by Sally Green
“Yes,” Tanya interjected. “A kiss to Ambrose and Tarquin, and a fist in the groin to the rest of you. Sounds about right to me.”
It didn’t sound right to Catherine at all. But she had no more time to think of it. She was desperate to see Ambrose. She hadn’t dared send him a message for fear of interception, but she had to warn him about Noyes and Boris. Still, she had to act as normally as possible and go through her usual routine. She went to breakfast, ate sparsely and quickly, then walked to the stables, speeding up as she turned the corner, out of sight of the castle. Sarah and Tanya were accompanying her, but if she could reach the stables ahead of them she’d have time to speak to Ambrose alone.
Catherine glanced back. Her maids hadn’t yet turned the corner, and it occurred to her that they were being deliberately slow. They knew she admired Ambrose, though perhaps even they didn’t know the extent of her addiction. That was how she thought of her feelings. It couldn’t be love. She hardly knew him, even though he had been part of her guard for two years, but the brief times they had had together meant that all she wanted was more. Surely that was an addiction? She’d read of such things—some people felt the same about wine. But, whatever it was called—love, addiction, obsession—she couldn’t stop thinking of Ambrose. And last night too she’d thought of him, remembered the tears on his face and thought how she’d love to gently kiss those tears away. Her maids definitely didn’t know that.
Catherine entered the cobbled courtyard. Ambrose was standing alone beside her horse, Saffron, and he turned to her as she approached. He stared, almost frowned, before bowing. Why had he done that? Was it to do with her? The execution? Everything?
“Your Highness,” he murmured.
Ambrose took hold of the reins, patted Saffron’s neck, and bent to hold the stirrup steady for Catherine’s foot. His hand on the stirrup was tanned and clean and smooth, though his knuckles were grazed and scabbed. She had purposely not worn her riding gloves, and now she lowered the fingertips of her left hand onto Ambrose’s hand, gently touching the scabs and then the back of his hand where she pressed more firmly. Catherine’s breath caught in her throat. Her skin was on Ambrose’s skin. This was not allowed. Not seemly. Not done.
Ambrose had gone as still as stone, though his skin seemed almost to burn.
Catherine leaned close to his bowed head and said, “It’s impossible for me to say how I feel about Lady Anne, Sir Ambrose, except that I am sorry for her suffering—and for yours. But I fear Noyes aims to bring you down next. And I would despair if you met the same fate as your sister.”
Ambrose looked up into Catherine’s eyes.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” he replied in a low voice. “I appreciate your kindness and concern. However, my concern is more about your brother than Noyes at this precise moment. Please put your foot in the stirrup and appear exceptionally keen to go riding. Prince Boris is here.”
Catherine quickly looked up to see Boris coming out of the stables, his eyes on her.
“You’re alone with this man, sister?”
Catherine forced a smile. “No, of course not. My maids are with me; they dawdle a little. See?”
To Catherine’s immense relief, Sarah and Tanya appeared from round the corner at that moment.
“They need a whipping to waken them up.” Though they were now almost running to Catherine.
Catherine mounted Saffron and said, “They’re just not so keen on horse riding as I.”
“Well, I’ll join you on your ride this morning. If you have no objection.” And Boris called for his horse to be brought out.
Catherine could think of numerous objections, but she said, “I’m honored to have my brother join me on my morning ride. Your company is the more precious to me knowing that once I’m married I’ll be denied this pleasure.”
Boris laughed. “Precious indeed.” And he swung himself onto his horse.
Peter, one of her other guards, led out horses for Sarah and Tanya.
“Your maids don’t need to join us,” Boris said.
“But they always ride with me.”
“Not today. I’m here to accompany you. I and these two fine knights.” He gestured to Ambrose and Peter.
Being without her maids on a ride was unheard of, though if she was with her brother there could be no complaint of impropriety. Still, she was sure Boris was up to something. She said, “My maids can amuse me when you tire of my company.”
“Tire of you, sister? That could never happen. You are endlessly fascinating. And I’m not waiting for them; as you say, they dawdle. Your men may guard the rear.” And Boris led the way out of the courtyard.
Catherine followed. Boris had caught her off guard, though thankfully it was only him; Noyes was nowhere to be seen. There was little she could do, but as she rode out of the courtyard she turned back and signed to Sarah and Tanya, Follow me.
They both signed At once in reply. Catherine smiled. Her maids gave her courage, but she had just made another slip in front of her brother. There had been so many recently: her unguarded remarks on marriage to Diana, looking too long at Ambrose at the execution, and now being found with Ambrose and without her maids. Still, perhaps the best form of defense was attack. She kicked Saffron on to ride alongside Boris.
“It’s a delight to have your company this morning, brother. In all my years I’ve not seen so much of you as I have since my betrothal. It makes me wonder if your own thoughts have turned to marriage?”
Boris laughed and spat on the ground.
“Surely you’d like children?”
“I’d like a quiet ride.”
Catherine sighed. “I warned you that you’d tire of me, and I was right—and we’ve hardly left the castle grounds. But, without my maids, I am your responsibility to amuse for the whole ride.”
“Oh, I plan to do that, sister.”
Catherine looked over at Boris. “What do you mean?”
Boris ignored her and kicked his horse on.
Catherine kept up with him, saying, “Well? Can you answer me?”
“All my activities for the last six months and indeed for today revolve around getting you wed to Prince Tzsayn, sister. That is the job Father has given me, and I intend to make sure nothing prevents the wedding from happening. Soon you will have a husband.” Boris turned to her and smiled. “Or rather he will have you. And my role is to ensure no one else has you first.”
Catherine stared at him. Had her brother really said something so coarse?
But then he continued as if he’d said nothing unusual. “Just make sure you do as you are required before and during the wedding. After that you are your husband’s problem.”
Catherine was still shocked at her brother’s first comment and insisted, “I don’t intend to be anyone’s problem.”
Boris snorted a laugh and shook his head. “You’re a woman. Women are always a problem. It’s in your nature to disobey, it’s in your nature to be tempted from honor, it’s in your nature to lie about it.”
“I obey in all things.” Though Catherine knew she was tempted by Ambrose, but she also knew she’d never give way to temptation.
“And it’s in your nature to argue.”
“Isn’t it in every intelligent person’s nature to argue against something that is wrong?”
“I’m not wrong.” Boris kicked on his horse, shouting, “Now stop the chatter and ride.”
Catherine looked back. Her maids were not in sight, and she had no choice but to keep up with Boris. They cantered down the track to the beach and across the sand to the shallow water, Boris riding slightly ahead. The beach was long and narrow and they rode fast to the far end, water and wet sand splashing up. It was years since she and Boris had ridden together. He was a better rider than her, as he always had been, but now he was so much a man that she could barely remember the boy he had been years ago.
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nbsp; Boris took the path past the dunes that led back to the castle through a patch of scrubby woodland and grass. Catherine, Ambrose, and Peter followed it to a small stream and a rickety wooden bridge where, to Catherine’s surprise, three riders waited on the far side. They wore the uniform of the Royal Guard so Catherine wasn’t concerned for her safety, but something felt wrong; these men weren’t here by chance.
“Who are these men?” Catherine asked Boris as they crossed, keeping her voice level.
Boris halted by them, saying, “This is Viscount Lang. And this, Dirk Hodgson, second son of the Duke of Vergen. The young man over there is Sir Evan Walcott.”
Catherine recognized their names but not their faces. There was something about them together that was overwhelmingly masculine and aggressive.
Boris said, “You challenge him first, Lang. The bridge is ours. Keep it that way.”
“My pleasure, Your Highness.” Viscount Lang moved onto the bridge, blocking the path for Ambrose and Peter.
“What’s happening?” Catherine asked.
“You asked earlier what this was about.” Boris turned to her. “Respect for the king is what this is about. That Norwend scum stares at you as if you’re his. At the execution you couldn’t take your eyes off him. And today you left your maids behind, contriving a situation where you could be alone with him. You were warned. You won’t be executed as a traitor—whatever happens, you will wed Prince Tzsayn—but this traitorous piece of shit is going to pay, and you are going to watch.”
Ambrose and Peter had halted ten paces from the bridge. Lang pointed to Peter. “If you wish to cross the bridge, sir, you may.” Pointing at Ambrose, he said, “You, sir, may not cross without proving your honor.”
“No!” Catherine said. “Ambrose is my guard.”
“Ambrose is not fit to be in your guard,” Boris snarled. “He barely denounced his traitorous sister. He wept like a woman at her death. Noyes would like nothing more than to get his hands on Ambrose, but I am saving him the trouble. I deal with the cowards and traitors in the Royal Guard myself. Loyalty is not just in words and deeds but in spirit. And I see no loyalty to the king in him.”
“Do you intend to stay there and snivel like a coward, Norwend?” called Lang.
Ambrose squared his shoulders. “I am here as bodyguard to Her Highness, to protect her, as is my sworn duty, and you should not hinder me.”
“Then you must cross the bridge to do your duty.”
“It’s right that you should offer the alternative, Lang,” shouted Boris. “He may hand over his spurs.”
“It would disgust me to touch them, but I would accept them as an alternative, Your Highness.” Then Lang shouted to Ambrose, “Surrender your spurs and you can ride over my bridge and back home to cry by your fire. I hear you weep like a woman.”
“I’ll not hand over anything to you.”
“Then we fight.” And Lang drew his sword.
Catherine said, “Boris, please stop this. There is nothing between Sir Ambrose and me.” No doubt, if he didn’t fight, Ambrose would be taken by Noyes to some dungeon, but Boris would only choose the best of his fighters and Catherine had no idea how good Ambrose was with a sword.
However, Boris’s eyes were fixed on Ambrose, and he didn’t reply.
Ambrose drew his sword and told Peter, “Your duty is to protect Her Highness, not stay with me. Do your duty.”
“Ambrose, I—”
“Go.”
Reluctantly Peter kicked his horse on and crossed the bridge as Lang rode forward toward Ambrose.
Ambrose backed his horse away, glancing about nervously.
Lang charged.
With a cry, Ambrose kicked his horse hard and rode forward. They passed each other with a clashing of swords, turned, and rode at each other again, but this time Ambrose’s horse reared, hooves clawing at the air. Lang’s horse backed up and instantly Ambrose was charging, slashing down with his sword. There was no contact between the swords, but Lang’s horse screamed and reared. Its reins were cut on one side, as was its neck.
Lang dismounted easily, using his horse to shield him from Ambrose’s sword until he could release the panicked beast, as it was more of a danger than protection. The horse galloped away and Ambrose charged at Lang. Swords clashed and Lang staggered back.
“Dismount and fight honorably,” Lang shouted.
“It’s not my fault you can’t protect your horse or yourself,” Ambrose replied, and sliced at Lang as he rode past. Again the swords clashed, but Lang staggered and turned too slowly as Ambrose whipped round and cut him across the wrist, almost severing his hand from his arm. Lang screamed and dropped to his knees, blood splattering his face, his hand hanging loose and touching the sand. Lang stared at it.
Ambrose dismounted and walked over to Lang.
“Do you agree, sir, that I have proved my honor?”
Lang muttered something Catherine couldn’t hear.
Ambrose shook his head. “I have bested you. Say I have won and I’ll let you live. You can learn to fight with your other hand.”
Lang raised his head and said, “Fuck you. And your whore of a sister.”
Ambrose’s hands were shaking as he walked round behind Lang and raised his sword.
“No!”
Catherine didn’t know why she cried out. But at the sound of her voice Ambrose hesitated. Then he brought the hilt of his sword down on the back of Lang’s head. Lang collapsed unconscious onto the ground.
Boris said, “I don’t believe he has proved anything other than he fights like a villain. Dispatch him, Hodgson.”
“What! No, Boris! Ambrose has won.”
“Hodgson! Do it!”
“It’s you who are the villain, Boris,” hissed Catherine. “Ambrose defeated Lang. It’s dishonorable to send in another man, giving him no time to recover.”
But no one was listening. Hodgson rode forward, slowly drawing his sword.
“Ride him into the ground!” yelled Boris.
Hodgson kicked his horse toward Ambrose, blade raised, but Ambrose dived and rolled forward before Hodgson had the chance to strike. The startled horse jumped over Ambrose, who rose to his feet as Hodgson struggled to control his mount. Ambrose cut across Hodgson’s back. The knight cried out but turned his horse and kicked him forward. Once more, Ambrose ducked, then lunged to stab Hodgson’s leg. As before, Hodgson grunted and slashed at Ambrose, who dropped flat to the ground and rolled under the horse.
Hodgson urged his horse to trample Ambrose, but the horse backed away. Ambrose got to his feet before Hodgson charged again, but this time the horse caught Ambrose and knocked him back to the ground.
Stubbornly Ambrose gathered himself and stood up. “Your horse is the better fighter,” he snarled, but he looked shaken and tired.
“Is that so?” Hodgson replied. He dismounted and approached Ambrose, sword raised, and the difference between the men became more obvious to Catherine. Hodgson was taller, wider, and more muscular. He was bleeding, though he seemed not to notice the wounds to his leg and back.
“Hodgson won my tournament last year,” said Boris. “He’s the best sword in my troop and as tough as they come.”
Ambrose backed away. Hodgson advanced. They circled. Hodgson thrust forward with a combination of hard, powerful lunges, each one deflected, but always Ambrose was moving backward.
Catherine knew there was no hope for Ambrose. “Stop this, Boris. Stop them.”
“All he has to do to stop it is give in and hand over his spurs.”
“Ambrose beat Lang and has first blood with Hodgson; it’s Hodgson who should be handing over his spurs.”
“Seems to me that my man wants to carry on.”
And Hodgson moved forward, swinging his sword. Ambrose parried but his whole body seemed to shake with the force of Hodgson’s b
low. Again Hodgson advanced and Ambrose retreated, but this time he tripped on a clump of grass, staggering backward off balance, and Hodgson closed on him, driving his sword down on Ambrose, who just managed to deflect the blow before falling sideways. Hodgson stepped forward, raising his sword to deliver the killing thrust.
“No!” Catherine knew Ambrose was lost.
But then Ambrose’s sword was in Hodgson’s chest.
Hodgson looked as shocked as Catherine. Then she realized it was all a ruse. The trip had been deliberate; Ambrose had feigned being off balance under Hodgson’s guard, so his opponent’s chest was unprotected and Ambrose could thrust his sword up, driving it through cloth and skin and bone.
Hodgson still tried to bring his own sword down, but Ambrose anticipated that too and rolled sideways, leaving his blade buried in Hodgson’s chest. The big knight fell like a tree to lie facedown in the mud. Ambrose picked up Hodgson’s sword, glanced at Lang, and finally turned toward Boris.
His chest was heaving and he shouted, “The bridge is mine. Anyone can cross.” He pointed the sword at Boris and spoke in a voice that Catherine hardly recognized; it was so full of rage. “Even you, Your Highness, are welcome to travel this way if you feel brave enough.”
Boris’s face was twisted with fury, and for a moment Catherine thought he might charge at Ambrose. But at that instant Sarah and Tanya appeared, riding fast toward the bridge.
“Take your maids and return to the castle now,” growled Boris.
Catherine was sure that if she did, Boris would attack Ambrose. To do so would be dishonorable and somehow even he couldn’t do it with Catherine and her maids to witness it.
“I’m not leaving without my men.”
“Do as I say!”
“Not without my men!”
“Are you disobeying my instructions?”
“My instructions are always to stay with my guards. And your men, brother, have challenged mine and lost. Take the defeat like a man. Or you will lose all honor.”
“It’s not my honor that’s in question. What was I saying about contriving to be with that man?”
“It is you who have contrived all this, not I! Every day I ride safely here with my maids and my guard. Today, because of you, there is one man dead and another maimed.”