by Sally Green
“I’ll go soon, but I have to tell you my message first. Your father is planning an invasion. He has thousands on men on the border at this moment ready to invade Pitoria.”
“What? No, you must be mistaken—my marriage is supposed to bring our countries closer together.”
“Your marriage is a diversion. I’ve seen their orders.” Ambrose held out the letter to Catherine. “Today they are advancing on the border, and they invade tomorrow at first light.”
Catherine scanned the letter, her eyes wide, and it pained Ambrose to see her so shocked and confused.
“You believe it?” she gasped.
“Your father’s seal is on the orders.”
“But . . . why? Why the invasion at all? And why this sham of a marriage? It makes no sense. I’m here and Boris and Noyes too. An invasion would put us all in danger.”
“That’s why I had to see you. To warn you. I believe Boris must be party to it. Who arranged for all the lords of Pitoria to be at your wedding? Who insisted on it?”
“He’s my brother . . . he wouldn’t,” breathed Catherine.
“The lords away from their castles, the whole country distracted by celebrations. It’s the perfect opportunity for an invasion.”
Catherine shook her head. “But . . . why invade at all?”
“That I don’t know, Your Highness. But whatever your father’s reason, it’s happening.”
From the corridor came the sound of running and shouting.
“Boris is here.” Ambrose took Catherine’s hand. “Don’t let him know what I’ve told you. You must get word to Prince Tzsayn. He can protect you.”
“Ambrose . . .” Catherine began, but before she could say anything more the door burst open and four of Boris’s guards ran into the room, swords drawn. Ambrose backed to the window, drawing his sword as well.
Boris strode in with Noyes behind him, his eyes gleaming.
“Well, sister, you continue to surprise me. Meeting your lover under your husband’s roof the very day before your wedding?”
Ambrose stepped forward. “We are not lovers. I am Princess Catherine’s guard. Sworn to protect her.”
“Protecting her! Bringing disgrace upon her, you mean.”
“I was not alone with Ambrose, and we were merely talking,” Catherine said. She made a subtle sign with her hand, and Ambrose saw Sarah nod and slip out of the door behind Boris.
“Well, there’s no time for talk now.” Boris turned to Ambrose. “My father wants you back in Brigant to pull you apart limb from limb, but I fear I will have to disappoint him.”
Ambrose felt his blood rising. “You, or your men? I seem to remember the last two you set against me didn’t pose too much trouble.”
Boris sneered. “Then let’s see what happens with four. Take him!”
Ambrose swung his sword up, but before Boris’s guards could attack, Catherine darted in front of him, saying, “No, Boris! Not again.”
“Out of the way, sister! You shame yourself.”
“It’s you who shames me!” And she stepped forward so that the point of one of the guards’ swords was against her chest.
“No, Catherine!” cried Ambrose.
The guard looked uncertain and began to lower his blade, but Boris stepped forward, pulled Catherine out of the way, and threw her roughly to the floor as he shouted, “I said, take him!”
Ambrose knew he had to get the numbers in his favor as quickly as he could, and he swung to the nearest assailant and cut across his sword arm. The man staggered back. The next guard aimed a clumsy cut at Ambrose’s head but he ducked beneath it, his sword opening the man’s throat. He parried the third guard’s strike, but the fourth was already outflanking him. Ambrose fell back, taking the fight away from Catherine, who was still sprawled on the marble floor. Boris’s men came forward. And then the room was full of noise, the stamping of boots and shouts in Pitorian as blue-haired soldiers surrounded them, and Ambrose had never been so happy to have a spear pointed at him.
“Drop your weapons, in the name of His Highness Prince Tzsayn!”
Ambrose dropped his sword, and the other men did so reluctantly. Boris’s blade was still sheathed by his side.
From behind the crowd of soldiers stepped another man. He was young and slim and wearing a coat of blue silk. Prince Tzsayn. Ambrose had heard the rumors of his scarred face, and indeed it was a strange sight: one side handsome, the other looking like melted wax.
Tzsayn walked over to Catherine, saying, “It seems I was right—you are more familiar with warriors than I, Your Highness.”
He held out his hand, she took it, and he gently helped her to her feet.
Ambrose forced himself to stay still. He should be the one to take her hand, to help her rise, and he was sure now that that was what she wanted too, but the look she flashed him was enough to hold him in place. There was nothing he could do. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. Catherine was safe. He had delivered his message. Whatever happened next was out of his hands.
“Can you tell me what is happening here, Your Highness?” Tzsayn asked Catherine softly.
Boris snarled a reply. “This man, Sir Ambrose Norwend, is a wanted traitor. He’s to be returned to Brigant for trial and execution.”
Tzsayn turned sharply to Boris, an exaggerated look of surprise on his face.
“Ah, Prince Boris, I didn’t see you there. It seems we’re all going a little blind, as I am sure you would have helped your sister had you noticed she’d fallen to the floor. Perhaps I am seeing this wrong too, but Sir Ambrose does not seem particularly willing to return with you.”
Boris sniffed. “He thinks he can do as he likes instead of as the king demands.”
“Oh dear. He sounds like a true villain.” Tzsayn looked at Ambrose for the first time with a swift, searching gaze. Ambrose held it for a moment, then bowed his head.
Tzsayn leaned to Catherine. “What do you say, my lady? Is he a villain? I’m tempted to think that in this case Prince Boris might be right.”
“My father demands that Ambrose returns to Brigant, that is true, but I fear that if Boris were to escort him Ambrose would not complete the journey alive.”
Tzsayn nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, I have a simple solution to the immediate problem. As Prince Boris will not be returning to Brigant until after our marriage, I suggest that, in the meantime, Sir Ambrose is kept safely and securely in my custody.”
Ambrose began to hope that he would make it out of the room alive after all.
Boris bristled. “That won’t be necessary, Your Highness. My men can ensure he is secured.”
Tzsayn shook his head. “I don’t wish this villain to cause any more trouble before my wedding day. He is my prisoner, until I decide otherwise.” Tzsayn turned to Ambrose. “Have you anything to add, Sir Ambrose?”
Ambrose flicked his eyes toward Catherine, but her own held no clues for him. He stepped forward proudly. “Prince Tzsayn, I am no villain. I had no desire to fight here, but was forced to defend myself against Prince Boris’s men.”
Tzsayn cocked his head. “But why are you here at all?”
Ambrose hesitated. With Boris and his men in the room, he could not reveal the truth. It was for Catherine to pass on the news he’d given her.
“I was here to speak with Princess Catherine about . . . an urgent matter.”
“Which is?”
“Which is for the ears only of Her Highness and those she chooses to trust.”
Tzsayn blinked, then nodded. “I see. Take him away.”
Ambrose felt each of his arms clasped by one of the blue-haired guards.
“To the dungeons, I hope,” Boris said, jaw set.
“Well, I’m hardly going to have him sent to my private rooms, am I?” Tzsayn replied. “Now, please excuse
me, but my lady looks a little distressed. I think fewer men and fewer swords will improve the appearance of this room no end.”
Ambrose resisted the urge to struggle as he was pushed out and down the corridor. How stupid he had sounded! An urgent matter for the princess’s ears only! He couldn’t have made it look more like he’d had some secret rendezvous with Catherine if he’d tried. Had his clumsy words destroyed Tzsayn’s trust in her at the very moment Catherine was going to need it most?
Down and down the guards took him. It really was a dungeon that he was going to. The walls here were bare stone, the steps narrow and worn. A guard pulled open a heavy wooden door to reveal a small cell beyond. The light from the corridor illuminated a crude wooden bed, a table and chair. Ambrose was pushed inside and the door was shut and bolted behind him, leaving the cell black and silent. Until the scurrying sounds began.
CATHERINE
TORNIA, PITORIA
I will be loyal to Brigant and my father.
Pledge sworn by Princess Catherine of Brigant on her sixteenth birthday
THE ROOM was cleared of all the guards, but Tzsayn, Boris, Catherine, and her maids remained. Tzsayn walked over to Ambrose’s sword, which still lay on the floor, and peered at it as if he’d never seen one before.
“I must say, with every passing moment I’m more excited about our forthcoming marriage. I’m sure it won’t be dull at all.” He turned to Catherine. “However, I think we should find somewhere else to discuss what just happened. I’m desperate to hear all about Sir Ambrose.”
He took Catherine’s arm gently but firmly and escorted her to the door.
“We’ll go to the Blue Room and have some tea, I think. Will you join us, Prince Boris? You drink tea, I presume?”
“I’ve no desire for tea at this moment,” replied Boris tersely.
“Then it’s just us, my lady,” Tzsayn said to Catherine.
A short time later Catherine and Tzsayn were seated at a small round table in a room decorated with beautiful pale blue and white tiles. Sarah and Tanya sat nearby, pretending to talk to each other, but Catherine knew they were listening intently to her conversation.
Catherine tried to roll her shoulders discreetly to release the tension there. Tzsayn seemed calm. Too calm for a man who had just discovered his fiancée with another man. She tried not to imagine what might have happened had he come in earlier to find Ambrose gently brushing her tears away.
And now Ambrose was in a cell. But at least he was alive.
“So, do you want to tell me about this man, Sir Ambrose, before tea or after it?”
Catherine’s mind raced. So much had happened. If Ambrose’s news was true—and she believed it was—instead of a wedding to unite their two ruling families, Brigant and Pitoria were facing war. But should she tell Tzsayn? How? And would he believe her? The trust between them was a fragile thing, new and untested. Better to strengthen it first with the truth—as far as she could tell it.
“Sir Ambrose was my bodyguard in Brigant.”
True.
“He is an honorable man from a good family.”
Also true.
“He has never done anything wrong, except defend himself successfully against Boris’s men.”
He’s kissed my hand and touched my face, but that isn’t so wrong . . .
“He would never do anything to harm me. In fact, he risked his life to come here today.”
“Need I ask why, or is the way he looks at you all I need to know?”
Catherine hesitated, blushing.
“Ambrose is honorable. And I . . . I have never done anything that I should not.”
“I’m not sure he is and I’m less sure you haven’t.”
Catherine protested, “Your Highness, I—”
“I apologize,” interrupted Tzsayn. “That was glib. I can see you’re upset. You care for him very much?”
Catherine swallowed. “It’s not that . . . not just that. I do care for him, I admit it.” She glanced up at Tzsayn, but his face was unreadable. “But I know my duty, and I have not jeopardized it with a foolish love affair. At this moment my distress is for another reason.”
Tzsayn seemed surprised. “Can you tell me the reason?”
“I’m . . . There’s something more. Something bigger, but . . . I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m torn between my duties . . .”
“Your duties to whom?”
“To Brigant and my father, and to you, Pitoria, and my life here.”
Before she could say more, the servants arrived with the tea. Catherine straightened her back and sat in silence while they set out the urn, glasses, and lemons, trying desperately to imagine what her mother would advise. After what seemed like an age, the servants left. Tzsayn poured two glasses of tea and placed one before her.
“Catherine, the only advice I can offer is that you must do what you think is right, what you believe in.”
But what do I believe in?
To betray her father, her country, was wrong. But so were her father’s plans. He had lied to her, deceived her. Let her believe in a marriage and a future that was nothing more than an illusion. King Arell and Prince Tzsayn had shown her more kindness and honesty in her few days in Tornia than her father had done in her whole life, but that didn’t mean her loyalties should change. Or did it?
Catherine felt her eyes beginning to prick with tears. “I’ve been so naive. I thought I could come to Pitoria and win people over with a few dresses and a flower. I wanted to be liked—loved—by the people. My father rules by fear, and I wanted to do the opposite. We Brigantines have a certain reputation—you implied as much yourself . . . I’m used to warriors. I’m used to fear and hate and being on my guard day and night against a wrong look or a misplaced word.” Catherine took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not looking for sympathy, just trying to explain myself.”
Tzsayn reached out and took her hand, saying, “I’m honored that you trust me enough to do so.”
“People expect Brigantines to be aggressive, violent . . . to bring fear. I wanted to change that. I hoped that people might see me differently. But perhaps I’m wrong to even try. Perhaps people should be afraid of us.”
Catherine drew a shuddering breath as she made her choice. Slowly she pulled her hand free from Tzsayn’s, slipped it inside one of the slashes in her dress, and took out the letter.
“This is the message Ambrose just handed to me. My father is gathering an army in the north of Brigant. He’s going to invade Pitoria. These are his orders, under his seal. Ambrose stole this and brought it to me because he knows the danger I will be in when the fighting begins.”
Tzsayn was still, so still he might have been carved in stone. Then he took the orders and read them. And then read them again.
“This is not a forgery? This is definitely your father’s seal?”
“Yes. And Ambrose has seen the soldiers. He believes the wedding is”—she drew another deep breath, forcing herself to say it—“a diversion. A means to ensure that all the lords of Pitoria are here in Tornia, far from their lands in the north.”
Tzsayn’s scarred hand that held the paper trembled, but whether with fear or anger Catherine couldn’t say.
“Your father would do this? Risk everything on war? Risk his own daughter’s life?”
“It’s exactly the sort of thing he would do.”
“He has shown himself to be the warmonger my father always feared. And you have shown yourself to be better for Pitoria than I could ever have hoped.” Tzsayn rose swiftly. “Thank you, Catherine. I need to talk to Ambrose about this before I speak to my father. I won’t hand him back to Boris.”
“What will happen to Boris and his men?”
“If Brigant does attack, they are enemy soldiers. They’ll be arrested.”
“And . . . what am I?”
&nbs
p; Tzsayn took her hand again. “You and your maids are my guests. You have risked and sacrificed much to tell me this, Catherine, and in return I offer you my protection. I will ensure you are all safe, no matter what happens.”
He turned and strode from the room.
Catherine felt light-headed. Whatever else she had done, right or wrong, she was certain she had brought about her own ruin. She could not stay in Pitoria; Tzsayn could never marry the daughter of his enemy. She could never go back to Brigant, to the father who’d betrayed her and whom she had betrayed in turn. She had set herself adrift. And she’d be adrift in a country at war with her own: hated, not loved.
She had never felt more alone. The only comfort she had was the thought that Ambrose had risked his life to help her.
MARCH
PRAVONT, PITORIA
MARCH WAS first aware that they were close to Pravont from the sounds of voices and someone chopping wood and, behind it all, the roaring of the river. The noises carried a long distance, which was a reminder to be as quiet as possible. They approached through a small thicket of trees, and as they got nearer, they saw roofs and woodsmoke and then houses and a few people.
“I can’t see any sheriff’s men,” Edyon said.
“Maybe not,” Holywell said. “But if they had a poster of you at some remote inn, they’ll have one here.”
“Possibly,” Edyon said. “But this is the north. They hate interference and being told what to do by southerners. They hate sheriffs. They hate everything that isn’t northern.”
“We’re not northern,” March said.
Edyon grinned at him. “No, you’re foreign, which is even worse. But here being wanted for murder might not be such a black mark.”
“Well, I don’t think we should go in there bragging about it, Your Highness,” Holywell replied. All the time he was peering through the trees.
“Maybe it’s best to go in at dawn, when it’s quieter,” Edyon suggested. “Or maybe evening, when people are tired and not so curious.”