The Secret Princess

by Rachelle Mccalla

  Luke had grown to care for her far more than he should. He knew she couldn’t be his. That simply wasn’t possible. As royalty he must marry only a bride fit for a prince. But even though he knew the two of them couldn’t be together, still, he couldn’t bear the thought that this brave, compassionate woman was keeping secrets from him.

  He watched as the distant figures on the ramparts shifted—the changing of the guard. Would one of the sharp-eyed newcomers spot them in their hiding place among the trees? Luke felt a trickling of fear edge through him. The boy was taking so long to return.

  Why?

  A figure on horseback came around the backside of the fortress on the road from the postern gate. Given the distance and lack of light, Luke couldn’t tell much about the rider, but moments later Evelyn gasped.

  “Is it a scout? Should we hide?” Luke felt his concern growing.

  Evelyn shook her head and stared at the rider a moment longer. “Is it?” she whispered. “It is. Bertie has brought a horse.”

  Luke felt his stomach lurch. A horse? What was the boy thinking? Granted, they might make their retreat more swiftly on horseback, but one animal could hardly carry all three of them. No, more likely the horse would be missed before the boy, and they’d be tracked down because of the animal.

  Bertie urged the horse to a trot. As he neared their hiding place among the trees alongside the road, he called out something in Frankish. Evelyn responded in kind, then translated her brother’s words.

  “He says we’re to run alongside the road out of sight of the guards until we leave the fortress far behind us.”

  Luke took her hand as she spoke, and they made their way through the tree cover in a path parallel to her brother’s. Once they’d topped a few small hills and come to a deeper valley, Bertie slowed his horse and met them by the side of the road.

  “You brought the bearskin?” Evelyn touched the bundle her brother used in place of a saddle.

  “I brought everything.” Bertie lifted a strap rested across the mare’s withers that was tied to bundles that hung on either side, just in front of Bertie’s knees. “And food. The first strawberries have ripened. Cook made tarts.” He reached into his bundle and held out the fruit-topped pastries.

  “You stole them?” Evelyn sounded aghast.

  “Technically, no. Rosalind gave them to me. She begged me to bring her with me—that’s what slowed me down.” He distributed a tart to each of them and took a large bite of one himself.

  “The princess Rosalind?” Luke’s stomach growled at the scent of food, but he waited to take a bite until he’d asked the clarifying question. “She wanted to escape her father’s fortress? Why?”

  Bertie nodded as he chewed. “She hates it there. We’re her only friends. King Garren wants to marry her off now that she’s turned sixteen.” He swallowed and uncorked the stopper on a flask, then met their eyes again. “I promised to come back for her once it’s safe—that’s the only way she’d let me go alone. She helped me escape. I owe her.”

  The youth passed the flask to his sister, who handed it to the prince without drinking.

  “Aren’t you thirsty?” Luke asked.

  “You’re a prince,” Evelyn noted.

  Luke felt guilt swirl through him. Yes, he’d made the same distinction earlier, and rather curtly, but that was on the issue of obedience. It didn’t seem right to take Bertie’s water that he’d shared with his sister. But then again, the strawberry tarts were quite dry and left his throat aching for a drink.

  “You may drink first,” he told her. “I’m still finishing my tart.”

  “I’ve got more tarts if you’d like another,” Bertie offered freely.

  Luke nodded and accepted the gift. They were small tarts, and he was quite hungry. Besides, if all went well, they’d soon be at Bern, where more provisions awaited them.

  “Let’s keep moving,” he urged once they’d all had a chance to drink. “If King Garren sends out riders, they could catch up to us quickly here.”

  “He called for wine when he arrived,” Bertie explained. “I doubt he’ll send anyone anywhere for a while.”

  “Nonetheless, we can’t risk being captured.” Luke thought for a moment as he polished off his second tart. “Evelyn, why don’t you ride the horse with your brother? I’ll trot along beside. We’ll move faster that way.”

  Evelyn looked for a moment as though she wanted to protest his suggestion, but instead she nodded compliantly and Luke helped hoist her onto the mare’s back. He wondered what she might have been going to say and feared his harsh words earlier had silenced her. That hadn’t been his intention—he’d wanted to command obedience, not silence. But when she looked at him with tired eyes, he feared she was simply too exhausted to speak.

  “Try to rest,” Luke told them both as he patted the horse’s flank to get the animal going, then plucked up the lead rope as he hurried along beside them. “You can doze as you ride—just don’t fall off.”

  When he heard no reply, Luke looked up and saw that both siblings had already closed their eyes. Evelyn had her arms wrapped protectively around her little brother, and Luke felt the stirring of affection inside him and envisioned what Evelyn would look like as a mother. She was gentle and caring yet brave and spirited. She’d make a fine mother.

  Luke shook off those thoughts, unsure where they’d come from or what business he had thinking them. They had an escape to make, soldiers to meet with and countermeasures to plan. If it was still possible, he wanted to avoid war with Illyria. Barring that, he’d prefer to meet in battle on his own terms—and on Illyrian soil, as far from the pregnant queen as possible.

  There was still the situation in the caves near Sardis to be sorted out, as well. And he needed to report back to his brother all he’d learned. Hopefully they’d find King Garren’s son Prince Warrick still at Castlehead visiting Elisabette. As long as they had control of him, they’d have some measure of control over Garren’s actions. King Garren had only one son left and a daughter who, if Bertie was to be believed, wished to flee her father’s household. Not even King Garren would be foolish enough to endanger his only heir.

  Luke’s tired mind swam with unanswered questions. The birds above them stirred to life and filled the air with their greetings to the sun. Luke ran alongside the trotting horse as quickly as his tired feet would carry him, praying they’d be fast enough to stay ahead of King Garren’s men.

  * * *

  The horse beneath her stopped, and Evelyn awoke just in time to pull her brother back to keep him from toppling forward as the mare bent her head to drink from a stream. Prince Luke crouched beside the clear water, scooping it to his mouth in big handfuls, and Evelyn felt the parchedness of her own throat as she swallowed.

  “What?” Bertie mumbled as he roused.

  “Water,” she explained, and steadied him as she scooted from the horse. Luke raised a hand and helped them both down, and she stumbled, still groggy with sleepiness, toward the stream.

  “Drink well,” the prince urged them as he filled his flask, then reached for Bertie’s and topped it off. “We should reach my outpost camp in under an hour, but that assumes we proceed unaccosted.”

  After quenching her thirst, Evelyn splashed the cold water onto her face and arms, as well, washing off the worst of the grime from their travels and the climb through the muddy ravine. Her dress, which had never been very warm or sturdy, boasted a new tear on one sleeve. A tattered section along the bottom hem had pulled away completely, and most of the garment was streaked with mud. Tufts of her hair had been pulled free from her braid, but without a comb she had no hope of restraining them. She tucked the worst of them behind her ears and looked up to find the prince watching her.

  She blushed, knowing well that she looked wretched. Reminding herself that her appearance didn’t matter—that Luk
e would only ever see her as a slave, no matter what her feelings were for him—she asked the prince, “Would you like to ride for this next leg of the journey?”

  An amused smile played at the corner of his lips. “No. It isn’t far now. You may ride. You need your rest.”

  “I’m awake now. I’ll run along beside—it will help me wake up. I want to stay alert.” She glanced around the woods as she spoke but saw no threat and refrained from suggesting any lest Bertie grow afraid.

  “Last of the tarts? Anyone?” Bertie held out three crumbling pastries in his open palms.

  “One each.” The prince nodded his thanks. “Let us eat while we travel. Bertie, will you ride?”

  Bertie scrambled onto the mare’s back and they started off again, the prince leading the horse at a brisk walk, impeded by branches and the uneven terrain. Evelyn had no trouble keeping up with the prince. Bertie, who had to have been just as exhausted as she felt, quickly nodded off again slumped over the horse’s mane, his arms wrapped limply around the animal’s neck.

  “Your secrets trouble me, Evelyn.” Prince Luke’s words pierced the otherwise quiet morning, stabbing straight to her fear-filled heart.

  Her only hope of protecting her brother lay in keeping the secret of their father’s identity—at least long enough to put Lydia and Illyria behind them on their journey north to their homeland. She didn’t dare confess anything now. The prince already knew enough of her background to guess the name of her father if he mulled the question long enough. It seemed only his gratitude for her healing work, his derision toward her father and the great chasm between the two kept him from guessing already.

  Unsure how to respond and unable to find her voice, she could only glance at him.

  He met her eyes and surely saw the fear there. “You said your father was half Frankish and half Illyrian. Was he one of Rab the Raider’s men?”

  Evelyn swallowed. It wasn’t a question she could answer—not if she wanted her brother to survive.

  The prince continued. “You mentioned also that your father died last fall. Many died in battle against Sardis.”

  “That’s where he died.” Evelyn heard the anguish in her voice.

  “So he was an enemy of my kingdom.” There was no accusation in the prince’s words, nor was there any indication of surprise, only resignation and acceptance.

  “Not by choice,” Evelyn offered, then wondered if her words were true. Her father had killed King Theodoric of Lydia. Obviously he’d done things she didn’t understand. Perhaps it was presumptuous of her to assume she knew the man who’d raised her and her brother since their mother’s death.

  And perhaps she’d been overconfident to presume she and Bertie could keep their father’s identity a secret from the prince. He knew many things and had many connections. If he didn’t guess at the truth, someone might well tell him. Her father’s men and all of Garren’s household knew her true identity. Indeed, her father’s brother, Warrick, was betrothed to Princess Elisabette, Prince Luke’s sister. Warrick had left Fier to visit his betrothed. The Illyrian heir could quite easily give away their secret the moment their paths crossed—an encounter that would come soon enough if the prince took them to Castlehead.

  Prince Luke had fallen silent.

  Evelyn realized what she had to do. Quickly, before she lost her courage or her secret was spilled. “Your Highness?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve spoken before of your debt to me for saving your life. Indeed, you have surely repaid that debt many times over with your kindnesses to me and my brother.”

  “I have not repaid that debt.” The prince spoke with noble authority. “If anything, I owe you all the more for seeing me safely from King Garren’s fortress when I was imprisoned there.”

  Evelyn might have argued whether he owed her anything, but for what she wanted to ask, it was best that he feel indebted—deeply indebted. So she didn’t argue. “In exchange for that debt, may I ask of you one favor?”

  Prince Luke had worn a stern look throughout their conversation, but now his face relaxed as he bent back a large branch for her to pass. She waited for the horse to make it through, then followed.

  “Ask whatever you will. I am eager to settle the matter.”

  “For my brother’s life.”

  Alarm filled the prince’s eyes. “His life? Is it in danger?”

  “Please.” Evelyn hurried to explain what she could, choosing her words carefully to avoid giving away any more clues that might indict them. “He has done no wrong. He has committed no crime. Bertie wants only to return to the Frankish lands of his birth, not to linger in these lands any longer. Please grant him leave to make that journey. Banish him from these lands if you will, but spare his life.”

  Though they’d reached a level spot where a trail led forward on a clear path, the prince slowed his steps and studied her face. “He is a child. I cannot see how his life would be in danger, certainly not now that we’ve passed out of the Illyrian lands where he was a slave.”

  Evelyn felt tears trickle down her cheeks and she swiped them away. “You have spoken of my father. His crimes, I’m afraid, were many. Indeed, I do not know the full extent of them, but that is why we were enslaved in King Garren’s household. As you’ve guessed, we were not born slaves, but it was for the debt of our father’s crimes we have been serving.” She sucked in a shaking breath. “Please, I ask only for one promise. Spare his life. Do what you will to me, but spare him.”

  They strode in silence for full minutes until Evelyn could stand the wait no longer and, in spite of her fears, glanced up from the path to the prince.

  He stared at her as he walked along, his brow knit, his expression stern. Had she angered him with her request? Had her words given away too much and let on to him just who they were? Had she by speaking only hastened their execution?

  Prince Luke had spoken before of how he loathed her father. What if he decided to exact his vengeance right here on the road? He was an armed warrior. Could she hold him off long enough for her brother to make good his escape? It didn’t seem likely. And yet, what other plan did she have? She’d already begged him for mercy. Judging by the way he stared at her now, he didn’t seem likely to grant them clemency.

  Chapter Ten

  Luke stared at the woman as he pushed doggedly toward the encampment that lay just ahead. His feet felt heavy with exhaustion, his mind nearly numb from lack of sleep. But not even his fatigue could explain Evelyn’s tearful plea for her brother’s life.

  What had he missed? Had the Frankish slaves been so abused and threatened by King Garren that they could see no hope for kindness in spite of all Luke had done for them and the protection he’d offered them? Truly, Evelyn’s experience in the fortress of Fier had been awful—he’d caught enough of a glimpse of it to know that for certain. And King Garren was a deceptive man, full of tricks and ruses.

  Did Evelyn believe she was being tricked again—led away to Lydia only to be punished for her father’s crimes? How could he make her understand he meant her no harm? Or was she too exhausted to believe him, no matter what he said? He felt far too weary to begin to know how to respond to her plea. He had no intention of harming her brother, but she clearly feared otherwise. Too tired to sort it all out and unsure how he could impress upon her his sincerity, he remained silent.

  Besides, more pressing questions concerned him at the moment. Their encampment was close by, not far from the ruins of the burned village of Bern, which the Illyrians had destroyed once Luke had escaped from there the previous fall. Luke watched carefully for any sign of Illyrian activity in the area, but saw nothing.

  Quietly, they approached the low hut where he and his men kept their stores of provisions and enough pallets to sleep a dozen soldiers under the thatched roof. There wouldn’t be that many there now—indeed, his be
st hope was that all six men who’d accompanied him the night before had returned safely.

  To Luke’s relief, he recognized the guard stationed in a concealed spot near the door. So, Dan had returned safely from their skirmish with the Illyrians. That he guarded the door meant others lay inside. But were they wounded?

  Dan rose as they approached, relief and recognition filling his face.

  Luke pressed the horse’s lead rope into Evelyn’s hands, then hurried forward to consult with Dan. “How are the men?”

  “All accounted for.” Dan’s expression turned somber. “Vasil and Farris are injured, sir. We’ve done our best to stop the bleeding, but they need the help of a healer. Sacha rode to bring back more men and a litter. They cannot ride as they are, Your Highness.”

  “Let me see.”

  Dan nodded and left the wooden door open for light as he led Luke inside. The men lay on pallets, their injuries obvious. Vasil’s lower leg had been bound with an improvised cloth bandage, but his blood had already soaked it through.

  “An Illyrian arrow. It pierced him down to the bone.”

  Farris lay on his stomach, his face to the side, a bloodstain welling from his bandaged back near his shoulder.

  “Farris was also hit by an arrow as we made our retreat. We’ve removed the shafts, but they’re barbed heads, buried deep. We dared not disturb them further.”

  Luke nodded solemnly. “Have we a needle among our supplies?”

  “Always, sir.”

  “The pale-haired woman saved my life.” Luke stepped back out into the sunshine to find Evelyn helping her brother down from the horse. “She should be able to help these men, as well.” He switched from Lydian to Illyrian as he called out to her. “Evelyn. My men were injured last night defending you from King Garren. They are in need of your healing touch.”

  * * *

  Evelyn blinked away exhaustion as she stitched, praying her fingers would do their work well in spite of her need for sleep. She might have dared to ask Prince Luke to pardon her brother in exchange for her work, but the prince had made it clear she owed these men a debt already. Besides, she feared she’d pushed the prince too far with her last request.