"Katerin."
Flinching in surprise, the dark woman turned to find Sati, the remains of clown makeup smearing at the edges of the woman's face.
Reaching out, Sati laid a calming hand on Katerin's forearm. "I'm sorry I startled you," she said softly. "Ros sent me."
Katerin placed her hand over the older woman's. "It's all right. What did Ros need from Ilia and I?" she asked, smiling in reassurance at her handmaiden.
Sati nodded at the shy blonde before returning her gaze to Katerin. "We've been through similar situations as this. Ilia, you're to clean up and go to your wagon. The soldiers will want to know who sleeps where."
Swallowing heavily, Katerin's heart sank as she realized where this was heading. "I as well?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.
Sati smiled in sympathy. Squeezing the smaller woman's arm, she said, "Aye. Though Ros says you're not to clean up prior." She reached up with her free hand to muss Katerin's recently shorn hair. "She says to act the simpleton and follow her lead."
Nodding, the princess raised her chin, giving the impression of a lamb being led to slaughter. A simpleton who warms the sapphist owner's bed.
A scowl crossed the Sati's face and she squeezed Katerin's arm again. "Stop that! Ros would never hurt or take advantage of you despite her tendencies."
Katerin ducked her head in shame. "Forgive me," she murmured. "You're absolutely correct."
Sati shook her head. "Let it go, Kat. We've no time to discuss it." Glancing around at the now empty tent, she released the dark woman's arm. "Come. Let's see how good an actor you are."
As she followed, Katerin mused that she was royalty - Acting is in my blood. Reaching out, she grasped Ilia's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as they stepped out into the evening. Certain the pair would follow orders, Sati left them at the entrance, joining her small family at their wagon.
"Milady...?" the nervous blonde whispered, eyes large as she spotted the guardsmen walking about the encampment with Ros.
"Do as Sati said, Ilia. All will be well. Remember, you and I joined the
troupe a month ago." With an encouraging nod, Katerin released the woman's hand. In sudden inspiration, she leaned over and whispered, "Pretend one of the guardsmen is young Malcolm."
Ilia blushed, dropping her gaze at the memory of a certain young smith apprentice who'd been sweet on her. "Aye, milady," she said. At Katerin's urging, Ilia grabbed up her skirt and left to join Gemma and Lucinda at their wagon.
The princess watched the handmaiden until she reached her destination. Scanning the encampment, she saw that Ros had almost completed a full circle and only had three more wagons to go before her own. "Best get on with it, then," Katerin said under her breath.
Aware of the soldiers' watchful eyes, she ducked her head and allowed her shoulders to slump. Her steps became a shuffle as she went to Ros' wagon. Once there, Katerin settled on the stool that the owner used to prop her feet. Her wait wasn't long.
"And here is my wagon," Ros said, leading the Invader's trio.
"Who's this?" the captain grunted, looking down at the woman seated on a low stool.
"Kat! Stand up and greet our guests!" the circus owner insisted, pushing past the guard and dragging the brunette to her feet.
Startled, Katerin jumped at the sudden strong grip on her arm. Biting her tongue at the immediate irritated response, she opted to keep her head down, masking an angry flush. "Good evening," she mumbled, giving an awkward curtsey.
Apparently satisfied, Ros released the younger woman's arm, rubbing it gently. "Aye, much better." Turning to the captain she grinned ruefully. "Please excuse her. She's not had much experience with proper etiquette."
The captain eyed the smaller woman in speculation. Ordering his men to search the wagon with a nod of his head, he returned his attention to Katerin. "How long have you been here?" he asked the filthy woman.
There was an uncomfortable silence broken only by the sounds of Ros' wagon being tossed. Finally, Katerin shrugged with one shoulder. "I don't know, sir. A long time."
"She's a bit simple," the blonde explained in an undertone, finger circling the air beside her ear. "I picked her up in Aimsbury at the same time as Elsa."
Ignoring the owner, the captain reached out and tilted Katerin's face up. "Here, girl. Let's have a look at you." His touch was not unkind as he turned her face this way and that, squinting at her ash covered features in the light of a nearby lantern.
Katerin's dark eyes were fearful as she met his. While her royal training insisted she keep his gaze, she knew better. Allowing her trepidation to show, she chewed her lip, attempting to stare at the ground during his inspection.
The two soldiers interrupted his inspection as they returned from their search. "Anything?" he asked.
"No, sir," one responded, scanning the blonde woman's length. "Only one bed. A few changes of clothing for this one, though nothing but a shift for the other."
Pursing his lips, the captain turned his attention to Ros, an eyebrow lifting in question.
With a wave at Katerin's dirty appearance, the owner said, "That's hardly surprising, is it? Her job is to take care of the braziers during performances. I'd be a fool to waste money on more for her. She'd soil it within minutes." She continued with an ingenious grin, "Besides, her other… attributes are what I keep her for and clothing isn't necessary."
It took a moment for the comment to sink in. While one soldier was able to keep a straight face, the other burst into a wicked guffaw before he could stifle himself.
The captain's eyes narrowed, his expression turning cold. His grasp on the small woman's chin tightened and he leaned forward to stare at her. "Is this true?" he grated. "Do you share this…woman's bed?"
His weathered face filled her vision and Katerin forced herself to look at him. Gods! Now what do I do? Realizing that the situation precluded Ros being able to help her, the brunette went with her gut instincts. A sweet smile crossed her lips, and she said, "Yes, sir. I keeps her warm at nights."
Releasing her and stepping backwards, the captain sneered at the blonde. "Sapphist bitch."
Ros' smile turned feral as she smoothly moved between the man and woman. "Aye, that I am. Not only a sapphist, but a bitch as well. You'd do well to remember that." Her tone was not quite a threat and she made no move to reach for the sword hanging from her hip.
After staring at her in disgust for another minute, the captain waved his soldiers off. "What we're looking for's not here," he pronounced. "Let's go." Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the camp.
There was a long pause as all watched them go. Just near the tent entrance, the three gathered large warhorses and mounted. With a final derisive glance backwards, the captain kicked his steed into a gallop. The thunder of hooves faded into the distance and silence reigned for a few moments.
Katerin, still standing behind Ros, stared at the blonde woman, relief washing over her. She watched the woman reach up to scratch at tousled blonde hair and rub the nape of her neck. A sudden desire washed over the dark woman, a yearning to ease the burden on those shoulders and her hands almost reached up before she caught herself. Staring down at the ground in mild confusion, she balled her hands into fists. Chuckling caught her attention and Katerin looked up as the circus owner turned.
"That," Ros insisted, "was priceless!" Without thought, she grabbed the smaller woman into a hug, spinning her around. "You've outdone yourself, Kat! You've missed your calling!" She set Katerin back onto her feet, chortling.
Flustered, half embarrassed and half pleased, the brunette allowed a small grin to cross her face. "Thank you." As the rest of the troupe approached, laughing and talking excitedly in relief, Katerin could still smell the circus owner's scent, feel the strong arms about her, and her skin tingled in response. What is this…? Before she could analyze the strangeness, Ilia approached and distracted her.
It was late, most of the troupe long ago having gone to their b
eds in exhaustion. Ros looked up from the small book she was updating, diverted from the last minute accounts by a noise. She was seated at the small table in her wagon, a hooded lantern illuminating her work. In the bed to her right, Katerin had fallen asleep and it was from there the sound came again. Puzzled, the blonde adjusted the lantern, allowing the light to sweep across the sleeping form.
The smaller woman moaned and tossed her head, her expression pained.
Another bad dream. Ros rose and settled on her side of the bed, reaching out to gently caress the dark bangs.
As Katerin struggled with the nightmare, barely coming to consciousness, she could feel fingers caress her forehead.
"Shhh. It's just a bad dream," a familiar voice murmured. "You're safe now."
Sighing, Katerin relaxed back into sleep.
Chapter 5
"Alms? Alms?"
"Out of my way, old man," the soldier growled, pushing the vagabond aside.
As the column continued to march past, the peasant shuffled backwards, arms cart wheeling in an attempt to remain on his feet. Other people, already crowded back to make room for the Invader's troops, tried to avoid the filthy man to no avail. Strident voices raised in complaint as the beggar fell, one hand to his chest and the other scrabbling at the people surrounding him. Butt firmly thumping on the ground, he began coughing, leaning forward in obvious pain. Not wanting to contract whatever ailment the old man had, people cleared the immediate area.
Soon the soldiers were past and normal activity resumed in the marketplace. Despite the usurping of the Dulce throne, the once great capitol thrived under their new ruler. Such was the case wherever the Invader took control - he was a threat only to royalty. Wartime monies kept his economics flourishing.
Finally finished with his coughing spasm, the beggar struggled to his feet. He held his chest and limped along, occasionally asking for coin from passersby in his travels. Ducking into an alley, he splashed through puddles left from the late fall rain. It'll snow soon. Make things more difficult. At a door, he paused and rapped softly.
A long silence followed before a peephole opened and someone peered out at him. "Who wields the axe?"
"Liam." The vagabond pulled his hood back, just enough for the autumn sun to illuminate his features.
With a muffled curse, the peephole slammed shut and the door flew open. A tall man, dark of hair and wearing a stylish mustache, stepped into the alley to usher his guest inside. After a quick glance to see if they were being watched, he stepped back in and bolted the heavy wooden door. He then turned to glare at the man before him.
"Thanks for the welcome, Dominic," the beggar said with a smile, pulling the grimy robe from his body. His clothing was homespun, but clean, his face reflecting his true age, barely a man. Black eyes sparkled at the aide's discomfiture.
Dominic's nose wrinkled. "Your Royal Majesty," he intoned. "You shouldn't be out in the streets like this. You're putting yourself in danger." With thumb and forefinger, he took the proffered robe and dropped it on the floor by the entrance.
"Aye, Dominic," the 'old' man agreed. Another coughing spasm came over him and he bent double, holding his chest with one hand. His hair, dark as midnight, shone blue-black in the nearby firelight.
Galvanized, the aide helped his guest to sit before the fire, rummaging for a cup of water to ease his prince's throat. When the teenager had regained his breath and had a drink, he said, "And that's another reason. You're lungs aren't strong enough. You should be abed until you're completely healed from your wound."
"Aye. I suppose it's true, Dom. But I've about had it with being bedridden while you gather my army for me. If I'm to be king, I need to begin acting as one." Liam inhaled shakily, relieved when the coughing didn't resume. He idly rubbed his chest, the now familiar feel of scar tissue beneath his fingers. It had been a month before Liam could sit up on his own, another before he was able to stand. Three more had passed and he had escaped the rustic prison to return to his city.
The aide refilled his liege's cup before sitting down beside him. Twirling his mustaches in agitation, he asked, "What of your guard? You shouldn't be alone! The people might not enjoy the Invader's rule, but your only protection is that you're believed dead. Some of your fine people would be happy to turn you in for a reward." I've got to make the royal bratling see reason! Last thing I need is for him to be discovered… and I.
"Aye, Dominic. I'm aware of that," Liam said, rolling his eyes. "Sim should have already found my note and be hot on my trail. He'll be here within the hour, I'm certain." He glanced sidelong at the aide. "When's the last time you were bedridden for months, eh? I'm sick to death of lazing about!"
Inhaling deeply, the older man reigned in his anger. "I understand, Your Royal Majesty. I was fourteen myself once." A grim smile crossed his face at the prince's expression. "Aye, believe it or no, I was. Sometimes it's easy to forget what a young man sees."
Liam gave a grudging nod and the pair was silent for a few moments. "What of the resistance?" he finally asked, his voice soft.
It would be better to have him here where I can watch him. What's the saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Warming to his subject, Dominic answered, "We've had a few losses, but all is going as planned."
Tapping his finger against an ornately carved armrest, the Invader listened to yet another of many boring reports requiring his attention. It was the only indication of restlessness, his demeanor appearing to be grossly attentive to the aide delivering a monologue about the number of geese in the new province of Dulce.
Things had gone well through the summer; despite the necessary destruction of war and siege, the Invader's coffers overflowed with the wealth of his newest acquisition. Now if those idiots could pull their heads from their arses and bring me the final heir... The tempo of the tapping finger sped up with the onset of his irritation. It had been five months since that night. Five months that he had waited to view the head of a young princess known as Sabine. In that time, seven of his personal guard had been put to death for their failure and two more awaited execution in the dungeons. At this point, he was sure he wasn't receiving further reports because his men valued their skins. Can't say as I blame them.
As the aide prattled on, graduating from fowl to flora with his accounting of wheat, the Invader's eyes drifted across the audience chamber. Several scribes sat at a table nearby, prepared to pounce on his every word so that history would not be bereft of his wisdom. Courtiers and courtesans from all over his kingdom watched the proceedings, whispering to one another and plotting their games of intrigue. The Royal Guard were positioned at all entrances, the best bowmen of his realm circling the balcony above, ever vigilant to the smallest threat to his person. A few dozen of those seeking audience huddled nearby. All in all, very pretentious and very boring.
"Enough!" he ordered. Deafening silence filled the room. Waving at the aide, the Invader said, "To boil it down, We are rich."
Sputtering at the interruption, the aide bowed low. "Aye, your Royal Majesty."
With a satisfied nod, the Invader waved at the table of scribes. "Good. Give the list to Our scribes so it might be entered in the records."
The murmuring of the spectators resumed as the aide obeyed. Behind the throne a door opened quietly, an old woman shuffling forward to whisper in the Invader's ear. Again, the lords and ladies paused as they watched the witch, only to begin anew as they saw their monarch's eyes narrow in anger.
"Leave Us!" the Invader barked, rising to his feet and waving at those gathered. A nod at his captain and the Royal Guard stepped forward to urge the people to greater haste. Soon the only occupants of the huge room were a handful of the most loyal of the Invader's guard, the old woman and the king himself. Another gesture from the ruler, and a chair was brought forth for the woman, her aged form settling with a sigh below the dais. "Bring them in," the Invader ordered, indicating the door that the witch had entered.
Two of his guard hustl
ed over to throw it open, revealing the king's private audience chamber. Three men, travel worn and wearing the
Invader's colors, entered. Stopping before the dais, each knelt on one knee, heads bowed.
"Your Royal Highness," their leader said. "We have word of the Dulce heir."
The Invader sat on his throne, eyeing his men with skepticism. "Your information had better be valid or you'll join your fellow failures," he growled, stroking his beard.
Gulping, the leader nodded. "Aye, my liege. We think it is."
Finger tapping once more, the Invader leaned back. "Rise. Be seated."
As his men did so, the king called for refreshments. After they were served, a slave leaving behind a platter of meats and cheeses, the Invader watched the trio wolf down their food. Remembering his campaigning youth, he hid a grim smile while sipping his wine. Many a time he'd returned from the field, famished for food, drink, and human contact. He idly wondered if these would find the third item or end up in the dungeons instead.
When they were finished, the Invader set his wine goblet on the table beside him. "What news have you?"
The leader bowed his head deferentially. "Sire, in the new province of Dulce there is unrest. It is rumored that an heir to their throne has survived and is gathering the people to revolt."
Eyes narrowing, the Invader scoffed, "There is always unrest when I've taken a neighboring kingdom. And always it is said that an unknown heir is responsible. What makes this a viable threat?"
The soldier reached into his tunic, pulling out a wad of cloth. "This, Your Royal Highness." He stood and unfurled the material, revealing the standard of Prince Liam Dulce Caesar Alfric.
Stunned, the Invader stared at the stylized battleaxe, a coiling green dragon running along its handle. "Where did you find this?" he growled, rising to his feet. In moments he was down the steps, ripping the battle standard from his man's hand.
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