by Sally Green
“Your name’s not on the list of the princess’s party. Do you have a pass?”
“A pass?”
“A sealed letter giving you admittance.”
“No, but I don’t need to get in. I need to get a message to Princess Catherine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s urgent.”
“It always is.”
Ambrose spoke through gritted teeth. “How can I get a message to her?”
“In the morning the stewards make a list of those wishing to present themselves. Gifts and messages can also be left.”
“How can I get a message to her now?”
“You present your pass and go through.”
“I’ve told you I don’t have a pass.”
“And I’ve told you, you need one.”
“But the message is vital. I’ve ridden hard to get here.”
“My heart bleeds for you. Come back in the morning.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Fine by me.”
Ambrose slid off his horse, sat on the ground, his back against the wall, and waited.
Until dawn Ambrose dozed, worn out by his long ride. The guard changed, and he made a new attempt to talk his way in, with as little success as the first time. But now the castle was waking up. Servants and officials were entering and leaving, and Ambrose saw a group of boys with white hair approaching the gate.
“Are you with Princess Catherine?” he asked.
“We’re her dancers,” one of the boys replied.
“Will you be seeing her today?”
“We’re performing at the luncheon.”
“I need to get a message to her. Can you take it to her now, or to one of her maids?”
The boy nodded.
“Tell her that Ambrose is here. I’m by this gate and waiting to see her.”
“The princess?”
“Or Jane or Tanya. Any of them.” Then he had an idea. He took his knife and cut off a long lock of his own hair and handed it to the boy, saying, “That’s to prove it’s me.”
The boy pulled a face. “That’s to prove you hardly wash.”
“It was a hard ride to get here. My message is urgent.” Ambrose gave the boy a kroner. “There’s another for you after you bring the maid here.”
The boy sighed theatrically. “You Brigantines are so lacking in style.” Then he produced a beautifully embroidered handkerchief from his pocket, laid the lock of hair in it, and wrapped it up.
“Just get it to them urgently.”
“You can rely on me. What was your name again?”
And the boy grinned and disappeared through the gates without waiting for a reply, leaving Ambrose only four-fifths sure he was joking.
CATHERINE
TORNIA, PITORIA
A gentleman and lady must never be alone together. When talking or walking they should remain at a distance so that if they were each to stretch out their arms their fingertips would not quite touch.
Modern Manners and Behavior, Percy Bex-Down
IT WAS Catherine’s first morning in Tornia and another fine day, the sun bright in the clear blue sky. Catherine had risen early to prepare for her meeting with Prince Tzsayn, changed her hair twice and her dress three times, and now she was almost late. As she hurriedly pulled on a fourth option, pushing down a rising sense of panic, she asked Tanya, “What do you think?”
“I think he’ll be just as nervous as you are. And as for the dress, Your Highness, the first is the most flattering to your figure.”
Catherine put the first dress back on. It was a new one, a very pale silver, simpler than the others, with the slashes in the fabric revealing not skin beneath but pure white silk.
Exactly as the bell struck nine, Catherine stepped onto the terrace with Tanya.
The prince wasn’t there.
Catherine’s face tightened. This was ungallant. The man should be waiting well in advance to avoid this sort of embarrassment, even if the man was a prince and the meeting was . . . of questionable propriety. Especially then!
Catherine smoothed her dress and waited.
The gardens were neat and well tended, though she could see no gardeners anywhere, no sign of anyone.
“Are you sure this is the right place?”
“I believe so, Your Highness. Shall I check?”
Catherine sighed. “Yes.”
Prince Tzsayn certainly didn’t seem keen to meet her. He’d left her waiting on the dock in Charron and now couldn’t even be bothered to come to a meeting he’d arranged himself.
As Tanya went back inside, Catherine strolled over to look at the roses. Only a few weeks ago she had been walking in her mother’s rose garden, discussing Queen Valeria and her imminent departure. So much had happened since then, and yet the situation was the same: tomorrow she was to marry a man she cared nothing for and still hadn’t even spoken to.
Damn him, where was he?
Then she heard footsteps and turned to see the prince walking slowly toward her along the path between the roses.
He bowed. She curtsied. They stood awkwardly, neither willing to break the silence.
Catherine looked at his face, half-scarred and half-handsome, and wondered how that changed a person.
“So, we meet again,” said Tzsayn, his voice low and level.
“Isn’t that what rival warriors say to each other?” Why did I say that?
Tzsayn raised his eyebrows, or at least the one on his unscarred side. “I can see already where your Brigantine expertise lies.”
“And what is your expertise, Your Highness? Is it dancing? Or fashion perhaps?”
The words were out before Catherine could check them, and she saw Tzsayn’s face twitch.
What are you doing, Catherine?
She’d waited to talk to him for so long, played out this conversation in her head a thousand times, and now she was insulting him.
“Oh, I have no expertise. I’m quite useless.” The prince wandered a few steps away, saying, “Shall we look at some flowers?”
Catherine knew she should wait for Tanya, but Tzsayn had already set off. Catherine caught him up and he walked along, pointing out plants, saying, “Rose . . . bush . . . another rose . . . You see, Your Highness, though not quite an expert, I know my plants.”
“Yes,” Catherine said. “Though I think I recognize those myself.”
Was he joking? Was this the Pitorian sense of humor? Catherine glanced over her shoulder, desperate for Tanya to come to her aid, but there was no sign of her. Catherine took a breath and told herself to relax and be herself.
He’ll be just as nervous as you are. Of course he will . . .
“Did you enjoy the reception yesterday evening, Your Highness?”
“Oh, it was delightful.” Tzsayn’s voice was flat. “And how did you find it, Your Highness?”
“Everyone was quite charming.”
“Indeed, “delightful’ and “charming’ sum up the evening perfectly.”
Catherine took the plunge. “I do detect that you’re not being totally sincere.”
Tzsayn stopped. “Is that what you detect?”
“It is,” replied Catherine. “Are you still unwell?”
“I am perfectly well, thank you.”
“Then might I ask what is the matter?”
“Call me a spoiled prince—and I warn you that my father has many times used just those words—but I’m not used to having things forced on me. Particularly princesses. I realize it’s not your fault. You are in the same situation as me, after all, but still . . . it grates.” He resumed his stroll.
Catherine was almost too stunned by the prince’s openness to feel the sting of the implied insult. It grates, indeed!
“We must all do as our fathers bid,” sh
e said politely. “And I am delighted to be joining our two countries—”
Tzsayn laughed. “I’m sure you’re always delighted. Delighted and charmed.”
Catherine felt her blood burn. Was this all a joke to him?
“Well,” she snapped, “I will always be delighted and charmed to do as you bid me. As I must when we’re married.”
Tzsayn glanced at her and, to his credit, his laughter died as he saw her expression of barely suppressed fury. “You do have the Brigantine fighting spirit, I think. But I assure you, Catherine, that while I’m very keen on people doing as I bid them, when we have children”—her step faltered and he stopped—“the idea of which seems to be a shock to you but is, I think, rather the whole point of this marriage. That’s what my father wants . . . and yours presumably wants it too. The family line must continue.”
“I’m seldom sure of my father’s objectives concerning anything, least of all myself,” Catherine replied coolly.
Tzsayn studied her for a moment before he continued. “Anyway, if we do have children, I won’t force them to go through this absurd arranged marriage nonsense.”
Catherine was silent. Was he serious?
“Am I too blunt for you, Your Highness?” he asked.
“I appreciate your candor, Prince Tzsayn, but I wonder what other option you would propose.”
“I think I’d stay out of it.”
Catherine gave a bark of astonished laughter. “Even if your daughter wanted to marry the son of your worst enemy?”
Tzsayn smiled, and this time there was just a flicker of warmth in the expression. “We’re in Pitoria, Your Highness. We have no enemies here.”
Cautiously Catherine returned the smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Do you wish to see the water garden? It’s just beyond that hedge.”
“That would be delightful.”
* * *
Catherine’s tour of the garden with Tzsayn took half the morning. Tanya, having eventually found them, shadowed them at a respectable distance. They stopped in an arbor for elderflower water and some fruit before strolling to the walls to look out over the city and the land beyond. After their rocky start, Catherine was pleased to find Tzsayn both intelligent and courteous, and the conversation ranged over their education, touched on his travels to Illast, her journey to Pitoria, and the inevitable comparison of food and clothing. By the time they returned to the castle, Catherine felt almost at ease with her husband-to-be. Of course that didn’t mean she particularly wanted to marry him, but, she reflected, it could be a lot worse. He could be like Boris. At that thought, she said, “You seemed deep in conversation with my brother yesterday evening.”
Tzsayn smiled. “I thought Prince Boris would be interested in how we manufacture the silk for my clothes. With the first course I began with the silk worms, and by the end of our eighth course it only remained to detail the process of making the dyes. I’ll have to complete my explanation next time I have the pleasure of his company at dinner.”
Catherine nodded, again feeling unsure how serious Tzsayn was being.
“I should add,” the prince explained, “that when I met Prince Boris on my visit to Brigant, he and his delightful and charming friends spent a full evening telling me of their hunting exploits, in incredible detail, and with a certain amount of repetition, specifying their weapons, the best types of spear, the best type of horse, the best saddle, boots, leg protection, and so, so much more. I thought it must be the Brigantine way to pick a topic and go over and over it.”
Catherine smiled. “Actually, that is the way of many Brigantine men.”
At that they arrived back at the terrace and Catherine was surprised to see Sarah, pacing up and down in some agitation. When she spotted Catherine, her hands flew into a blur of signs.
Slow down, Catherine signed back. What is it?
Sarah returned just two words.
Ambrose. Here.
Catherine felt the ground shift beneath her. Noyes had said he’d been caught, been killed. Of course it was a lie! She couldn’t get her breath. Tears filled her eyes. Ambrose was alive!
“Catherine?” Tzsayn’s voice was concerned.
With a supreme effort, Catherine controlled her emotions. “Excuse me, Your Highness. I fear I’ve had a little too much sun.”
“Come, Your Highness,” said Tanya soothingly. “Too much sun before your wedding will not do.” She curtsied to Tzsayn and, taking Catherine’s arm, led her inside.
AMBROSE
TORNIA, PITORIA
AMBROSE WAITED by the gate as more and more people came and went. He wondered if the boy had just thrown his hair away and forgotten about him. He started at the appearance of each new person, his heart lifting, hoping it would be someone he recognized. He stared at one woman who was coming toward him, and it took him a few moments to recognize her. It was Sarah, Catherine’s maid, but she looked completely different. She was wearing a pale green dress in the Pitorian style. She looked stunning.
She came to him and curtsied. “Sir Ambrose.”
“Sarah!” Ambrose beamed. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
She returned his smile. “It’s good to see you too, sir, though more than a little surprising. Catherine was told that you had been killed by Noyes’s men.”
Ambrose shook his head. “As you can see, I’m alive and well, though in urgent need of seeing the princess.”
Sarah’s smile faded. “That’s not possible. The princess is with Prince Tzsayn at the moment. Their wedding is tomorrow. Nothing must stop that.”
Ambrose felt the familiar tightening of his chest at the thought of Catherine marrying another, and for the first time it was accompanied by a twinge of doubt. Would his news be rejected as the invention of a lovestruck fool?
“I’ve not come to stop it. But I have urgent news. It’s not about me, or the marriage. It’s . . . much more important.”
“The marriage is the most important thing. Perhaps after the wedding . . .”
Ambrose shook his head. “That’s too late. Listen, you know she’ll want to see me.”
“But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. Boris is in the castle with fifty men. If he sees you, you’re a dead man, and the princess will not thank me for that: to find that you are alive and then bring about your death! Never mind the trouble she’ll be in.”
“I understand you want to protect her, and I have no wish to bring her trouble. You know I would never wish her any harm. But this news cannot wait.”
Sarah looked torn.
“Please,” he begged. “She’ll want to hear it. Once I have spoken to her, I’ll go.”
“You’ll have to,” Sarah agreed, then she turned to the guard: “You know whom I serve? I am taking this messenger to the princess. He is safe with me.”
“As you wish, my lady,” said the guard, bowing.
Ambrose followed Sarah through the castle. She walked quickly, saying, “I’ll take you the quiet way, but everywhere is busy; there are so many people here.”
The place was indeed bustling, though once they passed the shining walls of the Great Tower it became quieter. Still Ambrose’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Noyes could be round any corner. And if he was taken now, Catherine would never know.
“Nearly there,” Sarah said.
“Nearly where?”
“The morning room. Actually, there are about twenty morning rooms, but this one is relatively private.”
But, as they went along the side of a small courtyard, Ambrose turned to see two purple-haired Pitorian soldiers talking with another man whose hair wasn’t dyed and who was wearing the uniform of the Brigantine Royal Guard.
“Damn!” Ambrose swung away and moved behind a pillar. But he knew he’d been seen. And from the way the man had stared at him, he’d been recognized as
well.
“Please, we must hurry,” he told Sarah. He only needed a moment to tell the princess his news and give her the letter he’d stolen from Lord Thornlee. Even if he was caught, it would be worth it; as long as he delivered the message, there was a chance the princess could escape.
Sarah hurried up a flight of stairs and along one more corridor. “Inside, quick. I’ll bring the princess.” And then she was gone.
Ambrose paced the room. He had dreamed of seeing Catherine again, but not like this. He looked down at his boots, thick with dust and dirt. What would she think of him? Well, that didn’t matter; the point was to warn her, the point was to make her believe him. But then what? They were still trapped, hundreds of leagues from home in a foreign country, enmeshed in a plot he still didn’t fully understand. After all, Boris was in Tornia too. Had Aloysius betrayed his son as well? That made no sense. If Boris knew about the coming invasion, he must be planning an escape. Possibly with Catherine. Ambrose had been going over all these things for the last three days and still wasn’t sure what to make of it. Then there was the sound of footsteps approaching, the door opened, and Sarah entered, followed by Catherine, and all thoughts flew from his mind.
Catherine was wearing a figure-hugging silver dress slashed with white silk. Her hair seemed blonder than before and was piled on her head and pinned with white flowers. Her face was pale with shock. And then her eyes filled with tears.
“Ambrose . . .” Catherine breathed. “I thought . . . They told me you were killed.” And now the tears fell down her cheek.
Ambrose wanted to brush the tears away. Tears shed for him. He stepped closer. It always amazed him how she looked at him. So fiercely and so lovingly. He carefully reached out and as gently as he could he wiped the tears away with his fingertips. Catherine took his hand and kissed it.
Kissed him.
He held her hand and pulled it to his lips. “I never thought I’d see you again. And seeing you is both wonderful and painful. I have a message of great importance but I must be brief; one of Boris’s men saw me on my way here.”
“What! Then you must go!” Catherine looked back at the door, where Sarah had stationed herself. “This is madness. I wanted to see you, but not at the risk of your life.”