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  He bent low, ducking beneath a branch, the woods darker now as the sun set through the trees. It was all too much to take in… it had all happened so quickly. His father had died the night before. He and Mary had been in their chambers, and he had been urging her to be open with him about her secrets, her feelings, so that there would be nothing between them in their marriage. And then she’d revealed the biggest secret of all. A letter had arrived, bearing the news he was still struggling to grasp. This whole time Lola had been carrying a child… it was his child. And Mary had known about it. She had kept it a secret from him for months. And only now that Lola and the child were in danger, when Mary’s hand was forced, did she finally tell him the truth. How could she lie for so long? How could she do that to him? Every morning and evening, she’d walk the grounds with Lola, their arms threaded together, whispering.… Now he wondered how many times they’d been speaking of him, the baby, the secrets Mary kept. She’d made him the fool. All the while she had known, she had known and not said a word.…

  He’d had Champion saddled and was preparing to ride off to find Lola, when Mary had rushed up and told him not to go. The plague was making its way through the nearby towns. She told him it would be too dangerous for him, that he was the King of France now, that he couldn’t risk his life on a whim. She’d begged him to stay, to not go to Lola and the baby, no matter how perilous their situation. Still, Francis hadn’t hesitated. He’d mounted Champion and headed toward the gates. Mary had called after him that he needed to think like a king, but he knew what he felt in his heart—he didn’t want to be the type of king who would leave his son to die.

  As he had ridden off, he’d turned back just once, and had seen that Mary was ordering the gates to be closed behind him. He understood why she did it. But in that moment, he couldn’t do what she’d asked—he couldn’t think like a king. He had to think like a father.

  “A father…” he whispered under his breath. It was difficult to imagine.… Even all the times he’d lain in bed with Mary, his hand on her stomach, wondering what it would be like when they had children… even then he could never quite conjure a face, a voice, a laugh. He’d never been able to picture what his own son or daughter would look like. And lately he didn’t want to. Family had started to seem like an ugly thing. That word—father—called up not thoughts of having a child of his own, but thoughts of Henry.

  The king, in all his painful contradictions. Growing up, Francis had revered the man. Back then, Henry had seemed the bravest, the strongest, the wisest. But these last few months had all but eradicated the memory of the person he’d known. The king’s actions had been unforgivable. He had murdered innocents in cold blood, in front of the whole court—no longer caring who saw, believing it was his divine right. He had tried to get Francis’s mother, his own queen, executed on charges of adultery. He had forced Bash into marriage with Kenna. He’d murdered soldiers, Francis’s own men, during what was supposed to be a celebration of naval might… but the king had planned it so that the celebration turned deadly, for nothing more than the spectacle of it.

  Francis knew all of this. It should have made him feel better, justified in killing his father, but it didn’t. He kept thinking back to that moment. He’d done it at the joust. He’d stolen armor from a soldier, then pulled the metal visor down low over his face so he wouldn’t be recognized. His father was dangerous, unstable, and only going to cause countless more deaths. The only other option was a military coup, and that was fraught with danger and uncertainty. Francis had to do it, didn’t he? Who else would have? Hadn’t it felt like the only way?

  The king had gone mad. He’d needed to be stopped. But Francis could still see his father lying there, in his bed, just minutes from death. The bandage over his face. Francis could still feel the lance in his hand, the weight of it as he barreled forward, about to strike. The sound it made as it buried itself in King Henry’s left eye. The blood…

  Champion’s gallop slowed to a canter, then a trot, and Francis realized he was approaching a town. “What hell is this?” he whispered, his eyes widening as he looked down the road.

  There were twenty or so thatched homes, all of them dark. The only light was coming from the moon above, which appeared and disappeared as clouds streaked past. A pile of bodies was stacked outside of the church. He held his shirt up to his face to block the rancid, sick-sweet smell, but it was of little help.

  He looked down at the dead. Their faces were mottled, marked with patches of black. Their necks had pink, swollen boils across the skin. Only days before, they had been farmers, tradesmen, maids… and now they were a jumble of limbs, denied a Christian burial for fear their disease would spread.

  The village was almost totally deserted—only two people for as far as he could see, both of them running full-out, heads bent, rushing to get to their homes. Francis urged the horse to move faster. He could hear the sound of wailing and the occasional scream from inside the houses as he passed them. Most of the buildings were crudely boarded up, in an attempt to keep the plague from entering… an attempt that had not been successful.

  A woman darted in front of Francis’s horse, so close that he had to pull Champion’s reins to keep him from rearing. She turned to look at Francis as she ran, and he could see the panic on her face. She crossed the road to one of the boarded-up shacks. “Have mercy, Millicent,” she screamed as she pounded on the door. “In the name of God, let me in!”

  He turned away from the main road, off into the woods. He urged the horse around the thatched homes, moving through the trees. With every yard he put between himself and the town, he felt lighter.

  Francis rode on, even faster than before, turning to the north. Lola was by the mill, he knew, just outside the town of Vannes, in some stranger’s house. Mary had read some of Lola’s letter out loud, giving him the location and a list of signposts to look for, but it was so much harder to find his way in the dark. Within minutes he’d gone several miles. He could see another village far off, somewhere to his left, beyond the trees. A few homes were lit. By the sound of the distant fiddle music, he could tell it hadn’t been struck by the plague. They probably hadn’t heard word yet.

  He’d ridden all day on an empty stomach, and now that night had fallen, he was growing colder by the minute. He looked into the trees, at those small pinpricks of light, and for just a moment imagined it. Some warm tavern. A plate of sausage and biscuits. He had left the palace without money, but he had some gold—the buckle of his belt, the few adornments on his riding gear. He could slide one of his rings across to the innkeeper. It would be more than enough to pay for a warm bed and a hot meal.…

  Just as quickly as he had the thought, Francis pushed it away. After the triumph at Calais, more people knew the face of the dauphin. And even if they didn’t, it would be impossible to blend in. His high leather boots, shined just this morning. The fur lining of his jacket. It would surely raise questions—a noble, traveling through the woods, looking for the town of Vannes. Why was he traveling alone, without a guard? Who was he going to see, and why?

  Francis urged Champion on, faster through the trees. As he got closer to the village, he spotted a structure in the middle of the woods. A small, unassuming thing. It was probably used to store firewood.

  “Finally, some good luck,” he murmured as he dismounted. He tied the reins of his horse to a low tree branch. It wasn’t much. Just a broken-down shack with a tar roof and wood walls. But it would be shelter for the long night, a way to keep the chill out of his bones. He grasped the door handle and promptly realized it was locked. He shook his head, letting out a short, sad laugh. Of course it was. Nothing had gone right today.

  He crossed back to Champion and pulled the few meager supplies he had out of his saddlebag. They were left over from the last ride he’d had on this horse—a hunting trip he’d taken over a week ago. There was a piece of bread that was now rock hard, and a flask of wine that now more closely resembled vinegar.

  He s
ettled Champion, combing out the horse’s mane. Then he sat against the back wall of the shack, pulling his coat around him, trying to stave off the chill. He couldn’t help but think of the irony of it. This morning, he had awoken in a palace. And tonight, he was sleeping on the cold ground.

  High above, beyond the trees, shooting stars were streaking across the sky. He settled down on his side, trying to get comfortable. The ground was covered with dead leaves and branches. He suddenly saw his situation for how absurd it was. He was starving, while in his palace a feast was being prepared. He was the king, sleeping not in his royal chambers, but on the forest floor. He had thrown himself headfirst into a perilous situation, one that might put his life—and his country—at risk. Was this too dangerous? Had Mary been right, was it foolish of him to go to Lola now, in the midst of a plague?

  He closed his eyes, but he only saw Mary’s face. Those deep, chocolate-brown eyes. Her fair skin. It was the thought of her, smiling beside him in bed, that eventually pulled him to sleep.

  Hours later, Francis woke with a start. He blinked in the darkness, trying to figure out what had stirred him. There were two silhouettes between the trees, hovering above him. A man and a woman. They both wore rough peasant clothing—burlap and linen, with crude drawstrings for belts. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could even draw breath, their hands were upon him.

  The man forced a rag into his mouth, gagging him. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t. He reached for his sword just as the woman pulled his hands behind his back and bound them with rope.

  Francis struggled against his bonds, crying out against the gag, kicking his feet with all his might. But it was no use. They grabbed him, each one taking an arm, and dragged him into the night.

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  WELCOME

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A SNEAK PEEK OF REIGN: THE PROPHECY

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 CBS Studios Inc. REIGN and related logos are marks of CBS Studios Inc.

  Cover artwork © 2015 CBS Studios Inc. REIGN and related logos are marks of CBS Studios Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by Kayleigh McCann

  Cover © 2015 CBS Studios Inc.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First ebook edition: May 2015

  ISBN 978-0-316-33460-0

  E3