Princess Annie

by Linda Lael Miller

  She finished her meal, listening with half an ear as Lucian chatted about his experiences as a soldier—one would have thought he’d crossed the Alps with Hannibal, instead of spending a little over a week as a member of the royal guard—then excused herself and hurried out.

  She asked the first servant she passed—a young maid carrying a pot of fresh coffee toward the dining hall—where to find the Princess Phaedra.

  The girl averted her eyes and bobbed her head respectfully. “I saw her earlier, miss. She needed a hot bath prepared for her, since she’d been out riding and gotten caught in the rain. I told her she’d catch her death if she wasn’t careful.”

  Annie was immediately concerned, but she could see that the pot was heavy and she didn’t want to keep the girl from her duties. “Thank you,” she said, and walked away.

  She found Phaedra tucked up in her enormous bed, sipping tea and looking wan. Her dark hair was still damp, and she was wearing a bright blue bed jacket.

  “Don’t you dare give me a lecture for going out riding in the rain,” Phaedra said, as soon as Annie started to open her mouth. “You’d have done it yourself if you’d thought of it.”

  Annie sighed. “I didn’t come here to scold,” she said. “I simply wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Phaedra looked away for a moment. “Only two weeks until my marriage,” she said, meeting Annie’s gaze. “That is, if Rafael can hold the country together that long. Did you know that people are coming to the wedding, Annie—even with rebels and highwaymen on the roads and Morovia in shambles? Messages have been arriving for days.”

  The situation in Bavia was frightening, but Annie had noticed that people were more likely to attend such celebrations during bad times than good ones.

  “Your dress is coming along well,” Annie said, with a wry note in her voice. “You’ll make a beautiful bride, if neither of us gains or loses any weight in the next two weeks.”

  Phaedra tried to smile, but the effort faltered. “Poor Annie. I’ve put you through so much, just by bringing you to Bavia. It’s bad enough that you’ve had to put up with my impossible brothers, but those dreadful people threw stones at our carriage, and after that there was the incident in the marketplace—”

  “Shhh,” Annie said, squeezing Phaedra’s hand because she could see that the princess was about to cry.

  It was too late; Phaedra’s tears brimmed along her lower lashes and spilled down her cheeks. “I was so mean to you in the carriage—the things I said about what’s happened between you and Rafael—”

  Annie embraced her friend briefly. “You’re about to be married, and the world seems to be falling apart around you. It isn’t any wonder that you’re a bit temperamental these days.”

  Phaedra wiped her cheeks with the back of one hand and sniffled. “Would you like some tea? I could ring for another cup and saucer.”

  Annie shook her head and glanced nervously toward the terrace doors. Rain pounded at the glass, making a sound like gunfire. She imagined how the bricks in the courtyard would look, shimmering bright orange in the wet and listened with her heart to hear the trees in the orchard whispering to each other. She pictured the statues in the fountains, sleek and shiny figures with bits of dancing water at their feet.

  “Did you know that Jeremy Covington is here, in the dungeons?” A shiver wound its way up Annie’s spine as she recalled the look in Covington’s eyes the night of Phaedra’s ball, when she’d told Rafael what she’d seen the lieutenant do.

  Phaedra shifted, plainly bored with the topic, and nearly spilled her tea on the immaculate Irish linen bed sheets. “I don’t suppose Rafael felt he could leave them behind, with the city falling and everything. You can just imagine what the rebels would have done to them.”

  Annie shuddered. She hadn’t thought the situation through that far. No matter what crimes they had committed, they were entitled to a fair trial—at least where Annie came from.

  “Do you know where Felicia is?” she asked quietly. “If Rafael wouldn’t leave the prisoners in Morovia, then surely he didn’t abandon Miss Covington to the rebels.”

  Phaedra had apparently grown weary of lying in bed, waiting to be sick. She set aside her tea, reached for her wrapper and got up. “She’s in France,” she replied reluctantly, well aware of the part Annie herself had played in the situation. “Felicia suffered a nervous collapse of some sort, and Rafael had her taken out of the country, to a sanatorium. You mustn’t blame yourself—you did the right thing, after all.”

  Annie rubbed her right temple, but it didn’t ease the headache that had suddenly overtaken her. “I had to do what I did,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry for hurting Felicia so badly. She didn’t deserve it, Phaedra—she was always so kind to me.”

  “I guess that university student and those merchants weren’t the only innocent people who were hurt that day.” Phaedra selected a dress from her wardrobe and stepped behind a screen to put it on. “Now, no more talk of gloomy matters,” she called. “I want to think about happy things. We’ve got to decide what we’ll serve for the wedding supper, and where each of the guests should be placed …”

  Annie smiled. It was good to know Phaedra was feeling better.

  *

  That night, Rafael did not put in an appearance at dinner. According to Lucian, the prince was locked away with Mr. Barrett, planning the defense of St. James Keep. It was generally agreed that the task represented a special challenge, since there was to be a wedding in the castle.

  At the mention of the impending nuptials, Mr. Haslett cleared his throat and reached for his wineglass, and it seemed to Annie that Phaedra took pains to ignore his presence entirely.

  And the rain continued.

  After dinner, Annie went to her room to read and, if she was to be honest, to wait for Rafael. He did not come to her, and when the fire burned low and the lamp guttered, Annie dropped off to sleep.

  She awakened early the next morning, feeling a strange sense of urgency, of excitement. Something was going to happen, and soon, though she couldn’t guess what.

  The rain had stopped, and the world was washed clean. For Annie, for the moment, it was enough.

  She washed and dressed quickly, in a riding skirt, boots and a cotton shirtwaist, and was only a little disappointed when she found the dining hall empty. It was better, given the circumstances, if she and Rafael didn’t encounter each other too often.

  Annie took an apple from the bowl of fruit on the sideboard, bypassing the eggs, toasted bread, sausages and other foods, and hurried out into the courtyard. The air was fresh and moist, the sunlight bright.

  For all the beauty of the morning, there were reminders of war everywhere she looked. Armed sentinels walked the parapets, and the deafening clatter of steel striking steel meant that soldiers were preparing for a siege. Wagons and carts loaded with food were rolling through the gates, and people from the villages and farms surrounding the keep sought and were given refuge within its walls.

  Annie paused for a few moments, listening while two of Mr. Barrett’s lieutenants questioned the frightened peasants. There was, of course, no way to tell whether they were loyal to the prince, or simply rebels in disguise. From what she’d heard the soldiers say, Rafael had given the order that no one who would swear allegiance should be turned away.

  It didn’t seem right to stand idly by and watch, so Annie made her way through the courtyard and the gardens toward the village where most of the refugees were heading. When she arrived, she found two more of Rafael’s men, making a pitiful and disorganized attempt to dispense food and blankets to the new arrivals. There weren’t enough cottages, and the grass was still wet from the recent rain.

  Annie moved through the crowd until she reached the beleaguered lieutenants. Climbing into the back of the supply wagon, she clapped her hands to get the crowd’s attention and told them to form a line. After much gesturing, some order was established. She sent the soldiers back
to the keep for more food and blankets, along with whatever tents they could find.

  The sun was high before the new people stopped arriving. The blankets were gone, according to the soldiers, and a number of the villagers had been taken with a mild fever. By Annie’s order, the worst cases were taken to the chapel, where pews served for beds.

  Annie soothed fitful babies and frightened grandmothers and gave water and comfort to the patients resting in the church. Some of the servants from the keep came to help, but most of the work was done by the women of the village. By the end of the day, Annie’s hair was straggling and her riding skirt, trimmed in mud at the hem, was ruined. She was starved, tired to the bone, and heartsick because she was beginning to understand what a war might mean to these people and others like them, all across the country.

  She was standing outside the chapel door, holding a feverish baby against her shoulder and watching the sunset, when Rafael passed, saw her out of the corner of his eye and stopped. His face was grim as he took in her disheveled appearance.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, in a quiet, ominous voice.

  “I’m trying to help.”

  His face was in shadow, and she could not make out his expression. “I don’t want your help.”

  “Perhaps you don’t,” Annie said softly, as the infant in her arms began a pitiful mewling, “but these people do.”

  Rafael’s sigh was a harsh, impatient sound. “They’ve been given food and sanctuary.”

  “They’re terrified,” Annie responded, “and some of them are sick. They’ve been hungry a long time, Rafael.”

  He was silent; it was a stricken silence and Annie’s heart went out to him because she knew he had done everything he could for the people of Bavia and it hadn’t been enough. Annie wanted to touch Rafael, to lend him some simple comfort, but she sensed that too much tenderness would only weaken him now.

  At last, Rafael spoke. “You’ll be of no use to anyone if you don’t eat and get your rest,” he said. “And Annie?”

  A woman came out of the chapel and shyly claimed her baby.

  “Yes?” Annie asked, when she and Rafael were alone again.

  “Thank you,” he said. Then he turned and walked away.

  Annie watched until he disappeared into the shadows. Then, her vision blurred by tears, she entered the castle through the great hall. It was well-lighted, and there were soldiers sitting and lying everywhere.

  As she hurried through the hall, toward the stairway, Annie wondered which of these newly arrived men were traitors, for some of them surely were.

  She was startled to find Kathleen, the maid she’d gotten to know at the palace in Morovia, building up the fire on Annie’s hearth.

  “Hello, miss!” Kathleen cried, beaming. “Just look at you, all dirty, and your hair trailing. I’ll just bet you haven’t had any supper, either, for you’re white as the underside of an angel’s wing….”

  Mr. Haslett had assured Annie that the palace servants would be safe, since the royal family had always been the rebels’ main target, so she hadn’t worried too much about Kathleen and the others. Still, she was very glad to see the other young woman.

  Annie sagged into a chair by the fire, too weary even to wash her face and hands, and Kathleen gave her a cup of hot, bracing tea.

  “How did you get here?”

  Kathleen seemed invigorated by her experiences, rather than worn down. “The rebels put us out when they took the palace, miss,” she said. “There were loyalist soldiers along the road, and they knew us from when they served in Morovia. They let us ride with them, the other girls and me, on their horses—except for old Cook, of course. She traveled in a supply cart.”

  Fatigue, relief and gratitude brought fresh tears to Annie’s eyes. She reached out, with her free hand, and squeezed the maid’s fingers. “I’m so glad you’re here. I need help, Kathleen, and not the sort you’re probably thinking of.”

  “I’ve got some water heating down in the kitchen,” Kathleen said. “Just let me get that, so you can wash up a little before I fetch your supper, and then you can tell me what sort of help you’re wanting.”

  An hour later, Annie had given herself a sponge bath and eaten as much of her dinner as she could. She was barely able to keep her eyes open as she sat near the fire, cosseted in a warm wrapper, while Kathleen brushed her hair. Annie told her about the refugees choking the village, all of them frightened and confused, many of them ill.

  “Well, miss,” Kathleen said, when Annie had finished her tale of woe, “of course I’ll help you. All the same, I plan to look after you proper, so you don’t wind up lying in a sickbed yourself. You’re the sort, if you’ll pardon my saying so, who tends to bite off more than she can chew.”

  Annie smiled. There could be no denying that accusation. “Have they given you a bed in the servants’ quarters?”

  “Oh, yes, miss,” Kathleen replied, putting aside the hairbrush. “I’ve got a nice cot and a chest for my belongings. Don’t be worrying your head about me, if you please, because I’m like you. I can take care of myself.”

  Annie imagined what it must have been like to see the palace taken over by rebels, to leave with only those things one could carry, to brave streets full of overturned carriages and plunder dragged from houses, and walk roads that must have been knee-deep in mud from the long rainstorm. “Oh, yes, Kathleen,” she agreed. “You can most definitely take care of yourself.”

  A little later, Annie climbed up the steps to her tester bed and collapsed onto the mattress, so tired that she couldn’t think. And that, she would reflect later, was a mercy.

  The next morning, exhausted as she’d been the night before, Annie was wide-awake at dawn. Kathleen, having already lighted a lamp, was stirring the embers of the fire back to life, and a tray of hot, fragrant food waited on the bedside table.

  “Don’t rush through that, now,” Kathleen ordered briskly. “Even angels of mercy need their breakfast—the flesh-and-blood ones, anyway.”

  “It’s fitting that you should mention angels,” Annie said, reaching for the tray and setting it carefully on her lap. “This coffee smells like heaven.”

  CHAPTER 15

  He loved her.

  Rafael had been holding the knowledge at bay ever since the night he’d climbed out onto the parapet of the south tower to save Annie from toppling two hundred feet into the courtyard. Earlier in the evening, however, when he’d seen her standing outside the chapel door, face smudged, hair a-tumble, holding a baby in her arms, the realization had broken through his defenses and struck him with all the force of a spiked cudgel.

  Seated on the wide stone sill of one of the windows in the gate tower, gazing out over a moon washed sea, Rafael knew absolute despair. Recognizing his true feelings had only made things worse; he was still doomed, along with his country, but before Annie he’d been numb, body and spirit, and he could have died without a moment’s regret. Now things had changed—dying would mean leaving Annie to God-knew-what fate or, worse, watching her perish before his eyes, the way Georgiana had. Bitter fluid rushed into the back of Rafael’s throat and for the first time in his life, he was mortally afraid.

  Barrett’s voice startled Rafael, for he’d thought himself alone.

  “It’s late, Your Highness,” he said. “You need your rest.”

  Rafael folded his arms and smiled bitterly into the darkness, where the sea whispered and beckoned and made its elemental promises. “Now you are not only the head of my army, but my nursemaid as well. How versatile you are, old friend.”

  Barrett ignored the jibe, as usual. He was, despite the occasional lapse, an even-tempered and reasonable man. In fact, his counsel had kept Rafael from making any number of impulsive mistakes over the years. “Your Annie Trevarren is quite a lady,” he said. “Did you know she spent the afternoon in the village, ordering everyone around and passing out generous portions of food and advice?”

  “Yes,” Rafael replied. “I knew. It�
�s dangerous, what Annie’s been up to, but nothing short of tossing her into one of the dungeon cells could keep her from what she undoubtedly sees as her moral duty. God’s truth, Barrett, I wish the woman were a coward and a twit, afraid to dirty her hands or sully her skirts in the mud. At least that way she’d be safe.”

  “None of us is safe, Rafael. And perhaps it’s better that she’s occupied.”

  “Perhaps,” Rafael agreed wearily. He scanned the sea and the countryside once more before stepping down from the windowsill. “What do you hear from Morovia?”

  “It’s quieter—the burning and looting seem to have stopped, for the time being anyway.”

  “That’s some consolation, at least,” Rafael said. “Tomorrow we’ll select the jurors and begin the process of trying Covington and his raiders.”

  “It’ll be a nasty business, what with everything else that’s happening just now,” Barrett remarked. “Who will serve as magistrate and hand down a sentence, if the men are convicted?”

  Rafael paused in the tower doorway. “The villagers will choose a judge from among themselves.” He started down the inside stairway, with Barrett a few steps behind.

  “This is a delicate situation,” the soldier pointed out. “While I deplore Covington and the others for what they did, I wonder if letting the peasants try these men is any more just than turning them over to the rebels. Obviously, they could wind up bearing the brunt of the people’s anger and paying not only for their own crimes, but those of other soldiers, in other years and even other centuries.”

  “It is an imperfect solution,” Rafael answered. “If you have something better to suggest, I’d like to hear it.”

  “The prisoners could be removed to France or Spain,” Barrett said, “and tried there.”

  “No,” Rafael said flatly, as they entered the passageway at the base of the stairs. It was unlit, except for the light of the moon, and both men walked in intermittent shadow. “This crime occurred in our own country. It is the right and the duty of the Bavian people to dispense justice.”