Not wanting to make a spectacle and add to the attention, Sir Walter insisted on keeping our traveling part small. Just him and I, and the other two soldiers from The Cup and Crown. The remaining army, he explained, follows behind us to protect our backs. I wonder if suspects my men follow as well, that they will tail us to Newkirk.
If I try hard enough, I feel them traveling stealthily back there, keeping watch over me. Their unseen presence comforts me. Helps to keep the fear away now that strangers surround me. Surrounded by the enemy.
One wrong word, one wronglook, will give away this game I play, one where I am the princess eager to be reunited with a father I’m excited to meet.
Draped in John’s red and gold colors, I share a horse with Devan, a chatty young soldier. The tunic beneath my cloak is a garish reminder of everything I intend to steal from my father. Beside us, Roland, a stoic soldier, has done nothing but scowl at me since The Cup and Crown. He makes me uneasy.
The large and ravaged town vibrates with curiosity and an undertone of hostility. Perched atop the massive brown destrier, I flick my gaze from person to person, scanning the wary faces of those watching us as we travel along the cobblestone street. We trot by a woman who scoops her toddler up in terror. A burly man jumps in front of them. Another mom clutches her infant and races away. Most, however, stand tall. Defiant, even. Brandishing common items as makeshift weapons. I’ve no idea what that woman will do with her broom, but by her expression, she’d no doubt wield it with the same ferocity as a sword.
One brave man spits on the ground, his insolent gaze locked on Sir Walter. Secretly, I applaud his bravado, even as I swing my eyes to the Captain of the Guard, prepared to demand he show the man mercy should he notice the townsman’s insubordination.
I tug the black hood higher over my head with a firm hand. Hunker deeper into the cloak, anxious as I enter yet another stage of this journey. We head toward the village green, surrounded by buildings in various stages of repair. Some, however, remain charred rubble. The stench of stale smoke lingers, cutting an acrid undertone on the crisp autumn air. Seeing this destruction is as heartbreaking as it is fortifying. Isolation protected me. Experiencing it for myself… Seeing the dread in people’s eyes when they look at the soldiers… It reinforces my resolve. Facing my father will be my greatest challenge, but I will do it for these people. For all of Rygard.
I also do it for myself.
We’ll put that bastard in the dirt where he belongs, even if I have to do the deed myself. John cannot be allowed to live. We must eliminate his evil for this kingdom to thrive.
I square my shoulders and sit straight, ignoring my companion’s incessant chitchat. I ignore his arm around me as well and instead focus on the plan. Always on the plan. Have John’s soldiers get me to Newkirk. Get Quinn, Wren, and Dax inside that fortress. Kill the king and take his throne.
So simple.
So very complicated.
A lovely little girl gives me a shy wave. I return the gesture, adding a gentle smile. She beams me a wide grin, revealing two missing top teeth. Adorable. Her mama snatches her hand and hauls her away, and I want to shout, ‘No! Please, no! Don’t be afraid. I promise your child will grow up safe.’
But I don’t.
I can’t.
The arm around me tightens when I shift in the saddle to adjust my weight to keep the blood flowing in my legs. “Are you well, Your Highness?”
Since Devan can’t see my expression, I grimace at his question. He means well. The young soldier has been kind to me after Sir Walter ordered him to see to my comfort. He’s kept up a steady conversation during the arduous hours spent sharing a saddle as we traveled across Rygard. Truth be told, though, it’s been mainly one-sided, with him doing most of the talking and me doing much of the listening. If I’ve learned nothing else about Devan, it’s that he worships my father. That makes him untrustworthy and, frankly, loathsome. Stupid as well. What a shame because with his shaggy brown hair, deep hazelnut eyes, and quick laugh, Devan is actually a friendly and handsome man. Unfortunately, his devotion to a madman spoils his few favorable qualities.
“I’m fine, Devan, thank you,” I assure him. “I’ll be glad to be out of this saddle if you want the truth.”
We rode long past sunset yesterday, and I barely slept last night. Then we were awake before dawn and back on the road. The cold and wind and stress have me on edge.
Devan leans forward, the chainmail beneath his tunic pressing against my back. The steel, however, is cushioned by the layers of clothing that separate our bodies. “Aye, don’t I know it. Sir Walter always sets a brutal pace. Good thing we’ll spend the night here. I’m sure you’ll appreciate a hot meal and a soft bed.”
I stare straight ahead and nod. “I’d like that.”
“We’ll make a final, hard push for Newkirk come the morning, so get a good night’s rest, Ma’am. You’ll need it.” Releasing me, he drapes his arm over my shoulder. Points to a cozy home at the end of the street. “See that there, the house with the tulip garden?”
“Yes, it’s lovely. Why?”
“I was born in there.” It’s impossible to miss the wistfulness in his tone. “I lived there until I was seven, and my uncle called upon me to become his page.”
Although seven seems a tender age, I’ve read it’s normal for boys to begin training that young.
“Your uncle is a nobleman?”
“Aye, but he died a traitor’s death.”
I’m taken aback by the nonchalance of Devan’s statement. “Did he?”
“Yes, Ma’am, he did. He was among those who dared to accuse your father of murdering King Henry.”
A sensitive subject, I proceed with caution. “Yes, I’ve heard the accusation. I’ve also heard Henry was wreaking havoc throughout Rygard. Some say he was bankrupting the royal coffers and had led the kingdom into an unwinnable war against Cilicia.”
