“It’s true, and from what my father told me, the old king slain entire families of anyone who opposed his authoritarian rule. But our good king had no part in Henry’s death. ‘Twas an accident.”
I cannot understand how Devan can’t see how John fashioned himself into a mirror image of Henry. No, that’s not accurate. John is worse. Still, I say, “My father is a blessing upon this land.” The lie falls hard from my tongue, but one spoken with enough conviction to persuade Devan that I believe it.
His arm wraps back around my waist in a firm but awkward hold. “You, Ma’am, are also a blessing.”
“Devan, enough,” Sir Walter snaps as he rides up beside us. “Your Highness, we’ll bed down at The Red Bell. Of course, you’ll have your own room and a bath if you’d like.”
“That will be wonderful, thank you.” I’m filthy and weather beaten from the cold, and privacy sounds divine. “Food and a bed are perfect.”
Sir Walter, a tremendous man with a thick, blonde beard that eats up the entire lower half of his face, cuts me a sharp eye. He drags his merciless blue gaze over me, making me infinitely grateful that I’m covered from head to foot. Finally, he gives me a curt nod. “Follow me.”
He goads his horse and rides ahead, with dour-faced Roland joining him. Devan spurs our horse forward. “Sir Walter may be intimidating, but he’s a good man who wasn’t always a curmudgeon. He’s still angry that after Sir Stephan of Glasburg was murdered, he didn’t immediately move up in rank as expected.”
My curiosity is duly piqued. “Things failed to work out the way he planned?”
Devan’s voice is low and conspiratorial. “Truth?”
I glance over my shoulder. “Of course,” I whisper back.
Devan’s expression is gleefully evil, that of a man who enjoys good gossip. “Ma’am, with all due respect, your father hates him.”
I stash this important information away inside my mind.
“Does he? That’s…surprising.” I look at Sir Walter’s broad back as he rounds the corner of a building. “And why is that, do you suppose?”
“Sir Walter has a strong mind, is all. He’s loyal, of course, but our king… He…” Devan’s sentence trails off, which stokes my curiosity from an ember to a blaze.
“Go on,” I encourage him. “Speak freely, please.”
He guides us around the building, trailing behind Sir Walter and Roland. The Red Bell comes into view, the quaint inn a welcome sight for sore eyes after an eternity stuck in the cradle of this man’s thighs. “He was only made Captain of the Guard weeks ago, after Sir Ricard was killed when we were forced to burn Kenilworth Village.”
“I see.” I store this information away because Wren warned me—repeatedly—that at court, one never knows who is enemy or ally.
We arrive at The Red Bell before I can ask why they destroyed Kenilworth, but I know the answer. John’s soldiers punished them for their ignorance of where I was hiding. Devan dismounts before me, then helps me off his destrier. Two strapping lads, one barely older than a child, rush from the inn. They take the reins and lead the animals away, likely to the village green, where they’ll be stabled for the night.
I’m ushered inside, where I push the hood off my head and toss the braid down my back. It’s been heavy, sitting on my shoulder the entire day, scratching under my chin. Now that I’m ‘found,’ there is no need for me to hide. The hood is strictly now for warmth.
An elderly innkeeper waits nervously in the tavern area. Her eyes downcast, she wrings her hands. The patrons likely cleared out the moment we entered Cullbury. All this open space is crowded with only a handful of polished wooden tables. The scent of roasting meat reminds me I haven’t eaten a decent meal in days. There’s a man, so ancient he looks more dead than alive, half-hidden in a shadowed corner. He grips a mop, watching us through one good eye. The milky one stares unseeing. His threadbare clothing hangs from his frail body.
The woman finally looks up and hope slowly creeps into her wide brown eyes as she studies me from my golden braid to the king’s colors draped around my body. She extends a trembling hand. Steps toward me. “Rumors have reached us…” The breathy awe in her tone has Sir Walter waving away Devan and Roland when they move to protect me. She lowers her arm and walks backward. “Is it true? Are you Princess Rapunzel?”
“I am.”
A bang drowns out the innkeeper’s gasp when the mop slides from the old man’s hands. She drops into a deep curtsey, and I swear the woman’s nose practically touches the floor. When she finally rises, I hear the bones in her brittle knees crack. She doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, I’m left staring at the gray bun wound tightly atop her head.
“You’re Highness, this is a miracle,” she whispers to the floor.
I close the distance between us and grasp her visibly shaking hands. “What is your name, good woman?”
“Molly, Ma’am,” she whispers, her gaze still on her feet. “Molly O’Brien.”
“Although your shoes are lovely, Molly, I wish you would stop admiring them and look at me, please.” I give her hands a gentle squeeze.
Molly’s gaze drifts to my face. Her cheeks are bright red with a flush. “Please forgive me, Ma’am, I—”
“I’m teasing you,” I tell her with a smile.
The woman, tense as a board, glances over my shoulder. Then she focuses her fretful brown eyes on me. “There were stories… Some tell of how you were held captive by a witch. Others that you were…” She grips my hands so tight my fingers crush together. The woman swallows hard, her eyes wide. “That you were dead.” Her expression is full of desperation. “But many of us never believed that. I’ve prayed for your safe return every night. Prayed with all of my heart for your safe return.”
