The Princess and the Wolf

by Karen Kay

  She moaned, and taking out a handkerchief, dabbed at the moisture on her face.

  “It is very hot here, Your Highness. Do you wish me to go to your quarters and lay out a change of clothing for you?”

  Princess Sierra grimaced. “No, Maria, as you well know, the humidity in this place is not to be borne, and changing clothes would only cause me to soil several dresses instead of one. And would only lead to taxing your talents with the laundry.”

  “That is true, Your Highness. That is true.”

  Princess Sierra nodded. “And goodness knows, it is difficult enough for you, in such quarters as these. It is simply too small a space and too hot and humid an environment. And as long as we are aboard this boat, with its steam exhaust constantly upon us, any attempt at keeping cool is but a dream, I fear. In all honesty, I can only hope for a speedy accomplishment of what I must do, so that we can take our leave of this place soon…very, very soon.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. I must admit that this would please me, as well. Would you like me to fetch a fan? One for you; perhaps one for me, too?”

  “Yes, Maria. That would be a grand gesture.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Although, Princess Sierra thought, as she watched Maria’s retreat, little good a fan would do her in this sort of climate. Witness the fact that her clothing stuck to her, both in her present situation and during the past few weeks aboard the steamship. And no amount of fanning, either by herself or with Maria’s help, seemed to give relief…ever.

  Wap!

  What was that? The princess gazed toward the direction of the sound, witnessing a very large bird, as it ascended into the air. The sound, although somewhat loud, had been a mere flap of the beast’s mighty wings.

  She watched the bird closely. Gently, regally, the fowl circled in front of her, once, twice. It even spoke, its screeches filling the atmosphere—which was already saturated with too much noise—with an odd sort of song. Strange, she thought, how the voices from the humanity on the dock, even the clamor of the steamship’s cannon as it belted out notice of the ship’s arrival, dimmed in comparison to that majestic, native song.

  What kind of bird was this? she wondered.

  Certainly it was no seagull or any other kind of water bird, for that matter. At least not any with which she was familiar.

  Sierra narrowed her gaze, staring at the bird as it circled about her once more, before, with another powerful stroke of its wings, it disappeared from view.

  What an extraordinary sight. Had it been an eagle? A large hawk?

  And if it were one of those creatures, had it been bringing her a message? For, as a man from out of her past had once told her, these creatures speak to human beings in such a way.

  Sierra blew out a short breath.

  Nonsense. What utter nonsense. That man—she wouldn’t dignify the thought of him by even thinking his name—had also lied to her in a most horrible way; had betrayed her, humiliated her.

  Still…Sierra shook her head.

  Had she made a mistake in coming here? In leaving all she’d ever known?

  Possibly.

  Lost in thought, Princess Sierra set her lips, unconsciously thrusting forward her jawline. No, she was correct in what she intended doing. She was certain of it. After all, hers was a mission of vengeance, a mission of discovery, a move to set the score right.

  After all, she was not to blame for the incredible number of mishaps that had befallen her country and Prince Alathom’s. She had been the one to set things right. This, she would prove. And no matter how unconventional, how foreign…or even how barbaric a place this might be, she would never regret her decision to come here. If need be, to accomplish her purpose, she would force herself to learn about the American West, coming to know it as well as those who roamed the land.

  Yes, that was it. Such a greedy place as this would not hold sway over her, the grand duke’s daughter. And this was a greedy land—to have taken so much from her…

  Turning away from the water, she swallowed down the turbulence of her thoughts, glancing once more toward the dock. It was then that she espied a team of four white horses, drawing an emerald green coach, which, in a flourish of color, had pulled up toward the dock, stopping in front of the steamship.

  Sierra caught her breath.

  “Such a beautiful carriage, Your Highness,” said Maria, having returned to her position next to the princess. Together, they peeked over the railing, while Maria proffered Sierra a fan.

  “Yes, it is,” said Sierra, a bit more enthusiastically. “It quite reminds me of home.” Of home, though not of happier times, she added to herself. “Although there are many differences, are there not? For instance, have you ever seen a footman and a driver wearing buckskin?”

  Sierra nodded toward the servants in question before glancing at Maria. Cheerfully, she grinned at the maid, as though to share a confidence.

  And Maria grinned back. “Buckskin? I think not, Your Highness.”

  “Or witness the height of those ponies drawing the coach.”

  “Yes. What extraordinarily small specimens of horseflesh they are.”

  “Quite. I must admit, too,” continued Sierra, “that the red and gold uniforms of my father’s estate are a much more beautiful sight.” She sighed. “Yet, still, that carriage’s grandness is not to be mistaken or put lightly aside. Perhaps these Americans are not as badly mannered as we have been led to believe.”

  “Perhaps.”

  At that moment, an elderly, red-headed man poked his head out of the coach’s door, a door he had evidently opened himself, something no person of title would certainly do. Nevertheless, Princess Sierra sighed with relief.

  She said, “That man must be Governor Clark.”

  “Governor Clark?”

  “Yes, the same Mr. Clark of the famed Lewis and Clark adventure. You do remember me speaking of him, don’t you? He and another man led an expedition into the interior of America. They were the first white men to see many of the native tribes.”

  “Oh, yes, I believe I do remember you speaking of him. So that is he, do you think?”

  “Yes, it must be the same person, since I have been amply informed as to the color of his hair, even despite his advancing years.”

  Maria nodded. “His hair is quite red. And his dress is certainly not that of buckskin.”

  “Thank heaven for that,” said Sierra. “At least he is good for his word, for he had promised to meet me at the dock.”

  Again Maria nodded, but when she offered nothing more to be said, Sierra, too, fell silent. Had Governor Clark, she wondered, also procured her a guide, the one she had requested?

  Unwillingly, that specific speculation came accompanied with a nervous sort of anticipation. One that set her stomach to twisting.

  The princess squelched the feeling as best she could, trying to ignore it. However, it took many deep breaths before she regained a bit of relief. But then, as if on cue, the thought occurred to her that she would have to include that guide—the one she had requested—on her two-name list of men who deserved to be shot. But not until the “guide” had led her to the prince.

  No, not until then.

  Prince Alathom could not be dead.

  After ten years of silence, ten years of wondering, ten years of frustration—to be suddenly informed of the prince’s death?

  Well, it was not to be borne.

  No, the prince was not dead. It was all a lie. Of this Princess Sierra Morena felt quite certain. After all, her acquaintance with the prince went back quite far, and she knew him well enough to realize that the prince loved the West too well, loved it too much to have lost his life here.

  If what she suspected were true, his death was a ploy. For no sooner had His Serene Highness—Prince Alathom’s father—announced that he had at last found his son, than word had come of Prince Alathom’s death.

  Princess Sierra furrowed her brows and compressed her lips, as though her thoughts wer
e burdensome. In truth, she was tired of this business, tired of being blamed for the prince’s wrongdoing, tired of carrying on the prince’s responsibilities, tired of pretending all was well when it wasn’t.

  But that was in the past now.

  She, a royal princess, was not going to allow Prince Alathom to shirk his responsibilities—not anymore. She would find the prince; she would confront him, and she would treat him as he well deserved. All she needed to do now was to find the man she had once known well enough to have thought herself in love, he, the only man who could lead her to the prince…

  All at once it struck her. Was he waiting for her even now? Had he accompanied Governor Clark?

  Sierra gulped unconsciously, placing a hand, which suddenly shook, over her chest. Narrowing her eyes and glancing downward, she tried to scrutinize the interior of the carriage.

  Reaching out, she touched Maria’s hand with her gloved one. Nervously, she swallowed. “Maria, please,” she said. “Can you distinguish any forms, any faces, there within the carriage? Is there another person inside?”

  Maria squinted. “I cannot see inside the carriage, Your Highness. I am afraid the glass windows of the rig are too fine as to allow me the opportunity of seeing easily into it.”

  “Yes,” agreed the princess. “Yes, indeed. Although I also think we are hampered by our high position atop this boat.”

  Maria nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. But do not be anxious,” she said. “I am here, as well as Mr. Dominic. When the time comes, you need not confront him alone.”

  The princess opened her mouth, perhaps to refute her maid, but unbidden, a question came to her: What would he look like after these past ten years? Certainly, the man she had once known as High Wolf would not have changed overly much. His hair would most likely still be black, as would be his eyes. But no longer would those dark, dark eyes look at her with the longing she, and she alone, had once been treated to…ten years ago.

  Without willing it, the princess felt her pulse rate race, while simultaneously the sweep of life-giving blood pumped more furiously through her veins. Within a small space of time, without full knowledge of why, she felt curiously alive. Alive again, as she had not been in…well, in ten years.

  Sierra blew out a quick breath.

  Ridiculous. More alive? Because of thoughts of him? He, who had so thoroughly betrayed her? He, who had left her with nary a word? And at a time in her life when she had needed him most?

  Sierra jerked her head to the left, staring away from the carriage. The truth was, she hated him. She had to remember that; hated High Wolf almost as much as she did Prince Alathom…perhaps more.

  “Once betrayed, a wise sovereign never bestows confidence again. Not ever.” So had said her father, repeating a warning passed down from generation to generation, one monarch to the next.

  Unwittingly, other words came back to haunt her as well; words that had been uttered to her in confidence by a man beyond reproach, Father Junipero: “If he had truly cared for you…”

  Sierra had been sixteen when those words had been spoken; sixteen, very innocent, utterly naive and very much in love.

  Well, she was certainly none of those things at present.

  And she, for one, was glad of the change in her. Indeed, she celebrated her departure from naivete, for she was entirely aware that, had she known the truth about High Wolf all those years ago, heartache would never have been hers.

  No, the events of the past had sobered her. But then it hadn’t taken a great deal of stiff, uncompromising reality to do so.

  Friends, the prince and High Wolf had once called themselves, High Wolf claiming to be more. Ha! Both had abandoned her without explanation, leaving her—and her alone—to explain the unexplainable, not only to her own parents, but to the prince’s mother and father as well. And all the while, in the interim, the two of them had shipped off to the Americas…

  No, she told herself, she wasn’t nervous because of this prearranged meeting. She was enraged; deeply, dreadfully enraged. And she intended to take it out on somebody…very, very soon…

  “It’s ’cause of a woman, I hear tell.”

  “A woman? We’re supposed to escort some dang-blasted royal ’n’ his woman inta Injun country, an’ all fer nothin’ more than a hunt?” The old trapper jerked his head toward the ground and spit. “Gov’ner Clark didn’t say nothin’ about a woman. They’s bad luck, I tell ye. I seen one once. And she smelt funny. Yep”—he shook his head—“it’s as my pappy once said, they’s bad luck. Terrible bad luck.”

  Dusty, the younger of the two trappers, nodded, as though these observations were golden truths, carefully gleaned from lofty, mildewed texts. He said, “Nothin’ good ever came from the mouth of one of ’em, thar’s fer sure.” He snickered. “Heard we’re also supposed to kowtow it to this here Injun, says the Gov’ner.” He pointed, quite impolitely. “Supposed to be one of them expert trackers. Cheyenne.”

  The two men glanced in Ho’neoxhaa’eho’oese’s direction while Ho’neoxhaa’eho’oese looked quietly away.

  To stare at either of these two, as they were staring at him, would have been the height of bad manners, something no well-brought-up Cheyenne man would do. Besides, Ho’neoxhaa’eho’oese, or High Wolf in the English language, had been scrutinizing the two men as well, his single glance ascertaining more about them personally than either of the men would have imagined, or liked.

  For instance, from reading their tracks alone, he knew that the one called Dusty suffered an old injury to the knee, that his bowels hurt him and that he was probably suffering a headache at this very moment. The other trapper, the one called Jake, had already imbibed too much liquor and was playing a dangerous game with his heart.

  It was all there in their tracks, easily read.

  Not that High Wolf’s eyes had missed reading their character traits, either. In one quick glance, he had concluded that both men had been a few months without a bath, that from the condition of their rifles, the two men were inexperienced hunters, which probably accounted for the undernourished pallor beneath the top layer of their skin. Neither man would look at him directly, either, except to glare at him for a few seconds. Then their eyes would dart away, as though each man were fearful of detection.

  Untrustworthy. Capable of lies. It was all there. All one had to do was look.

  Although perhaps he should be more generous. After all, a trained scout, or wolf, as the Indians called High Wolf’s clan, could tell all this about a person and more—in no more than a sweeping glance. If a man only knew what could be read from the condition of his clothes, his body and his weapons, he might have more care.

  But, in truth, it was only this last observation that troubled High Wolf. Had Governor Clark—or Red Hair, as he was known to the Indians—honestly thought that he, High Wolf, would lead a danger-filled journey with these men acting as guards?

  The idea was ludicrous; it also presented him with a slight problem, for although he wished to show Red Hair the utmost respect, High Wolf realized he could never travel with these men. Not when he knew well that upon the state of a man’s weapons rested that man’s fate, his very life.

  It was one of the first lessons any good scout learned—perhaps the hard way. To leave one’s defenses—and that meant his weapons—in ill repair was to court disaster. It was something no man of good character would ignore.

  Not that High Wolf would have journeyed with these two men or any other man, for that matter. Even if a gentleman might be the most pristine, pure human being alive, with a reputation as unvarnished as virgin wood, High Wolf would still refuse.

  He worked alone. He preferred it that way.

  Still, it seemed remarkable that these two men should natter and carry on like some old woman dissecting a beetle, at the expense of the character of women in general. When was the last time either of these two had laid witness to the fairness of the female form?

  Years. Perhaps tens of years, he reckoned.

>   Well, it hadn’t been so long for him. He had enjoyed the sight of many of the women in his tribe, his sister being perhaps one of the most renowned beauties in the entire Cheyenne nation. Of course, there had been another; one who had once held his heart…all those years ago.

  The princess. For a moment, Ho’neoxhaa’eho’oese could almost hear again the strains of the violins, the cellos, the pianoforte, as the step and sway of slippered feet had pattered over the marble floor of the ballroom, in what was to be their last dance. In faith, if he’d let himself, he might have even rocked back and forth as he stood here now; maybe he would have even smiled at the memory, had he given himself full rein to do so.

  But the enchantment lasted only a moment. For in truth, an instant, and an instant alone, was all he could allow.

  He didn’t hate her; no good scout hated anyone. In sooth, he understood why she’d done as she had.

  But betrayal was betrayal all the same. And a trust, once forsaken, could never be renewed. Never.

  Of course, he understood that she couldn’t have done anything other than what she had and still remain true to her duty to her family. But understanding was a shabby substitute for the pain of loss.

  He leaned against his rifle as he watched the steamship, the Diana, come into port, cannons blasting out the news of her arrival to the scrambling humanity on the dock. But even this much noise dulled in comparison to the tragedy of his thoughts.

  The truth was, he seldom thought of the princess anymore. Soon, perhaps sooner than he could allow, he wouldn’t remember her at all.

  No, that wasn’t right. For good or for bad, he would carry her memory with him to his death. Perhaps in time, his loss would fade. Perhaps…

  Still, there were times when he wondered if she were as happy with the life she had chosen as she would have been had he—

  “Hey, thar, Injun. Do ya speak any English?”

  “Don’t bother him, Jake. Cain’t ya see he’s got better thin’s ta think about?” This last was said with as degrading a snicker as the man was capable.

  But nothing they said or did could bother High Wolf. A scout, above all other things, understood the weaknesses of others, if only because he could see reflections of their afflictions within himself.