by Sally Green
“It seems the prince is recovering. So what did you do?”
“I poured myself a glass of wine—poured it beautifully, you’ll be pleased to hear—and sat in the prince’s chair in the bay window and looked out across the castle to the walls and city and sea beyond.”
“A pleasant breakfast.”
March shook his head. “I thought of my brother. Of when we were so hungry we had to eat grass and worms. I spat the wine out.”
“You’ll get your revenge soon, brother.” Holywell clamped his hand on March’s shoulder. “And afterward you’ll find wine tastes much sweeter.”
AMBROSE
FIELDING, BRIGANT
AMBROSE WAS sleeping at the edge of a clearing when he was attacked. The soldier ran at him from the trees across the clearing, sword aloft and footsteps thundering on the hard ground, shaking him awake. Ambrose now slept holding his sword, and he rolled to his side and rose to his feet as his assailant reached him and, in a smooth move, his sword entered the soldier’s chest just as easily as it had Hodgson’s. Then Ambrose realized the soldier was Hodgson. The dying man cursed him, blood pouring from his chest, as he brought his sword swooping down in an arc that Ambrose knew would slice his head off. He had to move, to parry, but he couldn’t. He was frozen. That’s when he woke.
Eyes wide open, Ambrose sat up, sweat on his back. He was breathing hard and grasping his neck where the sword would have struck him. The woodland around him was still. There were no attackers. There was no one here but himself. The only sound was his panicked breathing.
He swore and calmed his breath. Then he listened: he had dreamed the attack, but that didn’t mean Noyes’s men weren’t nearby.
The air was still and silent.
Ambrose got up and walked around the clearing, telling himself, You can never be too careful, but knowing as well that it was because he was afraid.
Hodgson had attacked him every night since Ambrose had fled Brigane, and every time it filled Ambrose with the same paralyzing terror.
From a young age, Ambrose had imagined fighting in battles and killing the enemy; that was what all Brigantine boys were brought up to hope for. Ambrose had visualized many times thrusting his sword into a Calidorian soldier, a Calidorian lord even. But Hodgson was a Brigantine. A member of the Royal Guard. A brother in arms. Ambrose told himself that he’d done nothing wrong. He’d been challenged and he’d defended himself. Hodgson was overconfident and had fallen for his feint, and Ambrose had been lucky, because otherwise it would have been him with the sword in his chest.
Ambrose sipped water from his flask and lay down again. He needed to sleep. He’d been riding hard for three days, with little food and less rest. He closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind, and eventually drifted back to sleep. He dreamed of lying in bed with Catherine, the drapes dark red around them as he pulled her gown from her shoulders and kissed her neck. She took his hand and touched the back of it gently with her fingertips, the touch that he loved so much. But as she looked up at him she turned into his father and said, “This hand killed a Brigantine soldier. This is the hand of a traitor.”
Ambrose woke with a start. It was getting light. He was covered in sweat again, and he went to the stream to wash, hacking at the undergrowth with his sword as he went, saying to himself, “I’m no traitor. Catherine knows that. So does my father. It was them or me. Them or me.’
He wanted to act with honor. That was all he’d wanted his whole life. To fight well, to act properly, to uphold his family name, and he had done all that and yet it had all gone disastrously wrong. Because of Boris, because of Noyes . . . because of the king. Because in Brigant now there was no honor. They had killed Anne and now they wanted to kill him.
And had Boris really challenged him because of one look he’d given Catherine?
He wasn’t sure.
But was he acting honorably with her?
Catherine was not even his to think of, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking of her. She was all he wanted to think of. She was betrothed to another man, and yet he dreamed of her in his bed, sleeping with him, loving him. But that was not his future; it never had been and it never could be. His future should have been the army, but that was now out of the question. He needed to find a different future for himself, but first he wanted to understand the past. He wanted to understand what had happened to his sister.
He was heading northwest to escape Noyes and his men in this quiet part of Brigant, but his aim was to go to Fielding, the place on the remote west coast where Anne had been captured and Sir Oswald had been killed. Ambrose didn’t know why his sister had gone to Fielding, but he suspected that it held a clue to why she had really been executed. His sister had been accused of having an affair with Sir Oswald, but Ambrose didn’t believe it for a moment. He knew they’d had a brief dalliance years ago, but it had come to nothing and they had remained what they both preferred, which was close friends and fellow travelers. They had been to many places together, staying away for long periods, always returning with stories of exotic foreign lands. So why had they been in a small village on the west coast of Brigant? What could possibly have interested his sister there? Ambrose wanted to see Fielding and find out. Even if he didn’t find an answer, he wanted to say he had tried, that he had not simply accepted the lies about his sister.
He went back to his meager camp and pulled out the last of the cheese and ham he’d bought at a farm the day before. He counted the money he had left. Eight shillings. It wasn’t much. Still, he wasn’t without resources. He had his most valuable possessions: his horse, saddle, sword, and knives. He’d bought an old jacket from a man in one of the villages he’d passed through. The leather was worn and split, but it was better than nothing. He’d kept his guard’s uniform, which was merely a cloak and jerkin, to wear at night to keep warm. He didn’t sleep at inns, partly because of the risk of Noyes hearing about him, partly because he needed the money for food, not a bed.
He ate the last of the cheese, saddled his horse, and set off.
By noon, he was out of the woods and into rolling grassland given over to sheep. He passed through a small hamlet and bought some milk, ham, and more cheese and got directions to Fielding. The roads were narrow, stony, and potholed, but by mid-afternoon he reached the coast. There was no sign of a town or village, and the only indication that there was a farmhouse somewhere was the presence of some thin, bedraggled sheep. However, it was a beautiful place. The sea was vast and blue-gray and the beach wide and sandy. And far away on the beach Ambrose saw a figure. Ambrose rode across the sand, and the old man, who had been bent over digging for whelks, stood upright and watched him approach.
“Good afternoon to you,” Ambrose said.
The man stared at him and gave a nod in reply.
“I’m looking for the village of Fielding.”
The old man gave a wheezy laugh. “You’re a bit old, ain’t you?”
“Old? For what?”
The man shook his head and then gestured to his left. “That way. North. The camp’s in the dunes. There’s bugger-all in the village; it was abandoned years ago.”
Ambrose wasn’t sure what to say to that, but regardless, the man had picked up his bucket of whelks and was walking away.
Ambrose rode north along the coast. The tense feeling in his stomach had returned. It was unlikely Noyes or his men would be here. But something was. Something to do with Anne. Something that had led to her death.
It was late in the day when he saw the sand dunes ahead. They were high and wide, like small hills, and he could see a few figures in the far distance on the beach. He cut inland to avoid being seen, then turned back north to ride through sandy fields where a few sheep nibbled at the poor grass. It was getting dark as he made his way through some thin trees, toward where he thought he’d seen the figures on the beach. He led his horse on a path through the dunes. Ahead, he coul
d hear a few shouts and a laugh. Ambrose recognized the familiar and welcoming sounds of an army camp.
On a wide expanse of flat scrubby ground in the dunes were numerous tents and a few small fires. It looked like a typical army camp, except for one thing: all the soldiers were boys. Some seemed to be fifteen or sixteen, but others looked much younger, no more than twelve or thirteen.
Ambrose knew that many young men became soldiers as a way out of poverty, but none were allowed to swear loyalty to a lord until they had come of age, as Ambrose himself had done. As a young boy he’d wanted to fight for Brigant. He’d played war games with Tarquin, tracking and setting up ambushes, camping out for days on end, training in combat and horsemanship. His army training, the comradeship with his fellow guardsmen—those were days that he recalled with feelings of true happiness. But to gain those skills you needed to learn from older soldiers. Here there seemed to be only children.
This had to be what his sister had seen, and it was certainly unusual, but it seemed of minor importance: boys training to be soldiers wasn’t news in Brigant. So why would the king have persecuted Anne for coming here?
Ambrose edged closer in the darkness. By the nearest fire was a group of boys, all wearing jerkins, which seemed to be their uniform. The two boys in the center were wielding wooden practice swords, and those around them were watching, giving occasional whoops of admiration and encouragement. The sword-wielders were impressive for their small stature, moving fast on their feet, their swords crashing hard into each other. And they kept at it. Ambrose knew only too well how tiring swordwork was.
“Seen enough?” Ambrose felt a sharp poke in his back.
There were two of them, about thirteen or fourteen, wiry and muscular, wearing army jerkins, though where there would normally be a badge to identify their lord was a square of red cloth. Both were carrying wooden practice spears.
Ambrose glanced around. Two boys would be easy to deal with, but he wanted to know what was going on. Better to try talking first.
“Who’s your commanding officer, boy?”
“Who’s yours?”
Ambrose smiled. “Prince Boris. I’m with the Royal Guard. Who are you with?”
The boy swung his fist to the red patch on his jerkin. “The Reds. Strongest and best.” But he quickly looked uncertain. “You’re not in uniform, sir. You coming to see the captain?”
“Of course.” Ambrose didn’t want to see any captain, as the captain would know he hadn’t been sent here by Boris.
“Oi, Rashford. We’ve got a visitor.”
The two boys with the wooden swords came over and, as they approached, it occurred to Ambrose that these two would not be so easy to beat in a fight. And their cockiness as they walked over seemed to indicate that they knew it too. One of them shouted, “What’ve you got, Frank? More spies?”
“Says he’s with the Royal Guard. Says he’s here to see the captain.”
Ambrose got to his feet, dusting sand off his thighs and saying in as casual and friendly a tone as possible, “I’m no spy, though I admit I wanted to watch you without you knowing I was here. I wanted to see how good you were. I saw you two practicing with swords. That was impressive. You’re Rashford, are you?”
“Yes, leader of the Reds.”
Ambrose now had an idea of how to get away. “How are you with spears, Rashford?”
The boy smiled. “Not bad.”
“It’s my weakest weapon,” said Ambrose with a rueful grin. “I’ve never mastered the throw. Care to show me your technique?”
“Give me your spear, Frank. And give our visitor yours, Luke.” Frank twirled the spear in one hand, then tossed it sideways to Rashford, who caught it and twirled it round in his hands before spiking it into the ground. Luke tossed his spear to Ambrose. It was well balanced and the wooden point sharp. It might have been a training weapon, but it could do serious damage.
Rashford said, “You throw first, sir. I’ll see if I can match your distance.”
Ambrose weighed the spear in his hand and flexed his shoulder. Then he took a few paces forward and threw the spear.
“Not so bad, sir. Nice style.”
“You’re very generous.”
“Well, I didn’t comment on the distance, which, if I’m honest, sir, is pretty dismal.”
Ambrose had to stifle a laugh. “Let’s see how you do then.”
Rashford raised his spear to his shoulder. He was small and wiry, with narrow shoulders, not the right build for a spearman at all. He took a few paces forward, threw—and Ambrose turned and ran.
He reached his horse in a few strides and swung himself into the saddle. As his horse wheeled round, Ambrose saw Rashford’s spear had gone almost twice the distance of his own. It was a huge distance for a slim boy, and for a moment he was frozen with surprise. But then he gathered the reins and kicked his horse into motion.
The boys were running after him, shouting for him to stop. They were quick too, keeping pace with him and grabbing for his legs, but then he kicked the horse harder and galloped away.
The thud to his head knocked Ambrose sideways and forward across his horse’s shoulders. He lost a stirrup, and before he knew it he was half under his horse’s body and being dragged along the ground. A hoof caught his back, knocking him free, and he rolled forward through the sand and tried to get up, but everything was swaying and then it went black.
CATHERINE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
People dismiss, belittle, or ignore women. But when I represent my country I am not a woman: I am a land and a people and a queen.
Queen Valeria of Illast
IT WAS less than a week before Catherine’s departure for Pitoria, and the arrangements were coming to dominate her every waking moment. She thought of Ambrose still, every day, but she was also having to think of Tzsayn, her marriage, her journey, and now her clothes. Her mother had ordered for her numerous dresses in the Pitorian style, and they had finally arrived. The day dresses were each a different color of the Pitorian flag: green, red, and black. Her mother had said, “You must show the Pitorians that you are one of them. Show them you are proud to be Pitorian and they will be too, and they’ll thank you for reminding them that they should be.”
Still, Catherine had snorted when she saw the gowns laid out next to each other in her dressing room. They were ridiculously bold. Even the black ones had shiny ribbons and feathers woven round the bodice, sleeves, and hem.
“They look complicated.” Catherine picked one sleeve up in her fingers. “What there is of them.”
“Pitorian women are more comfortable exposing skin,” agreed her mother. “Believe it or not, these are quite conservative.”
Catherine tried one of the red ones on, but it didn’t seem to hang correctly and she felt exposed; the left side of the gown was open from armpit to hip.
“I look like I’m in rags . . . bloodstained rags.”
“Hmm . . . Can’t you do something with your arms?”
“Such as?” Catherine put her hands on her hips, elbows poking through the slashes in her sleeves.
“No, don’t do that! Hold them straight.” Her mother winced when Catherine did so. “Oh dear, that doesn’t look right either. Perhaps carry something. A prop. Yes, that would be useful. Something to help tell your story.”
“A hint of despair?”
Her mother frowned. “Never show that, Catherine. Remember Queen Valeria. She won her people over to her. But to win people over they need to see you as a winner. You don’t want them to link you to despair, but to hope. To a brighter future. To success.”
Catherine couldn’t think of anything that could link her to success. She’d never felt she’d had any success or even the opportunity for it. As for hope, in these clothes she could only hope people didn’t laugh at her.
At that moment there was a knock on th
e door to her chambers, and then Sarah almost ran into the dressing room, bobbed a curtsy to the queen, and turned to Catherine.
“Your Highness,” she said breathlessly. “A messenger has come from the king. His Majesty commands you to appear before him.”
Catherine felt her heart race. She had never been summoned by the king before. Was it about her marriage? Possibly. Probably. But there was also a chance it had something to do with Ambrose . . .
The queen rose, a picture of calm.
“Tell the messenger the princess is dressing. She will attend on the king as soon as she has finished.”
When Sarah had gone, the queen said, “You’ve gone pale, Catherine. Do you know what this is about?”
“Perhaps the wedding arrangements?” Catherine replied.
“Is there anything else it could be?”
Catherine knew her mother must have heard something of the fight between Ambrose and Boris’s men, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to talk about it. Now it seemed she had no choice.
“There was . . . an incident a few days ago, when I was riding at the beach.”
“A trial of honor, I believe. I heard that Boris lost a man. And the traitor fled.”
“He’s not a traitor. And he didn’t flee.”
“You show your emotions too clearly, Catherine.”
“But it’s true. Sir Ambrose is no traitor; he’s a loyal guard.”
“Sir Ambrose Norwend? The one with the hair?”
“They all have hair.”
“You know what I mean. The blond hair. Attractive.”
“He’s intelligent and considerate. He’s—”
“Trouble. Trouble you cannot afford. I understand why Boris is concerned.”
“Understand! A man is dead. Ambrose did nothing but defend himself.”
“You talk of this man as if you care about him. As if he’s important to you. Do you expect your future husband to accept that?”
“You said he was more liberal.”