He wasn’t anyone’s first choice—except for the sarding sword’s.

When it came to love, he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the possibility. He’d given up practically everything else, being made his father’s heir. He hated to surrender his heart, too. An arranged marriage was starting to seem inevitable. But still, he hoped it might at least be with someone . . . desirable.

Except his father’s advisors were set on bartering the position of future queen to the highest bidder, using the sword in the stone as leverage. Which was absurd, because the High King of England thing was nothing but an old story. The kind that minstrels sang on market days while passing around a hat to collect coins. The kind meant to entertain children.