The Secret Princess
The Secret Princess
Rachelle McCalla
When Evelyn tended Prince Luke of Lydia’s battle wounds, she had no idea whose life she was saving. Yet now the handsome warrior is determined to rescue her from King Garren’s fortress.Evelyn may be Garren’s granddaughter and a princess by right, but the vindictive king has forced her to pay off her father’s debts as a servant. A shared faith deepens her bond with Luke, but revealing her true identity could tear them apart and bring war to two kingdoms. Only courage and trust will help them forge a royal union where two hearts reign as one.
Her Royal Deception
When Evelyn tended Prince Luke of Lydia’s battle wounds, she had no idea whose life she was saving. Yet now the handsome warrior is determined to rescue her from King Garren’s fortress. Evelyn may be Garren’s granddaughter and a princess by right, but the vindictive king has forced her to pay off her father’s debts as a servant. A shared faith deepens her bond with Luke, but revealing her true identity could tear them apart and bring war to two kingdoms. Only courage and trust will help them forge a royal union where two hearts reign as one..
The man had survived.
Did the Illyrians know? Did her grandfather know? Either they truly believed the man had died, or they’d lied to her about his death. But why lie?
No, they must not have realized he’d escaped before the hut burned.
Evelyn pulled her hand away from the scar, though he still held her fingers in his. For the first time she examined his face in the full light of day. How could she ever have thought that any other man looked like this man? His clean-shaven jawline was strong, with a slight cleft in the middle of his chin. His nose was straight, his brow line high, intelligent, his complexion healthy, cheeks slightly flushed. And his lips…
No, she’d best not look too long at his lips.
The concern on his face slowly spread to a smile. “You recognize me?”
“Yes.” Cautious joy rose inside her as she spoke.
“I owe you for my life. Tell me, how can I repay you?”
RACHELLE McCALLA
is a mild-mannered housewife, and the toughest she ever has to get is when she’s trying to keep her four kids quiet in church. Though she often gets in over her head, as her characters do, and has to find a way out, her adventures have more to do with sorting out the car pool and providing food for the potluck. She’s never been arrested, gotten in a fistfight or been shot at. And she’d like to keep it that way! For recipes, fun background notes on the places and characters in this book, and more information on forthcoming titles, visit www.rachellemccalla.com (http://www.rachellemccalla.com/).
The Secret Princess
Rachelle McCalla
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The one who sins is the one who will die. The child will not share the guilt of the parent, nor will the parent share the guilt of the child. The righteousness of the righteous will be credited to them, and the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against them.
—Ezekiel 18:20
Contents
Chapter One (#uadc8a51c-d0c6-561f-b5ac-4e4f4c7e9c23)
Chapter Two (#uce0dc8c7-0132-5763-b46b-7294ddbe52ba)
Chapter Three (#ue68e74cc-2a10-5182-a4ad-c2f11b62c7bd)
Chapter Four (#u598ac119-19bb-5580-a038-be70d4e4fc90)
Chapter Five (#u10dfe31a-e566-5e4e-9f01-9e3921fbf9d6)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Lydian Borderlands, AD 802, spring
The woods grew thick at the base of the mountains. Even in daylight, the branched canopy blocked out the sun, providing darkness and shadows to hide the predators of the forest: wild boar, black bears and Illyrian war scouts.
Prince Luke of Lydia crept silently through the predawn darkness with only his prayers and his wits to guide him, unable to distinguish deep shadow from deepest shadow. He found the rustle of the undergrowth and the damp scent of the rich earth far more useful navigational tools this far from Lydia. King Garren’s fortress of Fier lay in the mountains ahead, less than an hour’s walk from this valley. It was dangerous territory, but Luke had an important mission.
Spring had left winter behind. The Mursia River churned with the melting mountain snowpack behind him. The sun rose ever earlier, fading distant shadows to light, its faint illumination enough for Luke to discern the outline of the rocky outcropping he sought.
Would she come today?
Luke found a smaller boulder and sat down to wait. He’d seen the mysterious pale-haired woman in these woods the week before, near this same rocky outcropping, but in his eagerness he’d moved toward her too quickly, crackling branches beneath his feet, startling her.
She’d run off, dropping her basket in her haste. Luke had left it where it lay and prayed she’d return for the basket and the early valerian roots she’d been harvesting.
At the thought of the woman, Luke remembered the scar high above his hip, from an injury that ought to have killed him. Even his brother, the renowned healer King John, had marveled that the lengthy gash hadn’t claimed his life.
The woman had saved his life after he’d been injured in battle, sewing his injury closed before he bled to death, keeping vigil through the night to be certain the wound stayed clean and free from infection.
Luke needed to thank her, to learn her name, to see her in the clear light of day. Her features haunted his dreams. She had a beautiful, sweet face. Young. Vibrant. Hair so pale it was nearly silver.
No one else knew anything about her. He’d asked the area villagers and the soldiers who scouted these borderlands with him, but they’d never seen her. Some suggested she wasn’t young or beautiful at all, but an old hag, her hair white with age, her features distorted by the delirium of his injury. Others claimed she didn’t even exist—that his feverish mind had imagined a woman when no one was there.
But Luke knew someone had stitched his wound closed. His memories were too deep to forget, though months had passed as he’d searched in vain to find her again. Driven by his quest, he’d traveled deeper into the forest—past the borders of Lydia—into enemy territory.
The week before, he’d caught a glimpse of her through the trees and had held his breath, watching in amazement, half convinced he’d imagined her.
When she didn’t evaporate with the mist as the sun warmed the day, he’d moved closer, so focused on reaching her he’d paid little attention to the path. She must have heard the sound of his approach. For one long moment she’d lifted her head from her work and studied the woods in his direction, her face in clear view.
Beautiful.
Not an old hag. Not an apparition. She’d run with feet fleet as a deer, disappearing in the direction of Illyria, beyond the Lydian border.
He’d returned every morning since then.
Today he waited. Prayed. Songbirds roused and trilled their morning melodies as the fog lifted, mist rising up the mountain to join the clouds and the pink light of dawn.
Luke sat still, silent. He could wait all day. He’d waited most of each day since the morning he’d seen her. It made no difference. With the treaty between the Roman Empire and Constantinople, peace in the borderlands became even more important. The emperor Charlemagne had pledged to fight for Lydia if the tiny kingdom went to war against the Illyrians again. The Byzantine empress Irene had vowed to counter, supporting her Illyrian territories.
If the two empires met in war across these rugged mountains, Lydia would be trampled. His people would suffer. When the walled Lydian city of Sardis had been besieged by Illyrian forces the previous fall, Luke had ridden out to battle beside his brother King John. Both of them had been prepared to die protecting their people.
By God’s grace, it hadn’t come to that. Rab the Raider, who’d deceitfully killed Luke’s father, King Theodoric, was himself killed by his own half brother, Warrick. In the wake of the battle, Lydia, backed by Charlemagne, had forged a peace treaty with Irene of Constantinople. By those terms, the Illyrians were required to give back all the borderlands Rab the Raider had taken from Lydia.
Luke would never forget the horrors of war. He’d seen enough of battle. To keep the peace, he and his fellow soldiers roamed these lands, always alert for any activity that would indicate the Illyrians weren’t keeping their side of the treaty.
So sitting on a boulder in the forest of the foothills fit perfectly within the mission his brother had tasked him with. His job was to watch the border. The rocky outcropping was part of that border. And so he sat patiently, waiting.
A tiny wren perched somewhere above him, its song cheerful and long-winded. Suddenly the bird stopped singing.
Luke sat up straight, gripping his bow with one hand, an arrow ready. Something had startled the bird. Wolves, who prowled at night, would have returned to their dens long before this hour, but bears were common in these foothills and active at this time of day. Lynx and wildcats weren’t uncommon, though bears were a bigger threat this close to the mountains.
The wren sounded a few questioning notes, testing the air, uncertain. It fluttered to deeper cover.
Leaves rustled near the boulder. Luke could hear the sound, but whatever stirred the foliage lay on the other side of the rocks, out of sight.
Long minutes crept by as Luke pondered his next move. It could be a wild boar nosing about for mushrooms among the fallen logs. The hefty horned animals had thick hides and could run surprisingly fast. It was dangerous to meet one alone. One arrow was hardly ever enough to bring down a boar. Yet who could string a second arrow before the speedy animal struck?
The wren began to sing again, tentatively at first but gaining confidence as it continued. Luke hadn’t heard any grunting. Boars grunted. Maybe it wasn’t a boar on the other side of the rocks, then. Could it be an Illyrian war scout? Prior to the battle the previous fall, the Illyrians had been active in the area. If Luke saw their men venturing this far into Lydian territory, he’d alert his men and King John and intervene before the Illyrians could strike.
He prayed the Illyrians had better sense than to venture into Lydian territory again.
Slowly, soundlessly, Luke eased to his feet, creeping up the craggy incline where the rocks provided silent footholds. He’d be able to see better from higher ground. Besides, if the woman had returned, Luke realized he ought to try to get in between her and the route by which she’d escaped the week before. That way, if he startled her, she’d run toward him instead of away.
The wren’s song grew more exuberant. Luke smiled at the sound. The song was a happy one, but more than that, it helped to drown out any noise Luke might make as he crept around the outcropping, pausing frequently, listening, waiting.
The rustling sound continued. Rocks overhung the spot from which the sound emanated, blocking the source from Luke’s view. He paused, wishing the creature would back away far enough for him to see it, but other than the constant rustling, it made no move.
Below him the rocks gave way like a cliff. Luke weighed his options. If he dropped to the ground here, he’d almost certainly spook the creature. If it was a boar or a bear, it might charge him. If it was the woman, she might easily run away. He wanted neither of those options.
That left a long trek out of his way, following the bluff as it bent back toward the mountain. He’d have to turn his back on whatever was making the rustling sound. He’d venture far from the spot before reaching the lower elevation and making his way slowly back, giving the creature plenty of time to disappear.
He didn’t like either option, but the long trek seemed the most promising.
Cautiously, Luke crept along the rocks, ducking branches, choosing his footing carefully.
He’d nearly reached the forest floor when a solid-looking rock proved to be loose, dislodging under his foot, rattling downward as he slipped and scrambled to stay on his feet.
He grabbed for support, clenched a branch in his hand and steadied himself.
The wren stopped singing. The rustling ceased, as well.
Luke froze, held his breath and waited.
Something bolted from the base of the rocks. Unsure whether it was friend or foe, Luke ran for the path, hoping to intercept it, praying it wasn’t a predator. He reached the path and faced the oncoming sound, its source still hidden by the thick brush that edged the winding route. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he raised the weapon and took aim, ready to shoot the moment the animal appeared.
A woman cleared the bend in the path, her lovely face white with fear, hair mostly hidden by a headscarf that was coming loose, revealing a glimpse of pale hair.
He’d found her.
The woman screamed.
Luke lowered his bow.
She stood close enough for him to see the arresting blue of her eyes, her white teeth evenly matched as she panted, looking about for an alternate route of escape, the way blocked by dense brush and brambles.
“Good morning.” He took a step closer. “I didn’t mean to—”
She yelped, covered her face with one arm and ducked into the bushes.
“Please!” Luke dived after her. He couldn’t let her get away, not without learning her name. He needed to thank her. He needed to apologize.
Spiny branches tore at his leather habergeon, grabbing at the quiver of arrows on his back. Luke tucked his bow under his arm and plowed forward, but the woman ahead of him had the advantage of smaller size and a decent head start. Eyes half-closed, arm up to protect his face, he followed the sound of her retreat, calling after her to please stop.
The sound of her flight stopped without warning. Fearing he’d lost her, Luke charged on, relieved when he caught sight of her pale brown headdress and faded gray skirt ahead of him. She’d stopped running and stood utterly still, facing away from him, staring at something ahead of her.
Luke looked past her to the spot that held her attention.
A bear.
Full grown, claws raised, half a charge away and angry.
Luke froze. Once the animal realized they meant no harm, it should lumber off to its den and leave them alone. It stared at the woman, seemingly unaware that Luke had burst forth from the woods behind her. If the bear charged, it would charge at her. She was far too close to it already.
The bear lowered its claws. Luke almost thought the animal might be about to shuffle off, but instead it lunged forward, headed straight toward the woman.
Luke had sighted his arrow in an instant, knowing he’d likely get only one shot. The woman turned and ran, the bear too close, running too fast behind her.
Luke let loose the arrow and fit another to his string without waiting to see how well the first had flown. He raised it and saw to his relief that the bear had stopped running, though it hadn’t fallen. Snarling, the animal raised its head and swiped at the arrow that pierced its neck.
As the bear reared up, Luke shot again, this time sinking the arrow deep in the fur of the animal’s chest. The bear slumped to the ground.
The woman had run off.
Luke took off in the direction in which he’d seen her disappear. He couldn’t lose her, not now, when he’d come so close after such a long search. He rounded a clump of bushes, hoping to catch sight of her far ahead, but she’d turned, looking back at the fallen bear.
She spun toward him as he burst through the bushes.
Fear flashed across her face, but she didn’t scream this time.
“Please don’t run.” He extended one hand in a peaceful gesture.
The woman watched him warily, her mouth open slightly, the fear in her eyes fading to something akin to recognition.
Surely she had to recognize him. She’d saved his life. He recognized her, and he’d been on the brink of death, hardly conscious while she’d sewn his side back together.
“I shot the bear,” he assured her, glancing back to see the bundle of black fur still unmoving in the clearing beyond. The bear had been poised to strike, one swipe away from defacing the woman’s beauty forever. She ought to realize that he’d helped her, even if it was his fault for frightening her into a run toward the bear in the first place.
But when he turned to face her again, she only shook her head.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Luke began, but the woman cut him off, talking rapidly in a language he didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t Illyrian. It certainly wasn’t Lydian, nor was it Latin. As second in line to the throne of Lydia, Luke was fluent in those three languages.
If anything, the woman’s words sounded like the Frankish tongue Luke’s sister-in-law, Gisela, had spoken as a child. She’d taught him a few words, but that had been weeks and weeks ago. He tried frantically to remember.
“Peace,” he said, cringing as he butchered the accent.
But the woman stopped talking and listened.
“Peace,” he repeated, his inflection perhaps a little better that time. Try as he might, he could only remember one other word. “Cheese.”
The woman made a face, half uncertain, half amused.
“Sorry, that’s all I know,” he confessed in Lydian, then repeated the Frankish words. “Peace. Cheese.”
The woman laughed, her eyes alight.
Luke sighed with relief, though questions filled him. What was this Frankish woman doing here on the borderlands between Lydia and Illyria? Her heritage explained her pale blond hair, a rarity in their part of the world, but her background raised more questions than it answered.
“You are good with languages.” The woman spoke in halting Illyrian. “Do you know any Illyrian?”
“Yes.” Relieved, he switched to the familiar language of his enemies, chastising himself for not trying the tongue sooner in his excitement. “Do you recognize me?”
She looked away, glancing to the carcass of the bear lying still in the clearing, then back in the direction of the village of Bern, where she’d saved his life. She stared that way for some time, not looking at him, nibbling at her lower lip uncertainly. Her dress was coarse, patched, befitting a woman of low station. A puzzle, indeed, for rarely did women of low station travel far beyond their homelands...unless they’d been sold as slaves.
He couldn’t bear the thought that the woman who’d saved him might be owned by someone else—not when he had the means to buy her freedom.
“You saved my life.” He stepped forward tentatively, fearing she might bolt again. “Please allow me to repay you.”
But the woman shuffled backward away from him, shaking her head, her face pale again. “No,” she whispered, “no.”
* * *
Evelyn rubbed her eyes, blinked, looked at the man again. She had to be dreaming. She had to be. She’d dreamed of him plenty of times before, but this dream was different. She was certainly awake this time. This dream felt real.
“You are not the man I helped,” she told him frankly, looking him full in the face and denying the way her heart leaped inside her. Granted, this stranger looked like the soldier she’d sewn together, but plenty of other men looked like him, too, at least at first glance. She’d stared at other men for months, thinking she’d seen him, then feeling foolish for hoping to find him alive knowing she couldn’t possibly see him ever again.
He was dead. He’d died. Her efforts had failed, and the enemy had returned. In the battle that had erupted, the hut where he’d been sleeping had burned to the ground. There’d been nothing left of him but charred bones and ashes.
She’d prayed there had been some mistake. But though her hope-filled eyes had spotted plenty of men who resembled him from afar, on closer inspection none of them were as handsome as the soldier.
“I am,” the man insisted, stepping closer.
Evelyn stumbled backward. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but she didn’t like it. “You can’t be. That man died.”
He stopped advancing, scowled, reached for his shirt. “I’m not dead. You saved my life. I can show you my scar.”
A wall of brambles prevented her from retreating further, so Evelyn turned her head and pinched her eyes shut. She couldn’t see, wouldn’t look, refused to resurrect the grief she’d felt at his death. It hadn’t ever made any sense, anyway, why the death of a stranger should tear so deeply at her heart. Her prayers for his recovery had gone unanswered, but her disappointment shouldn’t have been any deeper than what she felt daily, reduced to the status of a lowly servant in her grandfather’s household.
God hadn’t rescued her from her position. Why did it hurt her heart so much that God had failed to save the soldier? Sorrow had stung her deeply when she’d heard of his death. Thoughts of him could drive her to tears even still. She certainly wasn’t going to revisit those raw emotions, not in front of this stranger. She kept her eyes closed, her head turned away as she sought to control the sadness that rose up inside her.
The sun had warmed the day, and the wren that had sung to her as she’d dug valerian roots hopped closer, singing exuberantly again.
Fingers brushed her hand, the light touch so shocking she nearly screamed again.
“Please.” His voice was low, gentle, far too close to her. “I owe you for my life. What can I do to repay you?”
She shook her head and kept her eyes closed tight. “You are not that man. That man died.”
“How do you know he died?”
“They showed me the charred bones and ashes. There was a battle. The hut burned.”
“The hut didn’t burn. Or maybe it did, but I was gone by then.”
“You were too weak to walk.”
“My men helped me out.”
“Your men?” She peeked back at him, assessing his clothing, trying to determine his rank. He spoke with words that would indicate he had soldiers serving under him. But then, her grasp of the Illyrian language was tentative at best. Surely she’d misunderstood. His dress was no different than a common woodsman’s, not even that of a soldier.
But the man she’d tried to save had been similarly dressed, and they’d told her he was a soldier—and an important one. They’d wanted him to live so they could use him as a tool for bargaining.
She had studied his face in the firelight as she’d prayed for God’s mercy on his life and wondered then what made the man so important that they’d threaten her, a life for a life. If she failed to save him, they’d promised to kill her. When she learned the fire had killed him, she’d half expected to die then, but it hadn’t been her fault, so they’d let her live.
Besides, with her knowledge of healing, she was useful to her grandfather, even if he purposely gave her the hardest, most demeaning jobs at the fortress as she worked to pay off the infinite debt her father owed him.
Fingers brushed her hand again. She froze and pinched her eyes more tightly shut.
He cupped his hand over hers and drew her arm toward him, settling her fingers over the scar. “Do you recognize your handiwork?”
She opened her eyes cautiously, looked at the scar, blinked and inspected it more closely.
He’d been cut from just above his navel to his ribs, saved only by the thick wall of muscle that had kept his organs from being spilled. The scar followed the exact line, etched with feathered strokes marking each neat stitch.
Yes, she recognized her handiwork. She’d prayed over each stitch, over each carefully chosen herb she’d pressed to the wound to ward away infection and speed his healing.
The man had survived.
Did the Illyrians know? Did her grandfather know? Either they truly believed the man had died, or they’d lied to her about his death. But why lie?
No, they must not have realized he’d escaped before the hut burned.
She pulled her hand away from the scar, though he still held her fingers in his. For the first time she examined his face in the full light of day. How could she ever have thought that any other man looked like this man? His clean-shaven jawline was strong with a slight cleft in the middle in his chin. His nose was straight, his brow line high, intelligent, his complexion healthy, cheeks slightly flushed. And his lips...
No, she’d best not look too long at his lips.
The concern on his face slowly spread to a smile. “You recognize me?”
“Yes.” Cautious joy rose inside her as she spoke.
“I owe you for my life. Tell me, how can I repay you?”
Evelyn thought quickly, her happiness at finding him alive tempered by fear for his continued safety. Her grandfather, King Garren, had wanted this man alive so he could barter his life for political gain. He thought the man was dead. If the king learned that the man had lived, he’d only try to capture him again to keep him prisoner or, worse yet, to exact his vengeance for the lands Illyria had lost to the kingdom of Lydia.
She couldn’t let that happen. And yet, this close to the fortress of Fier, he could easily be spotted, recognized and reported to her grandfather. Her mind made up, she met his eyes as she made her request. She’d lost him once before, and it had grieved her in ways she still didn’t understand. She couldn’t risk harm coming to him again.
“You must leave this area immediately and never return.”
Chapter Two
Luke stared at the woman, unable to understand. Perhaps his grasp of the Illyrian language wasn’t all he thought it to be, or maybe the woman hadn’t realized what she was saying. But he still had hold of her hand. “Leave?”
“When you were wounded, they wanted you alive for bargaining. King Garren thinks you’re dead. If he learns otherwise, he’ll capture you again.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.
“But there’s a peace accord—”
“A highly resented peace accord.” The woman pulled her hand free of his. “Which King Garren would get out of if he could. He wants these borderlands back—he speaks of little else. If he had a hostage of rank, he could bargain again. I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re important to them—”
“You don’t know who I am?” Luke felt a ripple of surprise. Surely the woman had only attended to his injuries out of deference to his position. His brother had said as much—his wound was a mortal one; any healer worth anything wouldn’t have wasted time on one past saving. This woman had stood in the gap between life and death and fought for him tirelessly. Why would she do that if she didn’t know who he was?
“I don’t,” she repeated, then kept on with her insistence. “But if the king thinks he can use you to regain some of what he’s lost, they’ll take you prisoner—”
“How do you know this?”
“King Garren is in residence at the fortress of Fier.”
So, despite more comfortable holdings farther inland, Garren chose to reside near the Lydian border. Why? Garren had tried to trick the Lydians before. Luke wouldn’t put it past the man to try something again. Especially if what the woman said was true. “He resents the peace accords?”
“He lost a great deal of land and some degree of standing—”
“But he’s gained peace. Isn’t that worth the sacrifice of some bear-infested woods?” He looked back at the furry carcass, which lay still in the sunlight. The woods were dangerous and unproductive, save for berries, roots and lumber. The hunting was fair, but few ventured this deep into the forest to hunt when fine stags could be gotten much closer to the villages. Lumber grew there in abundance, more than either kingdom needed. What use could King Garren possibly have for the land?
“I—” The woman stopped, her lips pursed, open slightly, lovely as any flower in bloom. “I think peace is worth sacrifice, but King Garren is a greedy and prideful man.”
Luke wished he still had hold of the lovely woman’s hand. She valued peace? Of course she did; women often did. But to speak openly against the Illyrian king, and to a stranger...she must be a woman of courage. But then, any woman who’d venture into these treacherous woods had to be brave. Or desperate.
She looked up. “The sun grows higher in the sky. I must be getting back.” She stepped away from him.
He stepped after her. “I will accompany you.”
“No.”
“There are dangerous bears—”
“Did you hear nothing of what I just said? Flee from this place if you value your freedom, and do not return.” She continued past him, ducking through the brambles toward the path.
Luke bent low to follow her. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
“It doesn’t matter. You shan’t ever see me again.”
“But I must. I owe you for my life.” He reached for her hand, but she was too quick for him. Already she’d navigated the brambles and reached the path, scurrying away.
“You asked me to make a request, and I have. If you value your life, you’ll leave these woods at once.” She broke into a full run, darting under branches, vaulting fallen logs, her basket swinging in one hand as she held her patched skirt with the other.
Luke hesitated. She seemed distressed by the late hour. If she was a slave, she might be punished for returning late to her work. He would do her no service by detaining her further.
He needed to ponder his next move.
Besides, he had already learned much. He knew the pale-haired woman was real, that she lived within the local Illyrian fortress of Fier. The stronghold was perched high among the mountains, its rocky walls gray as the rocks from which it sprang, draped in clouds for much of the year, a harsh place where many wars had been plotted.
He knew she cared enough about him to warn him away, though she did not know who he was.
Intriguing.
As a prince, second in line to the Lydian throne, he wasn’t used to anonymity, not even in these woods, where he dressed to blend in. All his men knew him. The Lydian villagers knew him.
But the pale-haired woman didn’t know him, and yet she’d saved his life. She’d warned him away from this place, though she might have profited greatly by turning him in. Indeed, she seemed more concerned about keeping him safe than pleasing her master.
Why?
* * *
Evelyn ran, stopping frequently to look behind her. There was no sign of the man, but she knew he was stealthy. He’d snuck up on her so quietly that morning, it was almost as though he’d been waiting for her there. But why would he do that?
The thought slowed her steps, as did the memory of his face, the touch of his hand, the smile that had played at his lips as he’d spoken. Truly, she’d been drawn to him while he’d lain at death’s door, bloody and grimy from battle. To see him standing at his full height, his cheeks flush with health, sweet words on his lips...her heart might burst.
He was alive!
That alone was enough to lighten her steps, no matter what other burdens she still carried. True, she worked as a lowly servant in the household of her grandfather, the king. And yes, King Garren had sworn she’d labor in his household until she’d worked off all of her deceased father’s debt—which meant she’d be bound to this place for the rest of her life and still die indebted.
But the soldier she’d tended to had lived after all. God had answered that prayer. Perhaps God would free her from her servitude or give her little brother, Bertie, an opportunity to escape this place he so despised and return to their homeland in the Holy Roman Empire.
Evelyn arrived at the kitchen exhausted and found the room abandoned. Of course the cook would have snuck off again, probably to drink or to go back to bed after rising early to make breakfast. From the looks of the washbasins, she hadn’t begun cleanup.
Grabbing a wooden tub, Evelyn hurried to the dining hall, where flies had found the remains of the meal. Embers in the fireplace burned low, and Evelyn hurried to stoke them. The breakfast cleanup could wait. If she let the fire burn out, they’d task her with getting another started in the drafty hearth—she’d done that and come away with a blackened face enough times to know she didn’t want to struggle with the smoke and soot again.
“Biddy!” her grandfather bellowed from the doorway. He refused to use her given name, instead labeling her with a word that meant “chicken.” If she showed her displeasure or hesitated to answer to the name, the king would only mock her, squawking and calling for her as if calling the hens to feed.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She spun hastily around and dropped into a low curtsy, ankles crossed as she’d been taught. The man was quite particular. He’d kicked her feet out from under her many times before she’d learned the move to his satisfaction.
“This room is a disgrace. Where have you been?” His dark beard, streaked with gray, bobbed above his stout belly as he spoke.
“I found the roots I need to make you tea. It will soothe your stomach and help you sleep better.”
Her grandfather’s fury subsided only slightly. “Brew me the tea, then. But first clean up this room.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsied again, then grabbed her tub and cleared the tables, separating the scraps for the pigs. For all her grandfather’s power, his household was poorly run. He cared only about all things military—weapons, fighting, the ranks of men who lived in barracks at the base of the mountain. An imposing wall of stone and armor, the fortifications encircled the south and west sides of the mountain from cliff face to cliff face. Her grandfather boasted that his fortress had never been taken.
“Who would even want it?” she murmured to herself as she fought a dog for a plate, tossing the animal a ham bone in exchange for the dish. The castle was rough, cold and dark—nothing like the palaces back home in the Frankish lands of the Holy Roman Empire. She thought of their polished limestone walls gleaming in the sunlight, their arched windows and symmetrical towers. The buildings were well-proportioned works of art.
Fier was a military outpost and little more. No place for a lady. King Garren’s wife had died years before, and his only daughter, Rosalind, was sixteen—old enough that she ought to be well trained already in household management, but there was no one to teach her. Evelyn could have done it, having been raised in a noble household in the north, but her grandfather wouldn’t begrudge her the esteem that would come with that position. She’d done her best to help the girl learn how to be a lady, but Rosalind’s only interest in learning had been instruction in letters. Evelyn had taught her to read but little else.
Evelyn carried the full tub back to the kitchen. Still no sign of the kitchen girls. They were most likely getting into mischief with Bertie and Rosalind. Without the head cook to bully them into working, they often snuck away to amuse themselves elsewhere. And it was always more work to go find them than to simply do their work for them.
Disgusted, Evelyn dumped the remains of the meal into a bucket and made another trip to the dining hall for more scraps. Fortunately, the dogs had finished off the bulk of it, so there wasn’t much left to clear.
By the time she’d wiped the tables clean and washed and hung the valerian roots to dry near the fire so she could crush them later for her grandfather’s tea, Evelyn had determined the girls would never return to slop the pigs. If the scraps weren’t carried out soon, they’d attract more flies and the dogs would finish them off. That left her to do the job. She slipped her feet, still secure in her leather shoes, into thick-wooden-soled pattens, tying on the protective if clumsy footwear and picking up the bucket.
* * *
Luke arrived at Fier with the fresh bear hide folded over his shoulders. It was a fine bearskin, not yet molted for summer, probably a yearling bear, the fur unscarred and not too rough. A fitting gift for a king, not that Garren deserved a gift.
Still, Luke wanted to stay in the king’s good graces, especially if, as the pale-haired woman had said, King Garren resented the peace accord between their kingdoms. Besides that, Luke had left his horse at the outpost with his men. Fier was closer to where he’d killed the bear, and the skin was heavy. He didn’t want to carry it any farther than he had to.
That was the excuse he gave himself for bringing the hide east instead of west. Luke should investigate King Garren’s resentment of the peace treaty, and what better way to do so than with a sudden unannounced visit? If Luke caught the king off guard, he might discover far more than if he gave the crafty leader time to plan ahead.
And the pale-haired woman was somewhere in the fortress. She’d saved his life, and he had yet to learn her name. After seeking her for so long, he couldn’t bear to let her simply run away, not without at least trying to follow. She drew him as fire drew fluttering moths.
The men at the gate of the base fortifications looked somewhat surprised to see him, but they recognized him and didn’t try to stop him, instead simply waving him in. Luke had considered the woman’s warning, but it was absurd, really. King Garren knew better than to attempt to take him prisoner, especially given that Garren’s son Warrick was currently a guest inside the walls of Castlehead in Lydia—a visit both diplomatic and personal. Warrick had become engaged to Luke’s sister, Elisabette. The two were smitten with one another, and Warrick often visited their castle.
If Garren attempted to hold Luke against his will, King John could retaliate and hold Warrick for exchange. Surely Garren understood that any assault against Luke would endanger his own son and heir. The pale-haired woman failed to understand the complexities of the political situation. There was no threat against him here.
Rather, her warning made him determined to learn for himself Garren’s thoughts on the peace accord. The Illyrian king had deceived them too many times before. His word could not be trusted. Was the king plotting to take back the borderlands Illyria had ceded? If so, the Royal House of Lydia needed to know, and the fastest way to find out was for Luke to visit in person.
Luke was a prince. The pale-haired woman didn’t seem to know that, but as such, he was practically untouchable. He was certain that Garren would not be so foolish as to risk starting another war, not with Rome and Constantinople obliged to defend their provinces.
Luke located the main palace but found the great hall deserted. He left the bearskin on a bench, added a few logs to the sputtering fire, then decided to take a look around.
He found valerian roots hung to dry in the kitchen and recognized the pale-haired woman’s basket. She had to be nearby, then. But where? He looked out the back door in time to see her clomping in clogs across the yard, carrying a heavy pail.
Luke grinned at the sight of her slender figure, her long pale hair trailing in a pair of messy braids speckled with leaves and bits of twigs from her flight through the forest. Rather than risk startling her, he followed her quietly.
* * *
Evelyn hated carrying the slop to the pigs. The creatures were nearly large enough to slaughter, though the lean winter had left them hungry too often. Pigs were dangerous when they were hungry. They’d eat anything, alive or dead, even their own young. She’d known men missing ears and fingers from getting too close to hungry pigs. Though a stone wall separated the swine from the rest of the castle yard, their muck had seeped to the mud beyond the wall, making the ground all around dangerously slippery.
Evelyn tromped toward their enclosure, sticky mud threatening to suck the cumbersome pattens from her feet. The heavy bucket only made it that much more difficult to walk. Perhaps she ought to have split the scraps into two loads, but that would have meant making two trips or carrying the buckets on a yoke on her shoulder, which made navigating the narrow gaps between buildings even more challenging. And besides that, the yoke hurt.
The bucket handle cut into her hands and Evelyn shifted the weight. She could smell the pigpen long before she could see it, the odor sharp enough to sting her eyes. Rather than think about it, she pictured the man from the forest, his broad shoulders, his bright smile. The memory was enough to make her chores tolerable and even bring a smile to her lips. God had preserved the man’s life, after all. Perhaps God would see fit to free her from her servitude.
Evelyn reached the stone wall and balanced the bucket on the edge. The trough below on the other side had been licked nearly clean by the hungry animals, with nothing left but a slimy film of splattered mud and pig filth. Grasping the handle, she tipped the pail.
A large hog got his feet up in the trough, nosing the bucket so that it nearly tipped backward. Evelyn caught it before the contents spilled, lifting it high, almost above her head, out of reach of the ravenous pig. More animals swarmed toward her, climbing onto the trough, fighting to get close to the bucket.
Evelyn shoved one hand under the base of the pail, held the slippery handle tight in her other fist and swung the whole thing forward, tipping it toward the pigs.
With a grunt, one tusk-nosed swine clambered into the trough and perched its forelegs atop the stone wall. Evelyn tried to back away, but the heavy pail swung forward, its momentum too much for her in the slippery mud.
She had nothing to hold on to. The pig got a mouthful of the loose fabric of her apron. The creature pulled her toward the wall, the trough, the pen. Evelyn scrambled for a foothold in the slippery mud. She screamed, but the pigs only squealed that much louder. No longer concerned about the bucket, she flung it toward the trough, hoping the pigs would take the bait and leave her alone.
But the momentum of her toss carried her forward. She pushed away, batting at the hog in front of her, praying it would move back instead of biting off her fingers.
The swine saw the bucket and turned its back to her just as Evelyn, all balance lost in the slimy mud, toppled screaming into the trough after him. The pigs saw her fall and turned. Evelyn tried to stand to leap out of the way, but her hands and feet slipped, the slick muck resisting her grip as the swine advanced.
Evelyn felt a tug on the back of her dress. For an instant she feared a pig had gotten behind her and taken a bite, but strong arms pulled her up and back and set her dripping in the mud. She looked about for her pattens and saw them in the trough—a lost cause, as the pigs were already eating them. Then she looked up at her rescuer.
The man from the forest stood over her, the bright sunlight setting his tanned skin nearly aglow. Somehow he’d managed to lift her out without getting any muck on himself. In fact, other than the stain of fresh blood that colored his habergeon, he looked clean and fresh.
Evelyn looked down at her dress, which was caked with the most awful stench of filth. She felt her cheeks flame red—not just because he’d seen her lowly servant’s state but because he’d witnessed her fall. But her horror ran far deeper than that.
“What are you doing here?” She looked around quickly but saw no one. Perhaps there was still time for him to escape unseen, before he was captured. “You must leave immediately.”
The man shrugged off her concern. “I have yet to learn your name.”
“You won’t learn it here.” She resigned herself to ruining her shoes in the mud. They were half-ruined already, and the man’s safety was a far greater concern than her shoes. “Follow me. This way.” If they hurried, she might be able to sneak him out the postern gate before anyone realized he was among them. She took a few steps in that direction, then looked back to find he hadn’t budged.
And she’d finally made it out of the deepest mud. She wasn’t fain to tromp back through it again. “Please—whoever you are. I’m trying to help you.”
The man shook his head, looking far too sure of himself, his air dangerously confident.
She took a reluctant step back toward him. “I saved your life once before—you said you owed me for that. Do me this one favor, then, and follow me.”
Her words penetrated the armor of his self-assurance. The man tipped his head, signaling deference to her, and moved toward her around the worst of the muck.
Relief gripped her with such a strong hold she wondered at the ferocity of its power. She told herself her reason for helping him was no different than it had ever been, but her heart betrayed another reason. Did she care about him?
As one Christian cared for another. That was all. Surely that was all. Whatever prayers she’d prayed for his recovery, the man was impossibly stubborn. Once she got rid of him, she’d do well to forget all about him. What was he thinking, coming here after she’d done her best to warn him away? The man must be daft.
She slipped into the narrow pathway between the stables and the rear wall. To her relief, the man quickly joined her, though she realized an instant too late the space was barely wide enough to accommodate both of them.
He stood so close she could smell the clean scent of the woods on him even over the odor of the pigs that clung in dripping mud to her clothes. Evelyn told herself her embarrassment didn’t matter nearly as much as the man’s safety. Still, she wished she didn’t smell so awful.
“The postern gate is this way.” She pointed eastward along the wall. “I’ll take you as far as the gate and watch to be sure you escape safely, but I can’t risk being seen helping you escape.”
“I don’t believe that’s necessary.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
Evelyn looked up at him, distracted by her wonder that he lived, that he was here talking to her, close enough to touch. His white teeth flashed in the sunlight as he spoke, framed by that smile that was almost a smirk. What had he said? “What’s not necessary?”
“Endangering yourself for me. I came to see King Garren. He’ll receive me.”
“He’ll imprison you.”
“That would be politically unwise.”
Evelyn opened her mouth to assure the man that many of the king’s decisions could be described as such. In fact, King Garren tended toward unwise decisions as a rule. But before she could speak, a familiar scream rang out from the kitchen.
“Cook.” Evelyn saw the man’s concerned question clearly on his face. “Probably saw a large rat or—”
“A bear!” The cook’s shrill scream echoed against the stone walls.
“—a bear,” Evelyn finished.
“My bear.” The man turned back toward the great hall.
“You brought—?” Evelyn started to ask, then realized the answer. “The pelt?”
“With the head,” he explained, quickly skirting the worst slime of the barnyard. “It adds value.”
Evelyn’s stomach swirled with sickening fear as she followed him back to the kitchen and through to the great hall. There was no stopping him—he’d gotten too much of a head start, and he was vastly bigger than she was. Even if she threw herself on him to stop him, she’d only succeed in smearing him with pigs’ muck. The man seemed determined to walk straight into danger.
Perhaps if he was so determined, she ought to let him do as he pleased. He could find out for himself the wisdom of her warnings. She adopted that approach often enough with her brother, Bertie—not that he ever seemed to learn, no matter what chastisements he brought upon himself.
Evelyn entered the great hall behind the man to find a crowd converging around the pelt. The bear sat atop a bench in a heap, its teeth bared, the head balanced above clawed paws in such a way that even if Cook had not smelled heavily of drink, she might nonetheless have been excused for thinking it a live bear.
Certainly some of King Garren’s men looked determined to give the creature wide berth.
The man from the woods stepped boldly toward it, grasped it by one furry shoulder, and unfurled it gracefully, the furry hide rippling impressively in spite of the lack of light in the hall.
“Oh!” Cook shuddered and hid her eyes.
King Garren bellowed a laugh, his mood considerably better than it had been during Evelyn’s encounter with him earlier that morning.
“A gift for you, King Garren.” The man bowed with a flourish and held out the weighty pelt. “A symbol of Lydia’s commitment to peace in the borderlands. Any threat to the peace between us shall be similarly—” the man paused a moment, eyes twinkling “—disemboweled.”
Still chortling, King Garren advanced with one hand outstretched cautiously, as though the hollow creature might bite him yet. He felt the fur, relaxing visibly when the animal made no move to attack. “Quite the surprise, Prince Luke—your visit and your gift.”
Evelyn shuffled backward toward the kitchen, her heart hammering inside her. Prince Luke? She recognized the name—the man had been discussed often enough in the great hall, though from the words she’d overheard, she’d expected an awful half demon of a man. But the figure holding the bear pelt spoke eloquently and graciously, visibly charming King Garren, who was not easily charmed.
“You’ll join us for a luncheon banquet in honor of your visit.” King Garren’s words weren’t presented as a question. Evelyn’s heart sank at the invitation, her eyes still riveted on the prince. Cook was in no condition to prepare a banquet, certainly not on such short notice. Evelyn would have to do most of the work herself, but first she’d run to find the serving girls—she’d need all the help she could get.
“Gladly.” Luke accepted the invitation with a slight bow, a sign of deference to the host.
Evelyn could only stare as she continued to back toward the kitchen doorway to find the servant girls. This man was Prince Luke? His behavior was certainly princely, even if his garments were those of a woodsman. She’d suspected him to be a nobleman of some rank, given her grandfather’s insistence that she save his life when he’d lain injured in the hut in the woodland village.
But a prince! He’d touched her hand. He’d pulled her out of the pigpen. Embarrassment scratched its way up from the pit of her stomach to her throat. He’d seen her covered in muck. How could she face him again?
“Biddy!” King Garren shrieked in that awful, goading tone he’d surely perfected with the sole intent of humiliating her.
She’d have dived out of sight if there had been anywhere to hide, but she was only halfway to the kitchen and the crowd still hovered near the bearskin across the room. There was nothing for it but to respond, or she’d find herself chastised in front of the prince.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” She crossed her ankles and curtsied.
“Bring the prince a drink.”
Evelyn nodded, risking the briefest glance at the prince in time to see him staring at her, his mouth set in a grim line that looked distinctly displeased.
Chapter Three
Evelyn hurried away, her ears burning with shame. If only God had seen fit to free her from her servitude before the prince had arrived to witness her humiliation.
And what was he doing in Fier? King Garren hated the man—no matter that he smiled charmingly now. He had ranted many times against the rulers of Lydia, especially since the peace treaty barred him from the borderlands. Though he greeted the prince warmly today, King Garren could be as deceptive as any thief.
As Evelyn searched the shelves for the best cup, she couldn’t help wondering if Prince Luke was as great a deceiver as King Garren. She might have hoped that as a Christian, the Lydian would be an honest man, but her experiences with royals in the region had taught her they weren’t to be trusted. What was the Lydian prince up to?
For his sake, she hoped he had a plan. Otherwise Prince Luke should not be here, certainly not alone and unguarded. She’d tried to warn him away when she’d thought him merely a soldier of mysterious importance. But if this man really was a prince of the Lydian people, then he was in even more danger than she’d originally thought.
Evelyn tried to stay in the kitchen, but Cook was not up to serving the meal, and the serving girls, once she finally found them, weren’t much help. Judging by the way they gawked and giggled, the girls found the visiting prince quite handsome.
It didn’t surprise her that her grandfather had invited the prince to dinner. How better to entrap the nobleman than to get him to let down his guard over the course of the banquet? No doubt King Garren realized Luke was strong enough to fight off half a dozen soldiers at once if they tried to pounce. No, her grandfather was a crafty man—spineless and deceitful, but cunning when it came to deception.
The best Evelyn could hope for was to go unnoticed, to follow the prince’s movements closely and see where her grandfather chose to imprison him. If she knew the king—and after five years in his household, she knew him well—he’d put the prince in the tallest tower. It was either that or the dungeon, but it would be vastly easier to trick the prince into walking up than down. Then it would be only a matter of getting the door locked securely after him.
She hovered near the hearth with the excuse of stoking the fire, listening carefully as the prince casually asked her grandfather a series of prying questions—about the size of his army and cavalry, his contact with Constantinople, his feelings about the peace accord.
She noted the king downplayed the number of men he had trained and ready, stationed on this very mountainside. Prince Luke’s right eyebrow twitched upward slightly, the only indication that he doubted Garren’s claims, unnoticed by the king, who had always had trouble making eye contact when lying.
Though she found herself almost impressed by Prince Luke’s insightful questions, the fact that he’d asked so boldly only increased her fear for his safety and her confusion over his intentions. The prince seemed to be up to something. Was he spying on them? Distracting them while his men launched a surprise attack? Either he knew what he was doing, in which case he should be feared, or he was unaware of King Garren’s hate for him, too ignorant to be properly afraid. Surely her grandfather wouldn’t let the man spy on them so blatantly, then return to Lydia unopposed to report on what he’d learned.
Concerned, she loitered near the fire, listening, watching, hoping to determine the prince’s motives. That and, of course, she needed to be ready to remove plates and mop up messes quickly without her grandfather calling for her again and further embarrassing her in front of the prince. As she stood there alert and listening, she had time to observe Prince Luke, his bearing regal, his shoulders impossibly wide above his slim hips, his hair an ebony mane above his jet-black brows.
It was no wonder the serving girls thought him handsome. Far more than his appearance, however, Evelyn was curious about his beliefs. The Lydians were renowned for their Christian faith—a marked contrast to Garren’s pagan household. Evelyn had met few Christians since her father had taken her and Bertie from the Holy Roman Empire following their mother’s death. She would have loved to ask Luke questions about his beliefs, but that would require getting close enough for him to smell the pig slime still on her clothes.
“Biddy!”
Evelyn nearly jumped when her grandfather bellowed, and she tried not to let her embarrassment show as she presented herself, dropped to a deep curtsy and began clearing away the dishes at her grandfather’s orders. When she dared to look up, she saw Prince Luke watching her, his intelligent eyes noting everything.
He’d seen her hauling slop for pigs. He’d watched her answer to Biddy. Would he listen to her if she tried to help him again? Most likely not. She marveled that he could see her at all. Most often the serving girls were considered more a part of the palace structure than the household, more a utensil for serving than a human with feelings. A serving girl only ever took orders. She never gave them, not even if she was secretly the granddaughter of the king.
“We need this table cleared, and bring us more light!” Her grandfather gulped one breath between barking orders at her and calling to his men to bring him maps.
Evelyn grabbed the plates from the table and hurried to fetch candles, which were reserved for only special occasions. There was every chance her grandfather might berate her for choosing to use them when he hadn’t specifically asked her to, but if she brought him a torch instead, he might just as likely chide her for not choosing the candles.
To her relief her grandfather said nothing to her as she placed the lit candles in their holders. His attention was instead on the maps being spread out on the table in front of him. Already he quizzed the prince on the exact placement of the borders between them.
As Evelyn scraped plates near the kitchen door, she kept her ears alert to the sound of King Garren’s voice and so heard him suggest Prince Luke accompany him to the highest tower—to view the borders they spoke of, or so he claimed. Much as she’d have liked to follow after them, she had her hands full in the kitchen, and anyway, they’d smell her coming.
Though she resented trickery, she hoped for Prince Luke’s sake that the Lydian nobleman was up to something. Otherwise he’d find himself quickly outmaneuvered.
* * *
Luke followed King Garren down the dark, twisting hallways, paying attention to every curve and fork so he could find his way back—alone if necessary. He noticed that Garren had whispered something to a couple of his guards, who now trailed behind them. Luke was distinctly aware that he was outnumbered and surrounded and no longer had the added security of a crowd of witnesses to contradict any story Garren might invent.
Though Luke was not by nature a fearful person, the woman they called Biddy had warned him Garren might be up to something, and Luke knew enough about the man to be always on his guard around him. After all, King Garren’s illegitimate son, Rab the Raider, had killed Luke’s father, King Theodoric of Lydia, through deceptive trickery.
King Theodoric’s death had left Luke a grieving orphan. Surely he’d learned enough through that loss not to trust King Garren.
And yet, as they climbed the twisting stairs that led upward to the tower, Luke realized his thoughts were still focused on the pale-haired woman and the mystery of her identity. Though Luke had done his best to keep his attention on King Garren, all through dinner he’d watched the woman at her work, noting the way she kept her distance, darting in silently and unobtrusively, and the way she kept the king’s glass and plate full so he wouldn’t have to ask for anything.
The woman had a quiet dignity about her and a graceful way of carrying herself that was uncommon among servants. Even with her rag of a dress encrusted with pig muck, she was beautiful. For long months he’d feared his feverish mind had invented her or embellished her appearance.
To his amazement he found her to be more impressive than he’d first observed, for not only was she lovely to look upon, but her disposition and demeanor were just as attractive. In spite of King Garren’s harsh shouting, the woman neither shouted back nor hung her head, but simply did as she was asked quickly and efficiently, with such grace it caused his breath to catch in his throat.
They reached the top of the tower, and Garren held the thick wooden door open, gesturing for Luke to pass through. “The window to your left affords the best view of the lands in question,” the king told him.
Luke crossed the small round room and peered out through the indicated open-air stone frame. “Ah, yes. I can see the river.”
When King Garren did not immediately appear at his side, Luke turned back. In place of any words, the king’s response was a slamming door. Luke leaped toward it but heard the key click in the lock before he reached it. He peered through the small barred window in time to see King Garren and the two guards hastily making their escape down the stairs.
Looking down, he could see the sturdy door handle, its keyhole scratched from years of use. No doubt King Garren had often used this tower to imprison his captives.
With a sinking heart, Luke realized the deceptive ruler had planned to imprison him all along, probably from the moment he invited him to dinner. Everything else, then, had been a ruse.
Ah, but Luke had discovered much. And the door, though thick and heavy, was not an immovable barrier. Luke inspected what he could see of the lock, then looked around for something he could improvise as a tool.
A small bundle of straw had been scattered about at one end. From the looks of it, more than one prisoner had used the bale as both bed and blanket. Luke plucked up the sturdiest stems and carefully plaited them together to stiffen them. With any luck, he’d pick the lock and be gone before Garren thought better of leaving him alone and decided to post a guard.
He shook his head, laughing at his own foolishness. He’d gotten into worse spots before. In comparison, this imprisonment had been quite fruitful. He’d learned precisely how far King Garren could be trusted, which wasn’t far at all. He’d confirmed the pale-haired woman’s claim that Garren resented the peace treaty.
Most of all, he’d found the pale-haired woman. His imprisonment was worth it if only for that. But he wasn’t about to waste what he’d learned. He had to escape and see her again.
He tried the plaited straw in the lock but found the stick he’d made wasn’t nearly sturdy enough to budge the tumbler inside. He searched the empty space a bit longer but, still finding nothing, went back to plaiting straw again, hoping to make it stronger this time. From what he could tell, the tumbler that kept him imprisoned was heavy, and would require a prod nearly as strong as King Garren’s key to unloose it. Perhaps he wouldn’t escape as quickly as he’d like, but he wasn’t about to give up, either.
The sun was dipping low in the sky when Luke heard soft footsteps on the stairs. Judging by the muted sound, he doubted it was a guard coming to check on him. Hope rose inside him that the pale-haired woman might have come to pay him a visit. When he caught a glimpse of fair hair rounding the corner, his heart leaped for joy, only to come crashing down in disappointment when the hair proved to be far shorter than that of the woman they called Biddy.
Indeed, this pale hair belonged to a freckle-faced youth, who looked at him curiously through the barred porthole. Luke stared back in silence for a moment, wondering if this boy was friend or foe. His features, along with his distinctive pale hair, convinced Luke the youth must be related in some way to the pale-haired woman. So he took a chance.
“Have you got a key to this door?”
“There’s only one key, and King Garren keeps it.”
Luke had feared as much. At least the boy seemed helpful. “How can I open the lock, then?”
“I’ve tried it all the times I was locked in there. Never could get it without the key.”
Only slightly discouraged, Luke tried to glean as much as he could quickly in case the youth was called away—or caught. “Is there a guard stationed at the base of the tower?”
“Yes, but I brought him a drink earlier to help him sleep. He’s dozing now. That’s how I got past. I’d have brought you something to eat, but I didn’t think he’d be asleep so soon. I saw a chance and took it.” The youth peered at him curiously between the bars in the small opening in the door. “They say you’re a prince and a Christian.”
Luke suddenly felt his heart beating hard, though he wasn’t sure precisely why. “That I am.”
The boy whispered something. Luke couldn’t quite catch his words, but it sounded almost as though he’d said, “So am I.”
But before Luke could ask him to repeat himself, the boy spoke again. “I belong in the Holy Roman Empire. If I help you get out of here, can you help me get home?”
Luke felt his sympathies soften immediately at the youth’s earnest request. “I would do everything in my power.”
Suddenly the boy’s face brightened, and Luke had no question the two pale-haired servants must be related. The boy had Biddy’s smile.
“And my sister, too. Can you help my sister escape from this place?”
“Your sister.” Luke’s heart hammered inside him, and he fought the urge to barrage the boy with questions about the young woman. Instead, he agreed quickly. “I would gladly help her, as well.”
“Good.” The boy shoved something long and pointed through the window to Luke. “This might be of some help to you.”
Luke took the object—a rough sort of knife, probably fashioned by the boy himself out of a cast-off piece of metal. As he tried it in the lock, he started to inquire of the boy about his sister. But the youth had turned his attention to the stairs.
“I shouldn’t tarry any longer. You should wait for darkness before you try to leave. Garren’s men drink heavily at dinner. You’ll find your passage through the rest of the fortress much easier if you wait until after then.”
“Thank you,” Luke whispered hurriedly as the boy retreated down the stairs. “And tell your sister not to worry about me.”
He didn’t hear any response but listened carefully, breathing freely only after some time had passed without any sound that might indicate the youth had gotten caught.
Luke was glad for that. The boy had brought him a useful tool as well as valuable information about the guard below. It was sure to increase his chances of escaping.
And just as certainly, Luke intended to do all he could to make good on his promise to help the slaves escape. The woman they called Biddy had saved his life. He owed them both.
Rather than pick the lock now and risk discovery, Luke decided to wait until closer to sunset to make his bid for freedom. For now he leaned on the windowsill and looked out over the stunning vista. King Garren might have only used the view as bait to lure him to the tower, but indeed, the vista provided an unparalleled picture of the lands between Fier and Lydia. In the distance Luke could see a charred spot amidst the woods—the tiny village of Bern, where he’d lain injured. The very spot where the pale-haired woman had saved his life.
At the thought of her, Luke felt his stomach lurch, and he mulled the reason for his response. Granted, the woman was kind and lovely, gracious and gentle—all things a man might appreciate in a female. But she was also a slave. Any affection he felt toward her was mere gratitude for the sacrifices she’d made on his behalf—first in saving his life and then in rightfully trying to warn him from this place.
Gratitude. That was all he felt, that and reciprocal generosity—an urge to fulfill his promise to the boy that he would somehow help the siblings return to their homeland. Certainly the lurching in his stomach could be no more than that. Luke had no interest in romance. Never had. Someday he’d perform his duty and marry a bride befitting a prince, a noblewoman whose connections could solidify peace in Lydia.
Until then he ought to put thoughts of other women far from his mind...except that the pale-haired woman had already proven to be unforgettable.
* * *
When Garren returned alone, Evelyn guessed what he’d done. He had the key to the tower door in the bag at his waistband. She could see the distinctive bulge of it. She knew it well. He’d locked her in the tower a few times when she’d tried to run away. More recently, he’d threatened to marry her to Omar, the middle-aged chief of the night guard, who liked to grab at her whenever she passed near him.
Omar was a far greater threat than the tower. She’d learned never to walk close to him, to step quickly away when clearing the table near his place. She hadn’t run away in over a year, not with the threat of marriage to Omar looming over her.
Bertie confirmed it when she finally found him in the stables, mucking out the stalls as he was supposed to. He’d seen their grandfather pass by with the prince, had followed out of curiosity and had gone back in secret later to see the prisoner.
“He asked about you,” her brother said, leaning on the handle of his pitchfork. He was nearly as tall as she already in spite of the eight years’ difference in age between them. Bertie was twelve and looked more like their father every day.
“About me?” Evelyn couldn’t imagine it. “He doesn’t know my name.”
“‘The one they call Biddy,’ he said, ‘with hair pale as moonlight and healing in her hands.’”
Evelyn froze. “He didn’t say that.” Her brother had quite the sense of humor. She wouldn’t put it past him to tease unless he knew her feelings were tender on a subject. And he couldn’t know how tender her feelings already were for Prince Luke.
“In truth, he said it in Illyrian,” her brother admitted, and repeated the message in that tongue. The two of them spoke Frankish when they were alone—partly to keep private whatever passed between them, partly to remind themselves of who they were and partly on her brother’s insistence, because he’d vowed to return there one day and wanted to remember how to talk to their relatives.
“He asked me to bring you a message.”
“What?” Evelyn hadn’t yet absorbed the fact that the prince had spoken of her at all. No prince had ever sent her a message.
“He said not to worry about him.”
“Not to worry?”
“That’s what he said.”
“What does that mean?” Had her suspicions been correct? Was the prince up to something? Evelyn hated to think the Christian would be capable of the same deceitfulness as her grandfather, but she chided herself for hoping otherwise. He was royal. Of course he was a liar. She’d be wise to be on her guard around him, lest his handsome smile and winsome ways distract her from his dishonesty.
“I wonder the same thing,” Bertie watched her carefully, his blue eyes dancing, his pale hair the same color as the straw in the stables. “I wanted to ask, but I heard voices below and had to sneak away before I was caught.”
“I should try to visit him myself.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“He said not to worry.”
But Evelyn worried, all through that afternoon and evening, especially when King Garren failed to order a plate sent up to the tower. It was one thing for him to starve her out—she was his granddaughter. But Prince Luke could retaliate for the poor treatment, assuming he survived. And she hated to think of him going hungry—unless he was plotting against them, in which case he didn’t deserve their hospitality.
Perhaps Garren had no intention of letting the prince survive this time. It could be he’d learned his lesson after she’d brought the prince back from the brink of death at Bern.
The only good thing to come of the day was a clean dress and a bath. King Garren didn’t believe in bathing—he feared the water might wash away a person’s soul—but Evelyn had grown up taking baths in the Holy Roman Empire. Here she and the serving girls had worked out a system, guarding each other while they dipped themselves in the warm washing water before they started the laundry. And since Cook had retired to her room exhausted from serving lunch to a prince and still put out by her scare with the bearskin, Evelyn took the time to wash her hair, then to comb out all the tangles until it shimmered like pale gold in the orange glow of the fire.
Night had fallen by the time she got a moment to herself. She grabbed the two bread rolls she’d set aside earlier and filled a skin flask with tea, the herbal liquid a fortifying mixture that would give Luke strength even if she wasn’t able to reach him again for some time. Whatever her grandfather’s plans, or the prince’s, she wasn’t about to refuse hospitality to a man who’d brought them a gift. Besides, she hoped to learn more about his intentions.
She made her way stealthily down the halls to the spiraling stairs that led to the highest tower. The guard at the base of the stairs sat slumped against the wall, snoring. Evelyn crept past him without a sound. When she reached the top, she tried the door and found to her surprise that it swung open easily.
Moonlight poured through the open eaves, illuminating the bare stones of the austere space.
It was empty.
Chapter Four
Luke found the narrow pathway between the stables and the rear wall. The pale-haired woman—he cringed to think of her as Biddy—had led him that way when she’d tried to help him escape that morning. If he’d known what he’d soon be up against, he’d have learned more about her intended route then, but he’d misjudged King Garren’s animosity.
The pale-haired woman had been right about Garren’s intentions. Given her warning, Luke had suspected he was walking into a trap when Garren had offered to show him the view from the tower. He’d gone along, partly out of curiosity to see if the king would really imprison him and partly because, assuming the king was bold enough to imprison him, the aggression against his person would constitute a violation of the terms of the peace accord.
By allowing himself to be locked away, Luke had achieved an advantage for Lydia.
Now he needed to pass along word of what he’d discovered to his brother King John of Lydia. Thus far they’d assumed Garren was willing to abide by the peace treaty. They’d clearly overestimated Garren’s wisdom on those matters.
Horses nickered in the stables behind him, and Luke froze. Someone was in the stables. The pale-haired boy, Biddy’s brother, who’d visited him in the tower? If he could find the boy, Luke could leave a message for her with him.
It was dangerous to tarry. Luke needed to report what he’d learned to his brother. And yet at the thought of the woman, he found his feet turning back a few steps toward the nearest stable door. He’d been intrigued by her since she’d saved his life. Finding her here in such a low position increased his curiosity. What was she doing in this place? Her skill with the needle and knowledge of healing meant she’d obviously had specialized training in far finer arts than rumor told him were practiced in Garren’s household. Her brother claimed to be from the Holy Roman Empire. So how, then, had they come here?
What could he do to keep his promise to free her and her brother? Could he buy their freedom? He couldn’t leave them behind, not when he was this close already, not without trying to repay the woman for the gift of life she’d given him. He had to try to see her again. He still didn’t know her real name.
Luke reached the stable door and peered into the darkness inside. The heavy walls blocked much of the moonlight. Horses shifted on their feet, their shadows looming dark against the walls, each one large enough to hide a man.
Was he foolish to come here? Luke slipped into the nearest stall and quieted the sleeping mare that startled at his appearance. The horse went back to its slumber.
Perhaps he was a fool for visiting Fier in the first place, but he’d learned enough to justify the trouble it had caused him.
And what of the woman? She’d tried to warn him away from this place, then tried to help him escape. But surely she could get in trouble for helping him. Why would she take such a risk on his account, especially when she was of such lowly status already? Slaves could be brutally punished, even killed, without their masters ever being called into question. Most were unerringly devoted to their masters out of fear.
The pale-haired woman didn’t seem devoted to King Garren. Whom did she really serve? Could she be trusted?
Movement near the far door caught his eye, and Luke spotted a flash of silver. Human. The boy? No, he realized with a pounding heart, it was the woman they called Biddy.
Moonlight splashed in patches across her as she stole down the center aisle. She’d pulled her loose hair back in a tight braid and changed her dress. This garment was a more tattered rag, perhaps a bit too small, even, though it showed more of her slender curves. Luke’s breath caught as he watched her moving cautiously and gracefully in the moonlight.
She stopped in front of a stall and slipped through the door before Luke realized what she was doing. The horse seemed to know her and followed without hesitation as she led him from the stall.
Where was she going with the horse? The woman had risen early that morning to find valerian roots on foot. She’d worked hard all day and ought to be exhausted by this hour. Surely she didn’t make a habit of going riding at night. With a pang, Luke wondered if perhaps she was going to look for him.
No one had stopped her. From what Luke could tell, they were the only two people in the stable. With a prayer for safety, he stepped carefully toward her, not wanting to startle her or the horse. If either of them cried out, he might easily be caught again. And King Garren was unlikely to leave him where he could escape with so little trouble this time.
The woman led the gelding to the corner where the tack was stacked, and she prepared the horse to ride. Luke followed quietly, debating how best to make his presence known.
He reached a patch of moonlight when a horse nickered. The woman turned. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she made no sound.
Luke rushed to her side.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, then raised her hands with an offering. “I brought you these.”
Luke recognized the bread but reached eagerly for the flask, parched after a day in the tower. The woman pulled out the stopper and lifted it for him. As he quenched his thirst, Luke wondered again at this female who went out of her way to help him. Why?
“You must tell me your name,” he nearly begged once he’d drained the flask.
“Only if you promise to leave. Why are you still here?”
“I had to see you again.” He reached for the bread just as she held it out to him. His left hand met the rolls. His right hand touched her arm, held her sleeve and was about to pull her closer to him when he stopped himself, unsure why he felt so drawn to her. Granted, she looked much better now than she had earlier, and smelled far better, as well. Along with washing her hair and changing her dress, she’d replaced the stench of pigs with the clean scent of crushed lavender.
Was he foolish to want to know more about this woman? Perhaps somewhat, but he wouldn’t allow himself to fall prey if she was trying to trick him. He’d stay on his guard in case she was as great a deceiver as the man she worked for.
“Please tell me your name. I don’t believe it’s Biddy.” He took a bite of roll.
“That’s only what my grandfather tells everyone to call me.” The woman looked down as though ashamed.
“Your grandfather?” Luke scowled. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” He finished the first roll and wished for another flask of tea.
“Why?” She’d stepped back against the dozing horse. Just enough moonlight filtered through the open eaves to illuminate her face as she looked up at him. “You’re a prince. I’m a slave.”
“You saved my life. Let me buy your freedom.”
The woman’s mouth fell open like a rose in full bloom. Soft, delicate. “It’s not possible.”
“Why not? I have the means to pay any price.”
The woman made a small noise, almost a whimper, and then turned toward the horse, hiding her face near its mane.
“Please.” Luke reached for her but placed one hand on the horse instead, mindful that the woman might not welcome his touch. “You must tell me your name.”
She seemed distraught. Luke’s throat felt rough, possibly from the dry roll but more likely from his confusion at the woman’s reaction. No doubt she’d be an expensive slave, with her skills at healing and her obvious ability to work hard for long hours, not to mention her beauty. Many a master would buy her for her looks alone, though they wouldn’t treat her nearly as well as she ought to be treated. At the thought, Luke became that much more determined to free her.
“Your name?” He wanted to grasp her shoulders and turn her to face him, but he resisted. She wasn’t his. “Please?”
She turned to him, tears glistening like tiny gems on her eyelashes. “Evelyn.”
“Evelyn,” he repeated, smiling. It fit her so much better than Biddy. “Why have you chosen to help me?” He raised the last roll as evidence of her aid, then took a hungry bite.
“You are from Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a Christian?”
“Yes.” His heart warmed as she smiled at his admission. “What do you know of Christians?”
“I was raised in the faith in Charlemagne’s empire.”
Luke instantly recalled the words Evelyn’s brother had spoken in the tower, which Luke still didn’t completely understand. He would never have expected to find Christians enslaved inside the fortress of Fier. From what Luke knew of Garren’s household, they all followed pagan beliefs. As a member of that household, he would have assumed she’d follow the same. But then, she’d spoken Frankish earlier. Perhaps he should have guessed the woman was more like him than his enemies. Perhaps she could be trusted. Perhaps. “How long have you lived in Illyria?”
“Five years.”
“What brought you here?”
“My father. He brought us here after my mother’s death.”
“Us?” Luke clarified, wondering how many more there were besides Evelyn and her brother.
“My brother and me.”
“The pale-haired boy I spoke with in the tower?”
“Yes. Bertie.”
“Your mother was Frankish, and your father is Illyrian?”
“My father was half Frankish and half Illyrian.”
“Was?”
“He died last fall.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded, her expression thoughtful, but remained silent.
“And your grandfather?”
“Would be furious if he knew I was speaking with you.” Her eyes met his with a spark of challenge.
“Is he a slave, as well?”
Evelyn’s mouth fell open again. Luke studied it, marveling at her fine matched teeth, a far healthier set than he’d expected to find in the mouth of an Illyrian slave girl. But then, nothing about her was what he’d expected, and everything he learned about her only intrigued him further.
She didn’t answer his question, but Luke felt the urgency of their situation and realized with certainty what he needed to do. He’d promised her brother he’d help them. Why should he return later when he could fulfill his pledge that very night?
“I can take you with me.”
She clamped her mouth shut, her eyes wide.
“I’m leaving for Lydia tonight. You would be safe there with other Christians.”
Evelyn shook her head, but the way she glanced at him, he guessed she found the offer tempting. Surely she didn’t want to remain a slave.
Luke couldn’t let her refuse his offer. “My sister-in-law speaks Frankish. She is a daughter of Charlemagne himself. You might enjoy her company.”
Evelyn shook her head more fervently. “I cannot leave—”
“You would not be a slave there.”
“No.” Evelyn stepped to the side as though to dart away and escape from his words.
Luke caught her arm. “Please come with me.”
She met his eyes. “My brother—”
“I intend to bring him, too, of course. He asked me to help him return to his homeland. Once we reach Lydia, we can arrange further travel plans.”
A look of yearning passed across her face. He saw it clearly in the moonlight. His heart twisted at the sight.
“Please, Evelyn. You saved my life. Let me restore yours. You deserve more than a life of slavery.”
Evelyn closed her eyes. Luke watched as she fought some inner battle, tempted to take him up on his offer. What was holding her back?
“You have lingered here too long,” Evelyn told him bluntly when she opened her eyes. “Leave now, before King Garren realizes you’ve escaped. If he finds you’re not in the tower, he’ll lock down the gates and you’ll never get out.”
Luke felt the urgency in her words. She was right, of course. She’d been right about King Garren all along. “You’ll come with me?”
“I cannot.”
He still had hold of her left arm and grasped the other, as well, all but embracing her in the warmth of the stable. “I have searched for you these many months. Now that I’ve found you, I cannot leave you behind.”
“My life is very complicated, too much so to explain now. You must leave quickly—alone.”
Luke met her eyes and saw her determination. She wouldn’t be going with him, no matter how much yearning had crossed her face when he’d first made the offer. Knowing she’d been right about King Garren, he trusted she knew well the reasons of which she spoke. “Promise me I may see you again.” He thought quickly. “In the woods where I met you this morning. Meet me there again in one week’s time.”
“I will try.”
“If you’re not there, I will come here looking for you.”
Panic crossed her face. “Don’t endanger yourself for me.”
“You have endangered yourself for me.” Luke still held both her arms and had been drawing closer to her as they spoke. She seemed so frightened. Of him? Of getting caught?
It didn’t matter. He ought to have left long minutes before.
Evelyn pulled free of his arms. “This way.” She led him back through the side door of the stable, along the rear wall to the postern gate. “There’s a guard through the main gate, but we can sneak through the guard’s passage. When we get through to the other side, stay close to the wall until you’re almost to the first tower, then cut around the bushes heading uphill. There’s a narrow deer path. Follow it—you’ll find your way back to where we met this morning.”
Luke memorized her instructions, knowing well he wouldn’t have happened upon the path himself, certainly not in the darkness. “You’ll meet me there in one week?” He’d need that long to make the trip back to his brother, tell him what he’d learned, make plans and travel back again.
She nodded solemnly but added, “If I’m delayed, please don’t come here looking for me. I’ll try again the next day and the next.”
“I’ll try again every day until I see you again,” he promised.
She looked up at him, the moon casting just enough silvery light for him to see her face clearly. “You must move quickly. I will pray for your safety.”
“And I for yours.” He couldn’t help reaching out and trailing one finger softly against her cheek. She was real. After all his searching, all his fears that he’d only imagined her, she was real.
* * *
Evelyn stood still in the darkness near the narrow exit, listening to Prince Luke’s retreating footsteps until the sound disappeared into the distance between them. Then she waited a moment longer, tense, bracing herself to hear the cry of the guards spotting the man in the shadows or checking the tower to find him gone.
There was only silence.
Almost against her will she pressed one hand to the place where the prince had brushed her cheek. Though his fingers were calloused from bowstrings, his touch had been gentle, almost reverent. Evelyn closed her eyes, committing to memory every word, every look that had passed between them. No one spoke to her that tenderly. Only her brother called her by her real name, her Christian name.
Prince Luke had made her feel as though she wasn’t a slave at all.
It touched a raw part of her wounded heart, rousing it achingly to life as she pictured his face, his strong arms, the feel of his hand on her cheek.
Evelyn immediately chided herself for letting her emotions grow. Luke was a prince. And not just any prince, but a prince of the neighboring kingdom who her grandfather specifically abhorred. In fact, she realized as fear surged through her conscience, she should not have agreed to meet him in the woods again. She’d agreed because she wanted to see him again, to learn more about him, to bask in the kindness of his words.
How could she be so selfish?
Seeing Prince Luke again would only put him in more danger. If they were caught, her grandfather would surely make good on his threats to force her to marry Omar. What would happen to the prince? Surely King Garren wouldn’t be content to simply lock him away again. No, he’d do something much worse. Torture? War?
Evelyn’s blood chilled in her veins. Why did the prince want to visit this place, anyway? If he was up to no good, she should convince him not to return. If he was in danger, he ought to stay away for his own safety. Either way, she’d have to make the prince understand the importance of staying far from Fier. For that reason, she would meet with him again as promised. Once. But never again. She couldn’t endanger his safety or his people.
Her mind made up, Evelyn crept back the way she’d come, skirting the stables this time and heading back into the main hall via the rear kitchen door. She stuck her head into the laundry room where she and the servant girls slept. The girls appeared to be asleep, but then one of them sat up and blinked at her.
“Evelyn?” the girl whispered softly.
“Yes.”
“Omar has Bertie.”
“What?”
“He found him sneaking up to the tower. The prisoner is missing. Omar blames your brother for helping him escape.”
“Where has he got him?”
“They headed for the dungeon.”
“Does the king know?”
“I’m not sure. He’s gone to bed for the night.”
“Good.” It was a small consolation. Omar might be willing to hurt her brother, but he wouldn’t risk inflicting too much pain on the king’s grandson without Garren’s explicit permission. “You stay here.”
The little girl grabbed her skirt as she turned to leave. “Be careful. Omar is terribly angry.”
“I’ll be fine,” Evelyn promised, though her fears increased as she hurried through the hall to the steps that led downward in a steep spiral to the dungeons below. Should she go alone? It wouldn’t be right to risk the girls’ safety by asking them to come with her. And yet, who else did she have on her side?
Prince Luke’s face flashed through her thoughts, and she groaned when she realized how much she’d come to trust him already. She knew better than to trust a royal. Her grandfather had only ever deceived her. But Prince Luke was a Christian. Did his faith make any difference in his actions? Perhaps he might be willing to help her. He’d offered to help her escape. But Bertie’s capture was a sharp reminder of why she could never go with him.
All her previous efforts to run away had been thwarted by her grandfather. Though the king did not care for her and treated her harshly nonetheless, he kept close tabs on her, either out of spite or because of her value as a learned slave.
Worse yet, Omar had recently made up his mind to have her. Even if King Garren didn’t notice her missing, Omar would never let her get far from Fier. He’d track her down. If she and Bertie were found among the Lydians, her grandfather would happily use the incident as an excuse to start another war.
As she’d told Prince Luke, her reasons for staying were complicated. Even she didn’t fully understand her grandfather’s determination to keep her. But she knew the trouble that would follow if she fled. Better that she and Bertie suffer than all of Lydia.
Evelyn reached the bottom of the stairs in silence. The dungeon was too quiet. Torchlight flickered around the corner; otherwise she might have thought the dungeon empty. Cautiously, she stole a glance into the low-ceilinged space beyond.
Ropes bound her little brother’s arms behind his back. He lay on his side on the floor, his face turned away from her toward the wall. She stared for a moment, willing the twelve-year-old to move, to breathe, anything to reassure her he was alive.
Unable to see any signs of life, she took a tentative step forward.
A heavy hand shot out from the shadows, grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her against the cold wall.
Evelyn gasped.
Bertie rolled toward her, his eyes first surprised, then defeated. A rag in his mouth kept him from speaking, but his expression told her he wished she hadn’t come.
Omar chuckled, his rotten breath uncomfortably close to her face. “Figured you’d come looking for him. You know why he’s here, don’t you? You know he helped the prisoner escape.”
“Prisoner?” Evelyn tried to sound confused. Her grandfather hadn’t made it widely known that he’d imprisoned Prince Luke, though even the serving girls had figured out what he’d done.
“Don’t play stupid with me. Now that I’ve got you, we’re going to go wake up the king. He needs to know what you two have been up to.”
Across the room, Bertie’s eyes widened and he made desperate noises with his throat, but his bonds held him tight. He couldn’t help her.
With Omar’s grip digging into her shoulder, Evelyn had no choice but to go back up the stairs as he guided her. King Garren always hated bad news. But more than that, he hated being awakened in the middle of the night.
She was a little surprised that he hadn’t made good on his threat of marrying her to Omar already, though he’d muttered something once about political usefulness, which made her suspect the cunning king hoped to find a match for her that would benefit him more. After all, as the king’s granddaughter, she could technically be considered a princess—but that was only if the king acknowledged her. As always, it would come down to whatever fit his schemes.
But even her grandfather’s craftiness couldn’t compete with his anger.
Evelyn turned at the top of the stairs, headed in the direction in which Omar pointed her. She had no choice but to pray with her eyes wide open, watching for any chance to escape. Even as she did so, she prayed silently that Prince Luke would make haste. If her grandfather sent a party after him on horseback, the Lydian prince would need a solid head start to make good his escape.
Chapter Five
Luke fled hurriedly through the darkness, the new moon adding little light to the starry sky. He paused where the roundabout trail met the main road.
Which route should he choose? If he stuck to the road, he could be spotted and recaptured. Garren would surely take greater measures to prevent him from escaping again—either locking him under heavy guard, injuring him or killing him. Luke wanted none of those options.
Still, the road, rough and rutted though it was, would provide him the fastest route back to Lydia. Given the darkness of the night, Luke could waste valuable time picking his way through the thick forest that filled the borderlands between Lydia and the Illyrian mountains. He needed to alert his brother King John to all that he’d learned on his visit. He risked losing precious hours fighting the underbrush or, worse yet, becoming lost in these unfamiliar woods so close to Fier.
The road ran straight south, skirting the Lydian lands to the east. If Luke stayed on that path, he’d miss the outpost camp where his men were stationed but would arrived more quickly at Sardis, the Lydian walled city that sat at the point where the mainland joined the peninsula of Castlehead. The road would deliver him more quickly to his brother and offer him a hastier escape—provided he avoided detection.
Wary of the silence behind him, Luke stuck to the side of the road, following the path amidst the thick cover of underbrush that ran alongside it. Soon enough, when Fier lay far behind him and no sound of pursuit had met his ears, Luke gave up trying to force his way through the side thicket and ran instead along the road.
He reached a muddy place where the path crossed a small stream. There was no bridge here—the stream was not even deep enough to warrant that. Travelers would simply splash through the shallows or, if they wished to stay dry, pick their way across on the many stones that jutted up from the trickling flow.
Luke paused on one of these rocks and bent to drink. He’d traveled far since drinking the flask of tea Evelyn had brought him. It had been such a thoughtful gift, and one that could have labeled her a traitor if she were to be found out. He wondered at her allegiance. Was it only because of their shared faith that she’d decided to help him? Or did she feel the bond between them that Luke felt so acutely? In stitching closed his wounds, she’d knit the two of them together on a deeper level. He didn’t fully understand it himself, but she was never far from his thoughts, especially now that he’d spent time with her and she’d gone out of her way to help him.
Luke drank deeply. The memory of Evelyn’s kindness warmed his heart even as the sight before him caused his blood to run cold in his veins.
This close to the ground, he could see the surface of the path well in spite of the dim light. To his surprise, the road showed signs of heavy travel.
But why? Who could possibly have passed this way? These lands were Lydian territory now. King Garren’s men would have no cause to travel so far down the road, not since their retreat from the battle at Sardis the previous fall.
And yet as Luke analyzed the prints more closely, he saw they were all of similar size, belonging to grown men, not women or children. These were not the footprints of random villagers, then. No, though it was too dark for Luke to make out much detail, he’d tracked enough Illyrians in the borderlands to recognize the distinctive shape of the boots of the Illyrian soldiers.
And the prints were all pointed in the same direction.
Toward Sardis, Lydia’s great walled city.
His pulse quickened. Luke ran forward along the road, stopping now and then when a break in the trees provided enough light for him to check the path for tracks. Again and again he saw the prints and wondered at the number of them. At least a dozen men must have passed along the road since the last heavy rain— possibly many more than that, even. In places, the path was heavily trampled.
Where were they going? Who had sent them? What were they up to?
Luke ran until a patch of moonlight revealed only smooth dirt. He glanced behind him, but the shadows obscured the road. Somewhere since last he’d paused to check, the Illyrian soldiers had left the road.
But which way had they gone?
They were still a good ways from Sardis. If the soldiers had headed west again, they’d quickly find themselves back at home among the Illyrian mountains, a perfectly innocent place for them to be. Luke supposed, given the difficulty of travel through the dense woods, it was entirely possible they’d used their old road to access their own lands—a relatively benign breach of the peace treaty, one he would not begrudge them.
But if they’d left the road to turn east, they’d be deep in Lydian territory and could sneak up on the city of Sardis itself if they traveled far enough.
Luke panted, tired from his long run through the night. It was too dark for him to try to track the boot prints through the woods, and it would be foolish for him to attempt to hunt down a dozen or more Illyrian soldiers without any men on his side. He needed to alert his brother to King Garren’s activities.
The Illyrian boot prints might be innocent enough—and Luke hoped for the sake of peace that they were. But at the same time, he wasn’t about to forget he’d seen them. He’d dispatch men to scout out the area, though he wouldn’t personally accompany them.
No, he’d given his word to Bertie that he’d help the boy and his sister escape. So whether Evelyn wanted to leave King Garren’s household or not, Luke would do what he could to fulfill his promise.
* * *
Evelyn’s thoughts raced as Omar guided her up the stairs to King Garren’s chambers. She thought about trying to escape his grasp, but with her brother still bound in the dungeon, she didn’t dare do anything rash. They’d only take out their anger on Bertie if she did.
Bertie. Her heart ached at the thought of him. That he’d been caught trying to visit the tower only made matters a thousand times worse. She shouldn’t have mentioned to her brother that she wanted to visit the tower. No doubt that’s why Bertie had returned there—either looking for her or concerned for the prince on her behalf.
Too soon Omar pounded on the wooden door to King Garren’s chambers. As she’d anticipated, her grandfather was furious about being awakened. He threw open the door and blinked at them in the sudden light from the torch Omar still carried.
“What are you doing with my granddaughter?” The king, to Evelyn’s relief, directed his initial anger at Omar.
“The prisoner has escaped.”
“Escaped! Did you sound the alarm?”
“I caught these two helping him escape.”
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Rachelle McCalla
When Evelyn tended Prince Luke of Lydia’s battle wounds, she had no idea whose life she was saving. Yet now the handsome warrior is determined to rescue her from King Garren’s fortress.Evelyn may be Garren’s granddaughter and a princess by right, but the vindictive king has forced her to pay off her father’s debts as a servant. A shared faith deepens her bond with Luke, but revealing her true identity could tear them apart and bring war to two kingdoms. Only courage and trust will help them forge a royal union where two hearts reign as one.
Her Royal Deception
When Evelyn tended Prince Luke of Lydia’s battle wounds, she had no idea whose life she was saving. Yet now the handsome warrior is determined to rescue her from King Garren’s fortress. Evelyn may be Garren’s granddaughter and a princess by right, but the vindictive king has forced her to pay off her father’s debts as a servant. A shared faith deepens her bond with Luke, but revealing her true identity could tear them apart and bring war to two kingdoms. Only courage and trust will help them forge a royal union where two hearts reign as one..
The man had survived.
Did the Illyrians know? Did her grandfather know? Either they truly believed the man had died, or they’d lied to her about his death. But why lie?
No, they must not have realized he’d escaped before the hut burned.
Evelyn pulled her hand away from the scar, though he still held her fingers in his. For the first time she examined his face in the full light of day. How could she ever have thought that any other man looked like this man? His clean-shaven jawline was strong, with a slight cleft in the middle of his chin. His nose was straight, his brow line high, intelligent, his complexion healthy, cheeks slightly flushed. And his lips…
No, she’d best not look too long at his lips.
The concern on his face slowly spread to a smile. “You recognize me?”
“Yes.” Cautious joy rose inside her as she spoke.
“I owe you for my life. Tell me, how can I repay you?”
RACHELLE McCALLA
is a mild-mannered housewife, and the toughest she ever has to get is when she’s trying to keep her four kids quiet in church. Though she often gets in over her head, as her characters do, and has to find a way out, her adventures have more to do with sorting out the car pool and providing food for the potluck. She’s never been arrested, gotten in a fistfight or been shot at. And she’d like to keep it that way! For recipes, fun background notes on the places and characters in this book, and more information on forthcoming titles, visit www.rachellemccalla.com (http://www.rachellemccalla.com/).
The Secret Princess
Rachelle McCalla
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
The one who sins is the one who will die. The child will not share the guilt of the parent, nor will the parent share the guilt of the child. The righteousness of the righteous will be credited to them, and the wickedness of the wicked will be charged against them.
—Ezekiel 18:20
Contents
Chapter One (#uadc8a51c-d0c6-561f-b5ac-4e4f4c7e9c23)
Chapter Two (#uce0dc8c7-0132-5763-b46b-7294ddbe52ba)
Chapter Three (#ue68e74cc-2a10-5182-a4ad-c2f11b62c7bd)
Chapter Four (#u598ac119-19bb-5580-a038-be70d4e4fc90)
Chapter Five (#u10dfe31a-e566-5e4e-9f01-9e3921fbf9d6)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Lydian Borderlands, AD 802, spring
The woods grew thick at the base of the mountains. Even in daylight, the branched canopy blocked out the sun, providing darkness and shadows to hide the predators of the forest: wild boar, black bears and Illyrian war scouts.
Prince Luke of Lydia crept silently through the predawn darkness with only his prayers and his wits to guide him, unable to distinguish deep shadow from deepest shadow. He found the rustle of the undergrowth and the damp scent of the rich earth far more useful navigational tools this far from Lydia. King Garren’s fortress of Fier lay in the mountains ahead, less than an hour’s walk from this valley. It was dangerous territory, but Luke had an important mission.
Spring had left winter behind. The Mursia River churned with the melting mountain snowpack behind him. The sun rose ever earlier, fading distant shadows to light, its faint illumination enough for Luke to discern the outline of the rocky outcropping he sought.
Would she come today?
Luke found a smaller boulder and sat down to wait. He’d seen the mysterious pale-haired woman in these woods the week before, near this same rocky outcropping, but in his eagerness he’d moved toward her too quickly, crackling branches beneath his feet, startling her.
She’d run off, dropping her basket in her haste. Luke had left it where it lay and prayed she’d return for the basket and the early valerian roots she’d been harvesting.
At the thought of the woman, Luke remembered the scar high above his hip, from an injury that ought to have killed him. Even his brother, the renowned healer King John, had marveled that the lengthy gash hadn’t claimed his life.
The woman had saved his life after he’d been injured in battle, sewing his injury closed before he bled to death, keeping vigil through the night to be certain the wound stayed clean and free from infection.
Luke needed to thank her, to learn her name, to see her in the clear light of day. Her features haunted his dreams. She had a beautiful, sweet face. Young. Vibrant. Hair so pale it was nearly silver.
No one else knew anything about her. He’d asked the area villagers and the soldiers who scouted these borderlands with him, but they’d never seen her. Some suggested she wasn’t young or beautiful at all, but an old hag, her hair white with age, her features distorted by the delirium of his injury. Others claimed she didn’t even exist—that his feverish mind had imagined a woman when no one was there.
But Luke knew someone had stitched his wound closed. His memories were too deep to forget, though months had passed as he’d searched in vain to find her again. Driven by his quest, he’d traveled deeper into the forest—past the borders of Lydia—into enemy territory.
The week before, he’d caught a glimpse of her through the trees and had held his breath, watching in amazement, half convinced he’d imagined her.
When she didn’t evaporate with the mist as the sun warmed the day, he’d moved closer, so focused on reaching her he’d paid little attention to the path. She must have heard the sound of his approach. For one long moment she’d lifted her head from her work and studied the woods in his direction, her face in clear view.
Beautiful.
Not an old hag. Not an apparition. She’d run with feet fleet as a deer, disappearing in the direction of Illyria, beyond the Lydian border.
He’d returned every morning since then.
Today he waited. Prayed. Songbirds roused and trilled their morning melodies as the fog lifted, mist rising up the mountain to join the clouds and the pink light of dawn.
Luke sat still, silent. He could wait all day. He’d waited most of each day since the morning he’d seen her. It made no difference. With the treaty between the Roman Empire and Constantinople, peace in the borderlands became even more important. The emperor Charlemagne had pledged to fight for Lydia if the tiny kingdom went to war against the Illyrians again. The Byzantine empress Irene had vowed to counter, supporting her Illyrian territories.
If the two empires met in war across these rugged mountains, Lydia would be trampled. His people would suffer. When the walled Lydian city of Sardis had been besieged by Illyrian forces the previous fall, Luke had ridden out to battle beside his brother King John. Both of them had been prepared to die protecting their people.
By God’s grace, it hadn’t come to that. Rab the Raider, who’d deceitfully killed Luke’s father, King Theodoric, was himself killed by his own half brother, Warrick. In the wake of the battle, Lydia, backed by Charlemagne, had forged a peace treaty with Irene of Constantinople. By those terms, the Illyrians were required to give back all the borderlands Rab the Raider had taken from Lydia.
Luke would never forget the horrors of war. He’d seen enough of battle. To keep the peace, he and his fellow soldiers roamed these lands, always alert for any activity that would indicate the Illyrians weren’t keeping their side of the treaty.
So sitting on a boulder in the forest of the foothills fit perfectly within the mission his brother had tasked him with. His job was to watch the border. The rocky outcropping was part of that border. And so he sat patiently, waiting.
A tiny wren perched somewhere above him, its song cheerful and long-winded. Suddenly the bird stopped singing.
Luke sat up straight, gripping his bow with one hand, an arrow ready. Something had startled the bird. Wolves, who prowled at night, would have returned to their dens long before this hour, but bears were common in these foothills and active at this time of day. Lynx and wildcats weren’t uncommon, though bears were a bigger threat this close to the mountains.
The wren sounded a few questioning notes, testing the air, uncertain. It fluttered to deeper cover.
Leaves rustled near the boulder. Luke could hear the sound, but whatever stirred the foliage lay on the other side of the rocks, out of sight.
Long minutes crept by as Luke pondered his next move. It could be a wild boar nosing about for mushrooms among the fallen logs. The hefty horned animals had thick hides and could run surprisingly fast. It was dangerous to meet one alone. One arrow was hardly ever enough to bring down a boar. Yet who could string a second arrow before the speedy animal struck?
The wren began to sing again, tentatively at first but gaining confidence as it continued. Luke hadn’t heard any grunting. Boars grunted. Maybe it wasn’t a boar on the other side of the rocks, then. Could it be an Illyrian war scout? Prior to the battle the previous fall, the Illyrians had been active in the area. If Luke saw their men venturing this far into Lydian territory, he’d alert his men and King John and intervene before the Illyrians could strike.
He prayed the Illyrians had better sense than to venture into Lydian territory again.
Slowly, soundlessly, Luke eased to his feet, creeping up the craggy incline where the rocks provided silent footholds. He’d be able to see better from higher ground. Besides, if the woman had returned, Luke realized he ought to try to get in between her and the route by which she’d escaped the week before. That way, if he startled her, she’d run toward him instead of away.
The wren’s song grew more exuberant. Luke smiled at the sound. The song was a happy one, but more than that, it helped to drown out any noise Luke might make as he crept around the outcropping, pausing frequently, listening, waiting.
The rustling sound continued. Rocks overhung the spot from which the sound emanated, blocking the source from Luke’s view. He paused, wishing the creature would back away far enough for him to see it, but other than the constant rustling, it made no move.
Below him the rocks gave way like a cliff. Luke weighed his options. If he dropped to the ground here, he’d almost certainly spook the creature. If it was a boar or a bear, it might charge him. If it was the woman, she might easily run away. He wanted neither of those options.
That left a long trek out of his way, following the bluff as it bent back toward the mountain. He’d have to turn his back on whatever was making the rustling sound. He’d venture far from the spot before reaching the lower elevation and making his way slowly back, giving the creature plenty of time to disappear.
He didn’t like either option, but the long trek seemed the most promising.
Cautiously, Luke crept along the rocks, ducking branches, choosing his footing carefully.
He’d nearly reached the forest floor when a solid-looking rock proved to be loose, dislodging under his foot, rattling downward as he slipped and scrambled to stay on his feet.
He grabbed for support, clenched a branch in his hand and steadied himself.
The wren stopped singing. The rustling ceased, as well.
Luke froze, held his breath and waited.
Something bolted from the base of the rocks. Unsure whether it was friend or foe, Luke ran for the path, hoping to intercept it, praying it wasn’t a predator. He reached the path and faced the oncoming sound, its source still hidden by the thick brush that edged the winding route. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he raised the weapon and took aim, ready to shoot the moment the animal appeared.
A woman cleared the bend in the path, her lovely face white with fear, hair mostly hidden by a headscarf that was coming loose, revealing a glimpse of pale hair.
He’d found her.
The woman screamed.
Luke lowered his bow.
She stood close enough for him to see the arresting blue of her eyes, her white teeth evenly matched as she panted, looking about for an alternate route of escape, the way blocked by dense brush and brambles.
“Good morning.” He took a step closer. “I didn’t mean to—”
She yelped, covered her face with one arm and ducked into the bushes.
“Please!” Luke dived after her. He couldn’t let her get away, not without learning her name. He needed to thank her. He needed to apologize.
Spiny branches tore at his leather habergeon, grabbing at the quiver of arrows on his back. Luke tucked his bow under his arm and plowed forward, but the woman ahead of him had the advantage of smaller size and a decent head start. Eyes half-closed, arm up to protect his face, he followed the sound of her retreat, calling after her to please stop.
The sound of her flight stopped without warning. Fearing he’d lost her, Luke charged on, relieved when he caught sight of her pale brown headdress and faded gray skirt ahead of him. She’d stopped running and stood utterly still, facing away from him, staring at something ahead of her.
Luke looked past her to the spot that held her attention.
A bear.
Full grown, claws raised, half a charge away and angry.
Luke froze. Once the animal realized they meant no harm, it should lumber off to its den and leave them alone. It stared at the woman, seemingly unaware that Luke had burst forth from the woods behind her. If the bear charged, it would charge at her. She was far too close to it already.
The bear lowered its claws. Luke almost thought the animal might be about to shuffle off, but instead it lunged forward, headed straight toward the woman.
Luke had sighted his arrow in an instant, knowing he’d likely get only one shot. The woman turned and ran, the bear too close, running too fast behind her.
Luke let loose the arrow and fit another to his string without waiting to see how well the first had flown. He raised it and saw to his relief that the bear had stopped running, though it hadn’t fallen. Snarling, the animal raised its head and swiped at the arrow that pierced its neck.
As the bear reared up, Luke shot again, this time sinking the arrow deep in the fur of the animal’s chest. The bear slumped to the ground.
The woman had run off.
Luke took off in the direction in which he’d seen her disappear. He couldn’t lose her, not now, when he’d come so close after such a long search. He rounded a clump of bushes, hoping to catch sight of her far ahead, but she’d turned, looking back at the fallen bear.
She spun toward him as he burst through the bushes.
Fear flashed across her face, but she didn’t scream this time.
“Please don’t run.” He extended one hand in a peaceful gesture.
The woman watched him warily, her mouth open slightly, the fear in her eyes fading to something akin to recognition.
Surely she had to recognize him. She’d saved his life. He recognized her, and he’d been on the brink of death, hardly conscious while she’d sewn his side back together.
“I shot the bear,” he assured her, glancing back to see the bundle of black fur still unmoving in the clearing beyond. The bear had been poised to strike, one swipe away from defacing the woman’s beauty forever. She ought to realize that he’d helped her, even if it was his fault for frightening her into a run toward the bear in the first place.
But when he turned to face her again, she only shook her head.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” Luke began, but the woman cut him off, talking rapidly in a language he didn’t recognize.
It wasn’t Illyrian. It certainly wasn’t Lydian, nor was it Latin. As second in line to the throne of Lydia, Luke was fluent in those three languages.
If anything, the woman’s words sounded like the Frankish tongue Luke’s sister-in-law, Gisela, had spoken as a child. She’d taught him a few words, but that had been weeks and weeks ago. He tried frantically to remember.
“Peace,” he said, cringing as he butchered the accent.
But the woman stopped talking and listened.
“Peace,” he repeated, his inflection perhaps a little better that time. Try as he might, he could only remember one other word. “Cheese.”
The woman made a face, half uncertain, half amused.
“Sorry, that’s all I know,” he confessed in Lydian, then repeated the Frankish words. “Peace. Cheese.”
The woman laughed, her eyes alight.
Luke sighed with relief, though questions filled him. What was this Frankish woman doing here on the borderlands between Lydia and Illyria? Her heritage explained her pale blond hair, a rarity in their part of the world, but her background raised more questions than it answered.
“You are good with languages.” The woman spoke in halting Illyrian. “Do you know any Illyrian?”
“Yes.” Relieved, he switched to the familiar language of his enemies, chastising himself for not trying the tongue sooner in his excitement. “Do you recognize me?”
She looked away, glancing to the carcass of the bear lying still in the clearing, then back in the direction of the village of Bern, where she’d saved his life. She stared that way for some time, not looking at him, nibbling at her lower lip uncertainly. Her dress was coarse, patched, befitting a woman of low station. A puzzle, indeed, for rarely did women of low station travel far beyond their homelands...unless they’d been sold as slaves.
He couldn’t bear the thought that the woman who’d saved him might be owned by someone else—not when he had the means to buy her freedom.
“You saved my life.” He stepped forward tentatively, fearing she might bolt again. “Please allow me to repay you.”
But the woman shuffled backward away from him, shaking her head, her face pale again. “No,” she whispered, “no.”
* * *
Evelyn rubbed her eyes, blinked, looked at the man again. She had to be dreaming. She had to be. She’d dreamed of him plenty of times before, but this dream was different. She was certainly awake this time. This dream felt real.
“You are not the man I helped,” she told him frankly, looking him full in the face and denying the way her heart leaped inside her. Granted, this stranger looked like the soldier she’d sewn together, but plenty of other men looked like him, too, at least at first glance. She’d stared at other men for months, thinking she’d seen him, then feeling foolish for hoping to find him alive knowing she couldn’t possibly see him ever again.
He was dead. He’d died. Her efforts had failed, and the enemy had returned. In the battle that had erupted, the hut where he’d been sleeping had burned to the ground. There’d been nothing left of him but charred bones and ashes.
She’d prayed there had been some mistake. But though her hope-filled eyes had spotted plenty of men who resembled him from afar, on closer inspection none of them were as handsome as the soldier.
“I am,” the man insisted, stepping closer.
Evelyn stumbled backward. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but she didn’t like it. “You can’t be. That man died.”
He stopped advancing, scowled, reached for his shirt. “I’m not dead. You saved my life. I can show you my scar.”
A wall of brambles prevented her from retreating further, so Evelyn turned her head and pinched her eyes shut. She couldn’t see, wouldn’t look, refused to resurrect the grief she’d felt at his death. It hadn’t ever made any sense, anyway, why the death of a stranger should tear so deeply at her heart. Her prayers for his recovery had gone unanswered, but her disappointment shouldn’t have been any deeper than what she felt daily, reduced to the status of a lowly servant in her grandfather’s household.
God hadn’t rescued her from her position. Why did it hurt her heart so much that God had failed to save the soldier? Sorrow had stung her deeply when she’d heard of his death. Thoughts of him could drive her to tears even still. She certainly wasn’t going to revisit those raw emotions, not in front of this stranger. She kept her eyes closed, her head turned away as she sought to control the sadness that rose up inside her.
The sun had warmed the day, and the wren that had sung to her as she’d dug valerian roots hopped closer, singing exuberantly again.
Fingers brushed her hand, the light touch so shocking she nearly screamed again.
“Please.” His voice was low, gentle, far too close to her. “I owe you for my life. What can I do to repay you?”
She shook her head and kept her eyes closed tight. “You are not that man. That man died.”
“How do you know he died?”
“They showed me the charred bones and ashes. There was a battle. The hut burned.”
“The hut didn’t burn. Or maybe it did, but I was gone by then.”
“You were too weak to walk.”
“My men helped me out.”
“Your men?” She peeked back at him, assessing his clothing, trying to determine his rank. He spoke with words that would indicate he had soldiers serving under him. But then, her grasp of the Illyrian language was tentative at best. Surely she’d misunderstood. His dress was no different than a common woodsman’s, not even that of a soldier.
But the man she’d tried to save had been similarly dressed, and they’d told her he was a soldier—and an important one. They’d wanted him to live so they could use him as a tool for bargaining.
She had studied his face in the firelight as she’d prayed for God’s mercy on his life and wondered then what made the man so important that they’d threaten her, a life for a life. If she failed to save him, they’d promised to kill her. When she learned the fire had killed him, she’d half expected to die then, but it hadn’t been her fault, so they’d let her live.
Besides, with her knowledge of healing, she was useful to her grandfather, even if he purposely gave her the hardest, most demeaning jobs at the fortress as she worked to pay off the infinite debt her father owed him.
Fingers brushed her hand again. She froze and pinched her eyes more tightly shut.
He cupped his hand over hers and drew her arm toward him, settling her fingers over the scar. “Do you recognize your handiwork?”
She opened her eyes cautiously, looked at the scar, blinked and inspected it more closely.
He’d been cut from just above his navel to his ribs, saved only by the thick wall of muscle that had kept his organs from being spilled. The scar followed the exact line, etched with feathered strokes marking each neat stitch.
Yes, she recognized her handiwork. She’d prayed over each stitch, over each carefully chosen herb she’d pressed to the wound to ward away infection and speed his healing.
The man had survived.
Did the Illyrians know? Did her grandfather know? Either they truly believed the man had died, or they’d lied to her about his death. But why lie?
No, they must not have realized he’d escaped before the hut burned.
She pulled her hand away from the scar, though he still held her fingers in his. For the first time she examined his face in the full light of day. How could she ever have thought that any other man looked like this man? His clean-shaven jawline was strong with a slight cleft in the middle in his chin. His nose was straight, his brow line high, intelligent, his complexion healthy, cheeks slightly flushed. And his lips...
No, she’d best not look too long at his lips.
The concern on his face slowly spread to a smile. “You recognize me?”
“Yes.” Cautious joy rose inside her as she spoke.
“I owe you for my life. Tell me, how can I repay you?”
Evelyn thought quickly, her happiness at finding him alive tempered by fear for his continued safety. Her grandfather, King Garren, had wanted this man alive so he could barter his life for political gain. He thought the man was dead. If the king learned that the man had lived, he’d only try to capture him again to keep him prisoner or, worse yet, to exact his vengeance for the lands Illyria had lost to the kingdom of Lydia.
She couldn’t let that happen. And yet, this close to the fortress of Fier, he could easily be spotted, recognized and reported to her grandfather. Her mind made up, she met his eyes as she made her request. She’d lost him once before, and it had grieved her in ways she still didn’t understand. She couldn’t risk harm coming to him again.
“You must leave this area immediately and never return.”
Chapter Two
Luke stared at the woman, unable to understand. Perhaps his grasp of the Illyrian language wasn’t all he thought it to be, or maybe the woman hadn’t realized what she was saying. But he still had hold of her hand. “Leave?”
“When you were wounded, they wanted you alive for bargaining. King Garren thinks you’re dead. If he learns otherwise, he’ll capture you again.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading.
“But there’s a peace accord—”
“A highly resented peace accord.” The woman pulled her hand free of his. “Which King Garren would get out of if he could. He wants these borderlands back—he speaks of little else. If he had a hostage of rank, he could bargain again. I don’t know who you are, but I know you’re important to them—”
“You don’t know who I am?” Luke felt a ripple of surprise. Surely the woman had only attended to his injuries out of deference to his position. His brother had said as much—his wound was a mortal one; any healer worth anything wouldn’t have wasted time on one past saving. This woman had stood in the gap between life and death and fought for him tirelessly. Why would she do that if she didn’t know who he was?
“I don’t,” she repeated, then kept on with her insistence. “But if the king thinks he can use you to regain some of what he’s lost, they’ll take you prisoner—”
“How do you know this?”
“King Garren is in residence at the fortress of Fier.”
So, despite more comfortable holdings farther inland, Garren chose to reside near the Lydian border. Why? Garren had tried to trick the Lydians before. Luke wouldn’t put it past the man to try something again. Especially if what the woman said was true. “He resents the peace accords?”
“He lost a great deal of land and some degree of standing—”
“But he’s gained peace. Isn’t that worth the sacrifice of some bear-infested woods?” He looked back at the furry carcass, which lay still in the sunlight. The woods were dangerous and unproductive, save for berries, roots and lumber. The hunting was fair, but few ventured this deep into the forest to hunt when fine stags could be gotten much closer to the villages. Lumber grew there in abundance, more than either kingdom needed. What use could King Garren possibly have for the land?
“I—” The woman stopped, her lips pursed, open slightly, lovely as any flower in bloom. “I think peace is worth sacrifice, but King Garren is a greedy and prideful man.”
Luke wished he still had hold of the lovely woman’s hand. She valued peace? Of course she did; women often did. But to speak openly against the Illyrian king, and to a stranger...she must be a woman of courage. But then, any woman who’d venture into these treacherous woods had to be brave. Or desperate.
She looked up. “The sun grows higher in the sky. I must be getting back.” She stepped away from him.
He stepped after her. “I will accompany you.”
“No.”
“There are dangerous bears—”
“Did you hear nothing of what I just said? Flee from this place if you value your freedom, and do not return.” She continued past him, ducking through the brambles toward the path.
Luke bent low to follow her. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
“It doesn’t matter. You shan’t ever see me again.”
“But I must. I owe you for my life.” He reached for her hand, but she was too quick for him. Already she’d navigated the brambles and reached the path, scurrying away.
“You asked me to make a request, and I have. If you value your life, you’ll leave these woods at once.” She broke into a full run, darting under branches, vaulting fallen logs, her basket swinging in one hand as she held her patched skirt with the other.
Luke hesitated. She seemed distressed by the late hour. If she was a slave, she might be punished for returning late to her work. He would do her no service by detaining her further.
He needed to ponder his next move.
Besides, he had already learned much. He knew the pale-haired woman was real, that she lived within the local Illyrian fortress of Fier. The stronghold was perched high among the mountains, its rocky walls gray as the rocks from which it sprang, draped in clouds for much of the year, a harsh place where many wars had been plotted.
He knew she cared enough about him to warn him away, though she did not know who he was.
Intriguing.
As a prince, second in line to the Lydian throne, he wasn’t used to anonymity, not even in these woods, where he dressed to blend in. All his men knew him. The Lydian villagers knew him.
But the pale-haired woman didn’t know him, and yet she’d saved his life. She’d warned him away from this place, though she might have profited greatly by turning him in. Indeed, she seemed more concerned about keeping him safe than pleasing her master.
Why?
* * *
Evelyn ran, stopping frequently to look behind her. There was no sign of the man, but she knew he was stealthy. He’d snuck up on her so quietly that morning, it was almost as though he’d been waiting for her there. But why would he do that?
The thought slowed her steps, as did the memory of his face, the touch of his hand, the smile that had played at his lips as he’d spoken. Truly, she’d been drawn to him while he’d lain at death’s door, bloody and grimy from battle. To see him standing at his full height, his cheeks flush with health, sweet words on his lips...her heart might burst.
He was alive!
That alone was enough to lighten her steps, no matter what other burdens she still carried. True, she worked as a lowly servant in the household of her grandfather, the king. And yes, King Garren had sworn she’d labor in his household until she’d worked off all of her deceased father’s debt—which meant she’d be bound to this place for the rest of her life and still die indebted.
But the soldier she’d tended to had lived after all. God had answered that prayer. Perhaps God would free her from her servitude or give her little brother, Bertie, an opportunity to escape this place he so despised and return to their homeland in the Holy Roman Empire.
Evelyn arrived at the kitchen exhausted and found the room abandoned. Of course the cook would have snuck off again, probably to drink or to go back to bed after rising early to make breakfast. From the looks of the washbasins, she hadn’t begun cleanup.
Grabbing a wooden tub, Evelyn hurried to the dining hall, where flies had found the remains of the meal. Embers in the fireplace burned low, and Evelyn hurried to stoke them. The breakfast cleanup could wait. If she let the fire burn out, they’d task her with getting another started in the drafty hearth—she’d done that and come away with a blackened face enough times to know she didn’t want to struggle with the smoke and soot again.
“Biddy!” her grandfather bellowed from the doorway. He refused to use her given name, instead labeling her with a word that meant “chicken.” If she showed her displeasure or hesitated to answer to the name, the king would only mock her, squawking and calling for her as if calling the hens to feed.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She spun hastily around and dropped into a low curtsy, ankles crossed as she’d been taught. The man was quite particular. He’d kicked her feet out from under her many times before she’d learned the move to his satisfaction.
“This room is a disgrace. Where have you been?” His dark beard, streaked with gray, bobbed above his stout belly as he spoke.
“I found the roots I need to make you tea. It will soothe your stomach and help you sleep better.”
Her grandfather’s fury subsided only slightly. “Brew me the tea, then. But first clean up this room.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsied again, then grabbed her tub and cleared the tables, separating the scraps for the pigs. For all her grandfather’s power, his household was poorly run. He cared only about all things military—weapons, fighting, the ranks of men who lived in barracks at the base of the mountain. An imposing wall of stone and armor, the fortifications encircled the south and west sides of the mountain from cliff face to cliff face. Her grandfather boasted that his fortress had never been taken.
“Who would even want it?” she murmured to herself as she fought a dog for a plate, tossing the animal a ham bone in exchange for the dish. The castle was rough, cold and dark—nothing like the palaces back home in the Frankish lands of the Holy Roman Empire. She thought of their polished limestone walls gleaming in the sunlight, their arched windows and symmetrical towers. The buildings were well-proportioned works of art.
Fier was a military outpost and little more. No place for a lady. King Garren’s wife had died years before, and his only daughter, Rosalind, was sixteen—old enough that she ought to be well trained already in household management, but there was no one to teach her. Evelyn could have done it, having been raised in a noble household in the north, but her grandfather wouldn’t begrudge her the esteem that would come with that position. She’d done her best to help the girl learn how to be a lady, but Rosalind’s only interest in learning had been instruction in letters. Evelyn had taught her to read but little else.
Evelyn carried the full tub back to the kitchen. Still no sign of the kitchen girls. They were most likely getting into mischief with Bertie and Rosalind. Without the head cook to bully them into working, they often snuck away to amuse themselves elsewhere. And it was always more work to go find them than to simply do their work for them.
Disgusted, Evelyn dumped the remains of the meal into a bucket and made another trip to the dining hall for more scraps. Fortunately, the dogs had finished off the bulk of it, so there wasn’t much left to clear.
By the time she’d wiped the tables clean and washed and hung the valerian roots to dry near the fire so she could crush them later for her grandfather’s tea, Evelyn had determined the girls would never return to slop the pigs. If the scraps weren’t carried out soon, they’d attract more flies and the dogs would finish them off. That left her to do the job. She slipped her feet, still secure in her leather shoes, into thick-wooden-soled pattens, tying on the protective if clumsy footwear and picking up the bucket.
* * *
Luke arrived at Fier with the fresh bear hide folded over his shoulders. It was a fine bearskin, not yet molted for summer, probably a yearling bear, the fur unscarred and not too rough. A fitting gift for a king, not that Garren deserved a gift.
Still, Luke wanted to stay in the king’s good graces, especially if, as the pale-haired woman had said, King Garren resented the peace accord between their kingdoms. Besides that, Luke had left his horse at the outpost with his men. Fier was closer to where he’d killed the bear, and the skin was heavy. He didn’t want to carry it any farther than he had to.
That was the excuse he gave himself for bringing the hide east instead of west. Luke should investigate King Garren’s resentment of the peace treaty, and what better way to do so than with a sudden unannounced visit? If Luke caught the king off guard, he might discover far more than if he gave the crafty leader time to plan ahead.
And the pale-haired woman was somewhere in the fortress. She’d saved his life, and he had yet to learn her name. After seeking her for so long, he couldn’t bear to let her simply run away, not without at least trying to follow. She drew him as fire drew fluttering moths.
The men at the gate of the base fortifications looked somewhat surprised to see him, but they recognized him and didn’t try to stop him, instead simply waving him in. Luke had considered the woman’s warning, but it was absurd, really. King Garren knew better than to attempt to take him prisoner, especially given that Garren’s son Warrick was currently a guest inside the walls of Castlehead in Lydia—a visit both diplomatic and personal. Warrick had become engaged to Luke’s sister, Elisabette. The two were smitten with one another, and Warrick often visited their castle.
If Garren attempted to hold Luke against his will, King John could retaliate and hold Warrick for exchange. Surely Garren understood that any assault against Luke would endanger his own son and heir. The pale-haired woman failed to understand the complexities of the political situation. There was no threat against him here.
Rather, her warning made him determined to learn for himself Garren’s thoughts on the peace accord. The Illyrian king had deceived them too many times before. His word could not be trusted. Was the king plotting to take back the borderlands Illyria had ceded? If so, the Royal House of Lydia needed to know, and the fastest way to find out was for Luke to visit in person.
Luke was a prince. The pale-haired woman didn’t seem to know that, but as such, he was practically untouchable. He was certain that Garren would not be so foolish as to risk starting another war, not with Rome and Constantinople obliged to defend their provinces.
Luke located the main palace but found the great hall deserted. He left the bearskin on a bench, added a few logs to the sputtering fire, then decided to take a look around.
He found valerian roots hung to dry in the kitchen and recognized the pale-haired woman’s basket. She had to be nearby, then. But where? He looked out the back door in time to see her clomping in clogs across the yard, carrying a heavy pail.
Luke grinned at the sight of her slender figure, her long pale hair trailing in a pair of messy braids speckled with leaves and bits of twigs from her flight through the forest. Rather than risk startling her, he followed her quietly.
* * *
Evelyn hated carrying the slop to the pigs. The creatures were nearly large enough to slaughter, though the lean winter had left them hungry too often. Pigs were dangerous when they were hungry. They’d eat anything, alive or dead, even their own young. She’d known men missing ears and fingers from getting too close to hungry pigs. Though a stone wall separated the swine from the rest of the castle yard, their muck had seeped to the mud beyond the wall, making the ground all around dangerously slippery.
Evelyn tromped toward their enclosure, sticky mud threatening to suck the cumbersome pattens from her feet. The heavy bucket only made it that much more difficult to walk. Perhaps she ought to have split the scraps into two loads, but that would have meant making two trips or carrying the buckets on a yoke on her shoulder, which made navigating the narrow gaps between buildings even more challenging. And besides that, the yoke hurt.
The bucket handle cut into her hands and Evelyn shifted the weight. She could smell the pigpen long before she could see it, the odor sharp enough to sting her eyes. Rather than think about it, she pictured the man from the forest, his broad shoulders, his bright smile. The memory was enough to make her chores tolerable and even bring a smile to her lips. God had preserved the man’s life, after all. Perhaps God would see fit to free her from her servitude.
Evelyn reached the stone wall and balanced the bucket on the edge. The trough below on the other side had been licked nearly clean by the hungry animals, with nothing left but a slimy film of splattered mud and pig filth. Grasping the handle, she tipped the pail.
A large hog got his feet up in the trough, nosing the bucket so that it nearly tipped backward. Evelyn caught it before the contents spilled, lifting it high, almost above her head, out of reach of the ravenous pig. More animals swarmed toward her, climbing onto the trough, fighting to get close to the bucket.
Evelyn shoved one hand under the base of the pail, held the slippery handle tight in her other fist and swung the whole thing forward, tipping it toward the pigs.
With a grunt, one tusk-nosed swine clambered into the trough and perched its forelegs atop the stone wall. Evelyn tried to back away, but the heavy pail swung forward, its momentum too much for her in the slippery mud.
She had nothing to hold on to. The pig got a mouthful of the loose fabric of her apron. The creature pulled her toward the wall, the trough, the pen. Evelyn scrambled for a foothold in the slippery mud. She screamed, but the pigs only squealed that much louder. No longer concerned about the bucket, she flung it toward the trough, hoping the pigs would take the bait and leave her alone.
But the momentum of her toss carried her forward. She pushed away, batting at the hog in front of her, praying it would move back instead of biting off her fingers.
The swine saw the bucket and turned its back to her just as Evelyn, all balance lost in the slimy mud, toppled screaming into the trough after him. The pigs saw her fall and turned. Evelyn tried to stand to leap out of the way, but her hands and feet slipped, the slick muck resisting her grip as the swine advanced.
Evelyn felt a tug on the back of her dress. For an instant she feared a pig had gotten behind her and taken a bite, but strong arms pulled her up and back and set her dripping in the mud. She looked about for her pattens and saw them in the trough—a lost cause, as the pigs were already eating them. Then she looked up at her rescuer.
The man from the forest stood over her, the bright sunlight setting his tanned skin nearly aglow. Somehow he’d managed to lift her out without getting any muck on himself. In fact, other than the stain of fresh blood that colored his habergeon, he looked clean and fresh.
Evelyn looked down at her dress, which was caked with the most awful stench of filth. She felt her cheeks flame red—not just because he’d seen her lowly servant’s state but because he’d witnessed her fall. But her horror ran far deeper than that.
“What are you doing here?” She looked around quickly but saw no one. Perhaps there was still time for him to escape unseen, before he was captured. “You must leave immediately.”
The man shrugged off her concern. “I have yet to learn your name.”
“You won’t learn it here.” She resigned herself to ruining her shoes in the mud. They were half-ruined already, and the man’s safety was a far greater concern than her shoes. “Follow me. This way.” If they hurried, she might be able to sneak him out the postern gate before anyone realized he was among them. She took a few steps in that direction, then looked back to find he hadn’t budged.
And she’d finally made it out of the deepest mud. She wasn’t fain to tromp back through it again. “Please—whoever you are. I’m trying to help you.”
The man shook his head, looking far too sure of himself, his air dangerously confident.
She took a reluctant step back toward him. “I saved your life once before—you said you owed me for that. Do me this one favor, then, and follow me.”
Her words penetrated the armor of his self-assurance. The man tipped his head, signaling deference to her, and moved toward her around the worst of the muck.
Relief gripped her with such a strong hold she wondered at the ferocity of its power. She told herself her reason for helping him was no different than it had ever been, but her heart betrayed another reason. Did she care about him?
As one Christian cared for another. That was all. Surely that was all. Whatever prayers she’d prayed for his recovery, the man was impossibly stubborn. Once she got rid of him, she’d do well to forget all about him. What was he thinking, coming here after she’d done her best to warn him away? The man must be daft.
She slipped into the narrow pathway between the stables and the rear wall. To her relief, the man quickly joined her, though she realized an instant too late the space was barely wide enough to accommodate both of them.
He stood so close she could smell the clean scent of the woods on him even over the odor of the pigs that clung in dripping mud to her clothes. Evelyn told herself her embarrassment didn’t matter nearly as much as the man’s safety. Still, she wished she didn’t smell so awful.
“The postern gate is this way.” She pointed eastward along the wall. “I’ll take you as far as the gate and watch to be sure you escape safely, but I can’t risk being seen helping you escape.”
“I don’t believe that’s necessary.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
Evelyn looked up at him, distracted by her wonder that he lived, that he was here talking to her, close enough to touch. His white teeth flashed in the sunlight as he spoke, framed by that smile that was almost a smirk. What had he said? “What’s not necessary?”
“Endangering yourself for me. I came to see King Garren. He’ll receive me.”
“He’ll imprison you.”
“That would be politically unwise.”
Evelyn opened her mouth to assure the man that many of the king’s decisions could be described as such. In fact, King Garren tended toward unwise decisions as a rule. But before she could speak, a familiar scream rang out from the kitchen.
“Cook.” Evelyn saw the man’s concerned question clearly on his face. “Probably saw a large rat or—”
“A bear!” The cook’s shrill scream echoed against the stone walls.
“—a bear,” Evelyn finished.
“My bear.” The man turned back toward the great hall.
“You brought—?” Evelyn started to ask, then realized the answer. “The pelt?”
“With the head,” he explained, quickly skirting the worst slime of the barnyard. “It adds value.”
Evelyn’s stomach swirled with sickening fear as she followed him back to the kitchen and through to the great hall. There was no stopping him—he’d gotten too much of a head start, and he was vastly bigger than she was. Even if she threw herself on him to stop him, she’d only succeed in smearing him with pigs’ muck. The man seemed determined to walk straight into danger.
Perhaps if he was so determined, she ought to let him do as he pleased. He could find out for himself the wisdom of her warnings. She adopted that approach often enough with her brother, Bertie—not that he ever seemed to learn, no matter what chastisements he brought upon himself.
Evelyn entered the great hall behind the man to find a crowd converging around the pelt. The bear sat atop a bench in a heap, its teeth bared, the head balanced above clawed paws in such a way that even if Cook had not smelled heavily of drink, she might nonetheless have been excused for thinking it a live bear.
Certainly some of King Garren’s men looked determined to give the creature wide berth.
The man from the woods stepped boldly toward it, grasped it by one furry shoulder, and unfurled it gracefully, the furry hide rippling impressively in spite of the lack of light in the hall.
“Oh!” Cook shuddered and hid her eyes.
King Garren bellowed a laugh, his mood considerably better than it had been during Evelyn’s encounter with him earlier that morning.
“A gift for you, King Garren.” The man bowed with a flourish and held out the weighty pelt. “A symbol of Lydia’s commitment to peace in the borderlands. Any threat to the peace between us shall be similarly—” the man paused a moment, eyes twinkling “—disemboweled.”
Still chortling, King Garren advanced with one hand outstretched cautiously, as though the hollow creature might bite him yet. He felt the fur, relaxing visibly when the animal made no move to attack. “Quite the surprise, Prince Luke—your visit and your gift.”
Evelyn shuffled backward toward the kitchen, her heart hammering inside her. Prince Luke? She recognized the name—the man had been discussed often enough in the great hall, though from the words she’d overheard, she’d expected an awful half demon of a man. But the figure holding the bear pelt spoke eloquently and graciously, visibly charming King Garren, who was not easily charmed.
“You’ll join us for a luncheon banquet in honor of your visit.” King Garren’s words weren’t presented as a question. Evelyn’s heart sank at the invitation, her eyes still riveted on the prince. Cook was in no condition to prepare a banquet, certainly not on such short notice. Evelyn would have to do most of the work herself, but first she’d run to find the serving girls—she’d need all the help she could get.
“Gladly.” Luke accepted the invitation with a slight bow, a sign of deference to the host.
Evelyn could only stare as she continued to back toward the kitchen doorway to find the servant girls. This man was Prince Luke? His behavior was certainly princely, even if his garments were those of a woodsman. She’d suspected him to be a nobleman of some rank, given her grandfather’s insistence that she save his life when he’d lain injured in the hut in the woodland village.
But a prince! He’d touched her hand. He’d pulled her out of the pigpen. Embarrassment scratched its way up from the pit of her stomach to her throat. He’d seen her covered in muck. How could she face him again?
“Biddy!” King Garren shrieked in that awful, goading tone he’d surely perfected with the sole intent of humiliating her.
She’d have dived out of sight if there had been anywhere to hide, but she was only halfway to the kitchen and the crowd still hovered near the bearskin across the room. There was nothing for it but to respond, or she’d find herself chastised in front of the prince.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” She crossed her ankles and curtsied.
“Bring the prince a drink.”
Evelyn nodded, risking the briefest glance at the prince in time to see him staring at her, his mouth set in a grim line that looked distinctly displeased.
Chapter Three
Evelyn hurried away, her ears burning with shame. If only God had seen fit to free her from her servitude before the prince had arrived to witness her humiliation.
And what was he doing in Fier? King Garren hated the man—no matter that he smiled charmingly now. He had ranted many times against the rulers of Lydia, especially since the peace treaty barred him from the borderlands. Though he greeted the prince warmly today, King Garren could be as deceptive as any thief.
As Evelyn searched the shelves for the best cup, she couldn’t help wondering if Prince Luke was as great a deceiver as King Garren. She might have hoped that as a Christian, the Lydian would be an honest man, but her experiences with royals in the region had taught her they weren’t to be trusted. What was the Lydian prince up to?
For his sake, she hoped he had a plan. Otherwise Prince Luke should not be here, certainly not alone and unguarded. She’d tried to warn him away when she’d thought him merely a soldier of mysterious importance. But if this man really was a prince of the Lydian people, then he was in even more danger than she’d originally thought.
Evelyn tried to stay in the kitchen, but Cook was not up to serving the meal, and the serving girls, once she finally found them, weren’t much help. Judging by the way they gawked and giggled, the girls found the visiting prince quite handsome.
It didn’t surprise her that her grandfather had invited the prince to dinner. How better to entrap the nobleman than to get him to let down his guard over the course of the banquet? No doubt King Garren realized Luke was strong enough to fight off half a dozen soldiers at once if they tried to pounce. No, her grandfather was a crafty man—spineless and deceitful, but cunning when it came to deception.
The best Evelyn could hope for was to go unnoticed, to follow the prince’s movements closely and see where her grandfather chose to imprison him. If she knew the king—and after five years in his household, she knew him well—he’d put the prince in the tallest tower. It was either that or the dungeon, but it would be vastly easier to trick the prince into walking up than down. Then it would be only a matter of getting the door locked securely after him.
She hovered near the hearth with the excuse of stoking the fire, listening carefully as the prince casually asked her grandfather a series of prying questions—about the size of his army and cavalry, his contact with Constantinople, his feelings about the peace accord.
She noted the king downplayed the number of men he had trained and ready, stationed on this very mountainside. Prince Luke’s right eyebrow twitched upward slightly, the only indication that he doubted Garren’s claims, unnoticed by the king, who had always had trouble making eye contact when lying.
Though she found herself almost impressed by Prince Luke’s insightful questions, the fact that he’d asked so boldly only increased her fear for his safety and her confusion over his intentions. The prince seemed to be up to something. Was he spying on them? Distracting them while his men launched a surprise attack? Either he knew what he was doing, in which case he should be feared, or he was unaware of King Garren’s hate for him, too ignorant to be properly afraid. Surely her grandfather wouldn’t let the man spy on them so blatantly, then return to Lydia unopposed to report on what he’d learned.
Concerned, she loitered near the fire, listening, watching, hoping to determine the prince’s motives. That and, of course, she needed to be ready to remove plates and mop up messes quickly without her grandfather calling for her again and further embarrassing her in front of the prince. As she stood there alert and listening, she had time to observe Prince Luke, his bearing regal, his shoulders impossibly wide above his slim hips, his hair an ebony mane above his jet-black brows.
It was no wonder the serving girls thought him handsome. Far more than his appearance, however, Evelyn was curious about his beliefs. The Lydians were renowned for their Christian faith—a marked contrast to Garren’s pagan household. Evelyn had met few Christians since her father had taken her and Bertie from the Holy Roman Empire following their mother’s death. She would have loved to ask Luke questions about his beliefs, but that would require getting close enough for him to smell the pig slime still on her clothes.
“Biddy!”
Evelyn nearly jumped when her grandfather bellowed, and she tried not to let her embarrassment show as she presented herself, dropped to a deep curtsy and began clearing away the dishes at her grandfather’s orders. When she dared to look up, she saw Prince Luke watching her, his intelligent eyes noting everything.
He’d seen her hauling slop for pigs. He’d watched her answer to Biddy. Would he listen to her if she tried to help him again? Most likely not. She marveled that he could see her at all. Most often the serving girls were considered more a part of the palace structure than the household, more a utensil for serving than a human with feelings. A serving girl only ever took orders. She never gave them, not even if she was secretly the granddaughter of the king.
“We need this table cleared, and bring us more light!” Her grandfather gulped one breath between barking orders at her and calling to his men to bring him maps.
Evelyn grabbed the plates from the table and hurried to fetch candles, which were reserved for only special occasions. There was every chance her grandfather might berate her for choosing to use them when he hadn’t specifically asked her to, but if she brought him a torch instead, he might just as likely chide her for not choosing the candles.
To her relief her grandfather said nothing to her as she placed the lit candles in their holders. His attention was instead on the maps being spread out on the table in front of him. Already he quizzed the prince on the exact placement of the borders between them.
As Evelyn scraped plates near the kitchen door, she kept her ears alert to the sound of King Garren’s voice and so heard him suggest Prince Luke accompany him to the highest tower—to view the borders they spoke of, or so he claimed. Much as she’d have liked to follow after them, she had her hands full in the kitchen, and anyway, they’d smell her coming.
Though she resented trickery, she hoped for Prince Luke’s sake that the Lydian nobleman was up to something. Otherwise he’d find himself quickly outmaneuvered.
* * *
Luke followed King Garren down the dark, twisting hallways, paying attention to every curve and fork so he could find his way back—alone if necessary. He noticed that Garren had whispered something to a couple of his guards, who now trailed behind them. Luke was distinctly aware that he was outnumbered and surrounded and no longer had the added security of a crowd of witnesses to contradict any story Garren might invent.
Though Luke was not by nature a fearful person, the woman they called Biddy had warned him Garren might be up to something, and Luke knew enough about the man to be always on his guard around him. After all, King Garren’s illegitimate son, Rab the Raider, had killed Luke’s father, King Theodoric of Lydia, through deceptive trickery.
King Theodoric’s death had left Luke a grieving orphan. Surely he’d learned enough through that loss not to trust King Garren.
And yet, as they climbed the twisting stairs that led upward to the tower, Luke realized his thoughts were still focused on the pale-haired woman and the mystery of her identity. Though Luke had done his best to keep his attention on King Garren, all through dinner he’d watched the woman at her work, noting the way she kept her distance, darting in silently and unobtrusively, and the way she kept the king’s glass and plate full so he wouldn’t have to ask for anything.
The woman had a quiet dignity about her and a graceful way of carrying herself that was uncommon among servants. Even with her rag of a dress encrusted with pig muck, she was beautiful. For long months he’d feared his feverish mind had invented her or embellished her appearance.
To his amazement he found her to be more impressive than he’d first observed, for not only was she lovely to look upon, but her disposition and demeanor were just as attractive. In spite of King Garren’s harsh shouting, the woman neither shouted back nor hung her head, but simply did as she was asked quickly and efficiently, with such grace it caused his breath to catch in his throat.
They reached the top of the tower, and Garren held the thick wooden door open, gesturing for Luke to pass through. “The window to your left affords the best view of the lands in question,” the king told him.
Luke crossed the small round room and peered out through the indicated open-air stone frame. “Ah, yes. I can see the river.”
When King Garren did not immediately appear at his side, Luke turned back. In place of any words, the king’s response was a slamming door. Luke leaped toward it but heard the key click in the lock before he reached it. He peered through the small barred window in time to see King Garren and the two guards hastily making their escape down the stairs.
Looking down, he could see the sturdy door handle, its keyhole scratched from years of use. No doubt King Garren had often used this tower to imprison his captives.
With a sinking heart, Luke realized the deceptive ruler had planned to imprison him all along, probably from the moment he invited him to dinner. Everything else, then, had been a ruse.
Ah, but Luke had discovered much. And the door, though thick and heavy, was not an immovable barrier. Luke inspected what he could see of the lock, then looked around for something he could improvise as a tool.
A small bundle of straw had been scattered about at one end. From the looks of it, more than one prisoner had used the bale as both bed and blanket. Luke plucked up the sturdiest stems and carefully plaited them together to stiffen them. With any luck, he’d pick the lock and be gone before Garren thought better of leaving him alone and decided to post a guard.
He shook his head, laughing at his own foolishness. He’d gotten into worse spots before. In comparison, this imprisonment had been quite fruitful. He’d learned precisely how far King Garren could be trusted, which wasn’t far at all. He’d confirmed the pale-haired woman’s claim that Garren resented the peace treaty.
Most of all, he’d found the pale-haired woman. His imprisonment was worth it if only for that. But he wasn’t about to waste what he’d learned. He had to escape and see her again.
He tried the plaited straw in the lock but found the stick he’d made wasn’t nearly sturdy enough to budge the tumbler inside. He searched the empty space a bit longer but, still finding nothing, went back to plaiting straw again, hoping to make it stronger this time. From what he could tell, the tumbler that kept him imprisoned was heavy, and would require a prod nearly as strong as King Garren’s key to unloose it. Perhaps he wouldn’t escape as quickly as he’d like, but he wasn’t about to give up, either.
The sun was dipping low in the sky when Luke heard soft footsteps on the stairs. Judging by the muted sound, he doubted it was a guard coming to check on him. Hope rose inside him that the pale-haired woman might have come to pay him a visit. When he caught a glimpse of fair hair rounding the corner, his heart leaped for joy, only to come crashing down in disappointment when the hair proved to be far shorter than that of the woman they called Biddy.
Indeed, this pale hair belonged to a freckle-faced youth, who looked at him curiously through the barred porthole. Luke stared back in silence for a moment, wondering if this boy was friend or foe. His features, along with his distinctive pale hair, convinced Luke the youth must be related in some way to the pale-haired woman. So he took a chance.
“Have you got a key to this door?”
“There’s only one key, and King Garren keeps it.”
Luke had feared as much. At least the boy seemed helpful. “How can I open the lock, then?”
“I’ve tried it all the times I was locked in there. Never could get it without the key.”
Only slightly discouraged, Luke tried to glean as much as he could quickly in case the youth was called away—or caught. “Is there a guard stationed at the base of the tower?”
“Yes, but I brought him a drink earlier to help him sleep. He’s dozing now. That’s how I got past. I’d have brought you something to eat, but I didn’t think he’d be asleep so soon. I saw a chance and took it.” The youth peered at him curiously between the bars in the small opening in the door. “They say you’re a prince and a Christian.”
Luke suddenly felt his heart beating hard, though he wasn’t sure precisely why. “That I am.”
The boy whispered something. Luke couldn’t quite catch his words, but it sounded almost as though he’d said, “So am I.”
But before Luke could ask him to repeat himself, the boy spoke again. “I belong in the Holy Roman Empire. If I help you get out of here, can you help me get home?”
Luke felt his sympathies soften immediately at the youth’s earnest request. “I would do everything in my power.”
Suddenly the boy’s face brightened, and Luke had no question the two pale-haired servants must be related. The boy had Biddy’s smile.
“And my sister, too. Can you help my sister escape from this place?”
“Your sister.” Luke’s heart hammered inside him, and he fought the urge to barrage the boy with questions about the young woman. Instead, he agreed quickly. “I would gladly help her, as well.”
“Good.” The boy shoved something long and pointed through the window to Luke. “This might be of some help to you.”
Luke took the object—a rough sort of knife, probably fashioned by the boy himself out of a cast-off piece of metal. As he tried it in the lock, he started to inquire of the boy about his sister. But the youth had turned his attention to the stairs.
“I shouldn’t tarry any longer. You should wait for darkness before you try to leave. Garren’s men drink heavily at dinner. You’ll find your passage through the rest of the fortress much easier if you wait until after then.”
“Thank you,” Luke whispered hurriedly as the boy retreated down the stairs. “And tell your sister not to worry about me.”
He didn’t hear any response but listened carefully, breathing freely only after some time had passed without any sound that might indicate the youth had gotten caught.
Luke was glad for that. The boy had brought him a useful tool as well as valuable information about the guard below. It was sure to increase his chances of escaping.
And just as certainly, Luke intended to do all he could to make good on his promise to help the slaves escape. The woman they called Biddy had saved his life. He owed them both.
Rather than pick the lock now and risk discovery, Luke decided to wait until closer to sunset to make his bid for freedom. For now he leaned on the windowsill and looked out over the stunning vista. King Garren might have only used the view as bait to lure him to the tower, but indeed, the vista provided an unparalleled picture of the lands between Fier and Lydia. In the distance Luke could see a charred spot amidst the woods—the tiny village of Bern, where he’d lain injured. The very spot where the pale-haired woman had saved his life.
At the thought of her, Luke felt his stomach lurch, and he mulled the reason for his response. Granted, the woman was kind and lovely, gracious and gentle—all things a man might appreciate in a female. But she was also a slave. Any affection he felt toward her was mere gratitude for the sacrifices she’d made on his behalf—first in saving his life and then in rightfully trying to warn him from this place.
Gratitude. That was all he felt, that and reciprocal generosity—an urge to fulfill his promise to the boy that he would somehow help the siblings return to their homeland. Certainly the lurching in his stomach could be no more than that. Luke had no interest in romance. Never had. Someday he’d perform his duty and marry a bride befitting a prince, a noblewoman whose connections could solidify peace in Lydia.
Until then he ought to put thoughts of other women far from his mind...except that the pale-haired woman had already proven to be unforgettable.
* * *
When Garren returned alone, Evelyn guessed what he’d done. He had the key to the tower door in the bag at his waistband. She could see the distinctive bulge of it. She knew it well. He’d locked her in the tower a few times when she’d tried to run away. More recently, he’d threatened to marry her to Omar, the middle-aged chief of the night guard, who liked to grab at her whenever she passed near him.
Omar was a far greater threat than the tower. She’d learned never to walk close to him, to step quickly away when clearing the table near his place. She hadn’t run away in over a year, not with the threat of marriage to Omar looming over her.
Bertie confirmed it when she finally found him in the stables, mucking out the stalls as he was supposed to. He’d seen their grandfather pass by with the prince, had followed out of curiosity and had gone back in secret later to see the prisoner.
“He asked about you,” her brother said, leaning on the handle of his pitchfork. He was nearly as tall as she already in spite of the eight years’ difference in age between them. Bertie was twelve and looked more like their father every day.
“About me?” Evelyn couldn’t imagine it. “He doesn’t know my name.”
“‘The one they call Biddy,’ he said, ‘with hair pale as moonlight and healing in her hands.’”
Evelyn froze. “He didn’t say that.” Her brother had quite the sense of humor. She wouldn’t put it past him to tease unless he knew her feelings were tender on a subject. And he couldn’t know how tender her feelings already were for Prince Luke.
“In truth, he said it in Illyrian,” her brother admitted, and repeated the message in that tongue. The two of them spoke Frankish when they were alone—partly to keep private whatever passed between them, partly to remind themselves of who they were and partly on her brother’s insistence, because he’d vowed to return there one day and wanted to remember how to talk to their relatives.
“He asked me to bring you a message.”
“What?” Evelyn hadn’t yet absorbed the fact that the prince had spoken of her at all. No prince had ever sent her a message.
“He said not to worry about him.”
“Not to worry?”
“That’s what he said.”
“What does that mean?” Had her suspicions been correct? Was the prince up to something? Evelyn hated to think the Christian would be capable of the same deceitfulness as her grandfather, but she chided herself for hoping otherwise. He was royal. Of course he was a liar. She’d be wise to be on her guard around him, lest his handsome smile and winsome ways distract her from his dishonesty.
“I wonder the same thing,” Bertie watched her carefully, his blue eyes dancing, his pale hair the same color as the straw in the stables. “I wanted to ask, but I heard voices below and had to sneak away before I was caught.”
“I should try to visit him myself.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“He said not to worry.”
But Evelyn worried, all through that afternoon and evening, especially when King Garren failed to order a plate sent up to the tower. It was one thing for him to starve her out—she was his granddaughter. But Prince Luke could retaliate for the poor treatment, assuming he survived. And she hated to think of him going hungry—unless he was plotting against them, in which case he didn’t deserve their hospitality.
Perhaps Garren had no intention of letting the prince survive this time. It could be he’d learned his lesson after she’d brought the prince back from the brink of death at Bern.
The only good thing to come of the day was a clean dress and a bath. King Garren didn’t believe in bathing—he feared the water might wash away a person’s soul—but Evelyn had grown up taking baths in the Holy Roman Empire. Here she and the serving girls had worked out a system, guarding each other while they dipped themselves in the warm washing water before they started the laundry. And since Cook had retired to her room exhausted from serving lunch to a prince and still put out by her scare with the bearskin, Evelyn took the time to wash her hair, then to comb out all the tangles until it shimmered like pale gold in the orange glow of the fire.
Night had fallen by the time she got a moment to herself. She grabbed the two bread rolls she’d set aside earlier and filled a skin flask with tea, the herbal liquid a fortifying mixture that would give Luke strength even if she wasn’t able to reach him again for some time. Whatever her grandfather’s plans, or the prince’s, she wasn’t about to refuse hospitality to a man who’d brought them a gift. Besides, she hoped to learn more about his intentions.
She made her way stealthily down the halls to the spiraling stairs that led to the highest tower. The guard at the base of the stairs sat slumped against the wall, snoring. Evelyn crept past him without a sound. When she reached the top, she tried the door and found to her surprise that it swung open easily.
Moonlight poured through the open eaves, illuminating the bare stones of the austere space.
It was empty.
Chapter Four
Luke found the narrow pathway between the stables and the rear wall. The pale-haired woman—he cringed to think of her as Biddy—had led him that way when she’d tried to help him escape that morning. If he’d known what he’d soon be up against, he’d have learned more about her intended route then, but he’d misjudged King Garren’s animosity.
The pale-haired woman had been right about Garren’s intentions. Given her warning, Luke had suspected he was walking into a trap when Garren had offered to show him the view from the tower. He’d gone along, partly out of curiosity to see if the king would really imprison him and partly because, assuming the king was bold enough to imprison him, the aggression against his person would constitute a violation of the terms of the peace accord.
By allowing himself to be locked away, Luke had achieved an advantage for Lydia.
Now he needed to pass along word of what he’d discovered to his brother King John of Lydia. Thus far they’d assumed Garren was willing to abide by the peace treaty. They’d clearly overestimated Garren’s wisdom on those matters.
Horses nickered in the stables behind him, and Luke froze. Someone was in the stables. The pale-haired boy, Biddy’s brother, who’d visited him in the tower? If he could find the boy, Luke could leave a message for her with him.
It was dangerous to tarry. Luke needed to report what he’d learned to his brother. And yet at the thought of the woman, he found his feet turning back a few steps toward the nearest stable door. He’d been intrigued by her since she’d saved his life. Finding her here in such a low position increased his curiosity. What was she doing in this place? Her skill with the needle and knowledge of healing meant she’d obviously had specialized training in far finer arts than rumor told him were practiced in Garren’s household. Her brother claimed to be from the Holy Roman Empire. So how, then, had they come here?
What could he do to keep his promise to free her and her brother? Could he buy their freedom? He couldn’t leave them behind, not when he was this close already, not without trying to repay the woman for the gift of life she’d given him. He had to try to see her again. He still didn’t know her real name.
Luke reached the stable door and peered into the darkness inside. The heavy walls blocked much of the moonlight. Horses shifted on their feet, their shadows looming dark against the walls, each one large enough to hide a man.
Was he foolish to come here? Luke slipped into the nearest stall and quieted the sleeping mare that startled at his appearance. The horse went back to its slumber.
Perhaps he was a fool for visiting Fier in the first place, but he’d learned enough to justify the trouble it had caused him.
And what of the woman? She’d tried to warn him away from this place, then tried to help him escape. But surely she could get in trouble for helping him. Why would she take such a risk on his account, especially when she was of such lowly status already? Slaves could be brutally punished, even killed, without their masters ever being called into question. Most were unerringly devoted to their masters out of fear.
The pale-haired woman didn’t seem devoted to King Garren. Whom did she really serve? Could she be trusted?
Movement near the far door caught his eye, and Luke spotted a flash of silver. Human. The boy? No, he realized with a pounding heart, it was the woman they called Biddy.
Moonlight splashed in patches across her as she stole down the center aisle. She’d pulled her loose hair back in a tight braid and changed her dress. This garment was a more tattered rag, perhaps a bit too small, even, though it showed more of her slender curves. Luke’s breath caught as he watched her moving cautiously and gracefully in the moonlight.
She stopped in front of a stall and slipped through the door before Luke realized what she was doing. The horse seemed to know her and followed without hesitation as she led him from the stall.
Where was she going with the horse? The woman had risen early that morning to find valerian roots on foot. She’d worked hard all day and ought to be exhausted by this hour. Surely she didn’t make a habit of going riding at night. With a pang, Luke wondered if perhaps she was going to look for him.
No one had stopped her. From what Luke could tell, they were the only two people in the stable. With a prayer for safety, he stepped carefully toward her, not wanting to startle her or the horse. If either of them cried out, he might easily be caught again. And King Garren was unlikely to leave him where he could escape with so little trouble this time.
The woman led the gelding to the corner where the tack was stacked, and she prepared the horse to ride. Luke followed quietly, debating how best to make his presence known.
He reached a patch of moonlight when a horse nickered. The woman turned. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she made no sound.
Luke rushed to her side.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, then raised her hands with an offering. “I brought you these.”
Luke recognized the bread but reached eagerly for the flask, parched after a day in the tower. The woman pulled out the stopper and lifted it for him. As he quenched his thirst, Luke wondered again at this female who went out of her way to help him. Why?
“You must tell me your name,” he nearly begged once he’d drained the flask.
“Only if you promise to leave. Why are you still here?”
“I had to see you again.” He reached for the bread just as she held it out to him. His left hand met the rolls. His right hand touched her arm, held her sleeve and was about to pull her closer to him when he stopped himself, unsure why he felt so drawn to her. Granted, she looked much better now than she had earlier, and smelled far better, as well. Along with washing her hair and changing her dress, she’d replaced the stench of pigs with the clean scent of crushed lavender.
Was he foolish to want to know more about this woman? Perhaps somewhat, but he wouldn’t allow himself to fall prey if she was trying to trick him. He’d stay on his guard in case she was as great a deceiver as the man she worked for.
“Please tell me your name. I don’t believe it’s Biddy.” He took a bite of roll.
“That’s only what my grandfather tells everyone to call me.” The woman looked down as though ashamed.
“Your grandfather?” Luke scowled. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” He finished the first roll and wished for another flask of tea.
“Why?” She’d stepped back against the dozing horse. Just enough moonlight filtered through the open eaves to illuminate her face as she looked up at him. “You’re a prince. I’m a slave.”
“You saved my life. Let me buy your freedom.”
The woman’s mouth fell open like a rose in full bloom. Soft, delicate. “It’s not possible.”
“Why not? I have the means to pay any price.”
The woman made a small noise, almost a whimper, and then turned toward the horse, hiding her face near its mane.
“Please.” Luke reached for her but placed one hand on the horse instead, mindful that the woman might not welcome his touch. “You must tell me your name.”
She seemed distraught. Luke’s throat felt rough, possibly from the dry roll but more likely from his confusion at the woman’s reaction. No doubt she’d be an expensive slave, with her skills at healing and her obvious ability to work hard for long hours, not to mention her beauty. Many a master would buy her for her looks alone, though they wouldn’t treat her nearly as well as she ought to be treated. At the thought, Luke became that much more determined to free her.
“Your name?” He wanted to grasp her shoulders and turn her to face him, but he resisted. She wasn’t his. “Please?”
She turned to him, tears glistening like tiny gems on her eyelashes. “Evelyn.”
“Evelyn,” he repeated, smiling. It fit her so much better than Biddy. “Why have you chosen to help me?” He raised the last roll as evidence of her aid, then took a hungry bite.
“You are from Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are a Christian?”
“Yes.” His heart warmed as she smiled at his admission. “What do you know of Christians?”
“I was raised in the faith in Charlemagne’s empire.”
Luke instantly recalled the words Evelyn’s brother had spoken in the tower, which Luke still didn’t completely understand. He would never have expected to find Christians enslaved inside the fortress of Fier. From what Luke knew of Garren’s household, they all followed pagan beliefs. As a member of that household, he would have assumed she’d follow the same. But then, she’d spoken Frankish earlier. Perhaps he should have guessed the woman was more like him than his enemies. Perhaps she could be trusted. Perhaps. “How long have you lived in Illyria?”
“Five years.”
“What brought you here?”
“My father. He brought us here after my mother’s death.”
“Us?” Luke clarified, wondering how many more there were besides Evelyn and her brother.
“My brother and me.”
“The pale-haired boy I spoke with in the tower?”
“Yes. Bertie.”
“Your mother was Frankish, and your father is Illyrian?”
“My father was half Frankish and half Illyrian.”
“Was?”
“He died last fall.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded, her expression thoughtful, but remained silent.
“And your grandfather?”
“Would be furious if he knew I was speaking with you.” Her eyes met his with a spark of challenge.
“Is he a slave, as well?”
Evelyn’s mouth fell open again. Luke studied it, marveling at her fine matched teeth, a far healthier set than he’d expected to find in the mouth of an Illyrian slave girl. But then, nothing about her was what he’d expected, and everything he learned about her only intrigued him further.
She didn’t answer his question, but Luke felt the urgency of their situation and realized with certainty what he needed to do. He’d promised her brother he’d help them. Why should he return later when he could fulfill his pledge that very night?
“I can take you with me.”
She clamped her mouth shut, her eyes wide.
“I’m leaving for Lydia tonight. You would be safe there with other Christians.”
Evelyn shook her head, but the way she glanced at him, he guessed she found the offer tempting. Surely she didn’t want to remain a slave.
Luke couldn’t let her refuse his offer. “My sister-in-law speaks Frankish. She is a daughter of Charlemagne himself. You might enjoy her company.”
Evelyn shook her head more fervently. “I cannot leave—”
“You would not be a slave there.”
“No.” Evelyn stepped to the side as though to dart away and escape from his words.
Luke caught her arm. “Please come with me.”
She met his eyes. “My brother—”
“I intend to bring him, too, of course. He asked me to help him return to his homeland. Once we reach Lydia, we can arrange further travel plans.”
A look of yearning passed across her face. He saw it clearly in the moonlight. His heart twisted at the sight.
“Please, Evelyn. You saved my life. Let me restore yours. You deserve more than a life of slavery.”
Evelyn closed her eyes. Luke watched as she fought some inner battle, tempted to take him up on his offer. What was holding her back?
“You have lingered here too long,” Evelyn told him bluntly when she opened her eyes. “Leave now, before King Garren realizes you’ve escaped. If he finds you’re not in the tower, he’ll lock down the gates and you’ll never get out.”
Luke felt the urgency in her words. She was right, of course. She’d been right about King Garren all along. “You’ll come with me?”
“I cannot.”
He still had hold of her left arm and grasped the other, as well, all but embracing her in the warmth of the stable. “I have searched for you these many months. Now that I’ve found you, I cannot leave you behind.”
“My life is very complicated, too much so to explain now. You must leave quickly—alone.”
Luke met her eyes and saw her determination. She wouldn’t be going with him, no matter how much yearning had crossed her face when he’d first made the offer. Knowing she’d been right about King Garren, he trusted she knew well the reasons of which she spoke. “Promise me I may see you again.” He thought quickly. “In the woods where I met you this morning. Meet me there again in one week’s time.”
“I will try.”
“If you’re not there, I will come here looking for you.”
Panic crossed her face. “Don’t endanger yourself for me.”
“You have endangered yourself for me.” Luke still held both her arms and had been drawing closer to her as they spoke. She seemed so frightened. Of him? Of getting caught?
It didn’t matter. He ought to have left long minutes before.
Evelyn pulled free of his arms. “This way.” She led him back through the side door of the stable, along the rear wall to the postern gate. “There’s a guard through the main gate, but we can sneak through the guard’s passage. When we get through to the other side, stay close to the wall until you’re almost to the first tower, then cut around the bushes heading uphill. There’s a narrow deer path. Follow it—you’ll find your way back to where we met this morning.”
Luke memorized her instructions, knowing well he wouldn’t have happened upon the path himself, certainly not in the darkness. “You’ll meet me there in one week?” He’d need that long to make the trip back to his brother, tell him what he’d learned, make plans and travel back again.
She nodded solemnly but added, “If I’m delayed, please don’t come here looking for me. I’ll try again the next day and the next.”
“I’ll try again every day until I see you again,” he promised.
She looked up at him, the moon casting just enough silvery light for him to see her face clearly. “You must move quickly. I will pray for your safety.”
“And I for yours.” He couldn’t help reaching out and trailing one finger softly against her cheek. She was real. After all his searching, all his fears that he’d only imagined her, she was real.
* * *
Evelyn stood still in the darkness near the narrow exit, listening to Prince Luke’s retreating footsteps until the sound disappeared into the distance between them. Then she waited a moment longer, tense, bracing herself to hear the cry of the guards spotting the man in the shadows or checking the tower to find him gone.
There was only silence.
Almost against her will she pressed one hand to the place where the prince had brushed her cheek. Though his fingers were calloused from bowstrings, his touch had been gentle, almost reverent. Evelyn closed her eyes, committing to memory every word, every look that had passed between them. No one spoke to her that tenderly. Only her brother called her by her real name, her Christian name.
Prince Luke had made her feel as though she wasn’t a slave at all.
It touched a raw part of her wounded heart, rousing it achingly to life as she pictured his face, his strong arms, the feel of his hand on her cheek.
Evelyn immediately chided herself for letting her emotions grow. Luke was a prince. And not just any prince, but a prince of the neighboring kingdom who her grandfather specifically abhorred. In fact, she realized as fear surged through her conscience, she should not have agreed to meet him in the woods again. She’d agreed because she wanted to see him again, to learn more about him, to bask in the kindness of his words.
How could she be so selfish?
Seeing Prince Luke again would only put him in more danger. If they were caught, her grandfather would surely make good on his threats to force her to marry Omar. What would happen to the prince? Surely King Garren wouldn’t be content to simply lock him away again. No, he’d do something much worse. Torture? War?
Evelyn’s blood chilled in her veins. Why did the prince want to visit this place, anyway? If he was up to no good, she should convince him not to return. If he was in danger, he ought to stay away for his own safety. Either way, she’d have to make the prince understand the importance of staying far from Fier. For that reason, she would meet with him again as promised. Once. But never again. She couldn’t endanger his safety or his people.
Her mind made up, Evelyn crept back the way she’d come, skirting the stables this time and heading back into the main hall via the rear kitchen door. She stuck her head into the laundry room where she and the servant girls slept. The girls appeared to be asleep, but then one of them sat up and blinked at her.
“Evelyn?” the girl whispered softly.
“Yes.”
“Omar has Bertie.”
“What?”
“He found him sneaking up to the tower. The prisoner is missing. Omar blames your brother for helping him escape.”
“Where has he got him?”
“They headed for the dungeon.”
“Does the king know?”
“I’m not sure. He’s gone to bed for the night.”
“Good.” It was a small consolation. Omar might be willing to hurt her brother, but he wouldn’t risk inflicting too much pain on the king’s grandson without Garren’s explicit permission. “You stay here.”
The little girl grabbed her skirt as she turned to leave. “Be careful. Omar is terribly angry.”
“I’ll be fine,” Evelyn promised, though her fears increased as she hurried through the hall to the steps that led downward in a steep spiral to the dungeons below. Should she go alone? It wouldn’t be right to risk the girls’ safety by asking them to come with her. And yet, who else did she have on her side?
Prince Luke’s face flashed through her thoughts, and she groaned when she realized how much she’d come to trust him already. She knew better than to trust a royal. Her grandfather had only ever deceived her. But Prince Luke was a Christian. Did his faith make any difference in his actions? Perhaps he might be willing to help her. He’d offered to help her escape. But Bertie’s capture was a sharp reminder of why she could never go with him.
All her previous efforts to run away had been thwarted by her grandfather. Though the king did not care for her and treated her harshly nonetheless, he kept close tabs on her, either out of spite or because of her value as a learned slave.
Worse yet, Omar had recently made up his mind to have her. Even if King Garren didn’t notice her missing, Omar would never let her get far from Fier. He’d track her down. If she and Bertie were found among the Lydians, her grandfather would happily use the incident as an excuse to start another war.
As she’d told Prince Luke, her reasons for staying were complicated. Even she didn’t fully understand her grandfather’s determination to keep her. But she knew the trouble that would follow if she fled. Better that she and Bertie suffer than all of Lydia.
Evelyn reached the bottom of the stairs in silence. The dungeon was too quiet. Torchlight flickered around the corner; otherwise she might have thought the dungeon empty. Cautiously, she stole a glance into the low-ceilinged space beyond.
Ropes bound her little brother’s arms behind his back. He lay on his side on the floor, his face turned away from her toward the wall. She stared for a moment, willing the twelve-year-old to move, to breathe, anything to reassure her he was alive.
Unable to see any signs of life, she took a tentative step forward.
A heavy hand shot out from the shadows, grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her against the cold wall.
Evelyn gasped.
Bertie rolled toward her, his eyes first surprised, then defeated. A rag in his mouth kept him from speaking, but his expression told her he wished she hadn’t come.
Omar chuckled, his rotten breath uncomfortably close to her face. “Figured you’d come looking for him. You know why he’s here, don’t you? You know he helped the prisoner escape.”
“Prisoner?” Evelyn tried to sound confused. Her grandfather hadn’t made it widely known that he’d imprisoned Prince Luke, though even the serving girls had figured out what he’d done.
“Don’t play stupid with me. Now that I’ve got you, we’re going to go wake up the king. He needs to know what you two have been up to.”
Across the room, Bertie’s eyes widened and he made desperate noises with his throat, but his bonds held him tight. He couldn’t help her.
With Omar’s grip digging into her shoulder, Evelyn had no choice but to go back up the stairs as he guided her. King Garren always hated bad news. But more than that, he hated being awakened in the middle of the night.
She was a little surprised that he hadn’t made good on his threat of marrying her to Omar already, though he’d muttered something once about political usefulness, which made her suspect the cunning king hoped to find a match for her that would benefit him more. After all, as the king’s granddaughter, she could technically be considered a princess—but that was only if the king acknowledged her. As always, it would come down to whatever fit his schemes.
But even her grandfather’s craftiness couldn’t compete with his anger.
Evelyn turned at the top of the stairs, headed in the direction in which Omar pointed her. She had no choice but to pray with her eyes wide open, watching for any chance to escape. Even as she did so, she prayed silently that Prince Luke would make haste. If her grandfather sent a party after him on horseback, the Lydian prince would need a solid head start to make good his escape.
Chapter Five
Luke fled hurriedly through the darkness, the new moon adding little light to the starry sky. He paused where the roundabout trail met the main road.
Which route should he choose? If he stuck to the road, he could be spotted and recaptured. Garren would surely take greater measures to prevent him from escaping again—either locking him under heavy guard, injuring him or killing him. Luke wanted none of those options.
Still, the road, rough and rutted though it was, would provide him the fastest route back to Lydia. Given the darkness of the night, Luke could waste valuable time picking his way through the thick forest that filled the borderlands between Lydia and the Illyrian mountains. He needed to alert his brother King John to all that he’d learned on his visit. He risked losing precious hours fighting the underbrush or, worse yet, becoming lost in these unfamiliar woods so close to Fier.
The road ran straight south, skirting the Lydian lands to the east. If Luke stayed on that path, he’d miss the outpost camp where his men were stationed but would arrived more quickly at Sardis, the Lydian walled city that sat at the point where the mainland joined the peninsula of Castlehead. The road would deliver him more quickly to his brother and offer him a hastier escape—provided he avoided detection.
Wary of the silence behind him, Luke stuck to the side of the road, following the path amidst the thick cover of underbrush that ran alongside it. Soon enough, when Fier lay far behind him and no sound of pursuit had met his ears, Luke gave up trying to force his way through the side thicket and ran instead along the road.
He reached a muddy place where the path crossed a small stream. There was no bridge here—the stream was not even deep enough to warrant that. Travelers would simply splash through the shallows or, if they wished to stay dry, pick their way across on the many stones that jutted up from the trickling flow.
Luke paused on one of these rocks and bent to drink. He’d traveled far since drinking the flask of tea Evelyn had brought him. It had been such a thoughtful gift, and one that could have labeled her a traitor if she were to be found out. He wondered at her allegiance. Was it only because of their shared faith that she’d decided to help him? Or did she feel the bond between them that Luke felt so acutely? In stitching closed his wounds, she’d knit the two of them together on a deeper level. He didn’t fully understand it himself, but she was never far from his thoughts, especially now that he’d spent time with her and she’d gone out of her way to help him.
Luke drank deeply. The memory of Evelyn’s kindness warmed his heart even as the sight before him caused his blood to run cold in his veins.
This close to the ground, he could see the surface of the path well in spite of the dim light. To his surprise, the road showed signs of heavy travel.
But why? Who could possibly have passed this way? These lands were Lydian territory now. King Garren’s men would have no cause to travel so far down the road, not since their retreat from the battle at Sardis the previous fall.
And yet as Luke analyzed the prints more closely, he saw they were all of similar size, belonging to grown men, not women or children. These were not the footprints of random villagers, then. No, though it was too dark for Luke to make out much detail, he’d tracked enough Illyrians in the borderlands to recognize the distinctive shape of the boots of the Illyrian soldiers.
And the prints were all pointed in the same direction.
Toward Sardis, Lydia’s great walled city.
His pulse quickened. Luke ran forward along the road, stopping now and then when a break in the trees provided enough light for him to check the path for tracks. Again and again he saw the prints and wondered at the number of them. At least a dozen men must have passed along the road since the last heavy rain— possibly many more than that, even. In places, the path was heavily trampled.
Where were they going? Who had sent them? What were they up to?
Luke ran until a patch of moonlight revealed only smooth dirt. He glanced behind him, but the shadows obscured the road. Somewhere since last he’d paused to check, the Illyrian soldiers had left the road.
But which way had they gone?
They were still a good ways from Sardis. If the soldiers had headed west again, they’d quickly find themselves back at home among the Illyrian mountains, a perfectly innocent place for them to be. Luke supposed, given the difficulty of travel through the dense woods, it was entirely possible they’d used their old road to access their own lands—a relatively benign breach of the peace treaty, one he would not begrudge them.
But if they’d left the road to turn east, they’d be deep in Lydian territory and could sneak up on the city of Sardis itself if they traveled far enough.
Luke panted, tired from his long run through the night. It was too dark for him to try to track the boot prints through the woods, and it would be foolish for him to attempt to hunt down a dozen or more Illyrian soldiers without any men on his side. He needed to alert his brother to King Garren’s activities.
The Illyrian boot prints might be innocent enough—and Luke hoped for the sake of peace that they were. But at the same time, he wasn’t about to forget he’d seen them. He’d dispatch men to scout out the area, though he wouldn’t personally accompany them.
No, he’d given his word to Bertie that he’d help the boy and his sister escape. So whether Evelyn wanted to leave King Garren’s household or not, Luke would do what he could to fulfill his promise.
* * *
Evelyn’s thoughts raced as Omar guided her up the stairs to King Garren’s chambers. She thought about trying to escape his grasp, but with her brother still bound in the dungeon, she didn’t dare do anything rash. They’d only take out their anger on Bertie if she did.
Bertie. Her heart ached at the thought of him. That he’d been caught trying to visit the tower only made matters a thousand times worse. She shouldn’t have mentioned to her brother that she wanted to visit the tower. No doubt that’s why Bertie had returned there—either looking for her or concerned for the prince on her behalf.
Too soon Omar pounded on the wooden door to King Garren’s chambers. As she’d anticipated, her grandfather was furious about being awakened. He threw open the door and blinked at them in the sudden light from the torch Omar still carried.
“What are you doing with my granddaughter?” The king, to Evelyn’s relief, directed his initial anger at Omar.
“The prisoner has escaped.”
“Escaped! Did you sound the alarm?”
“I caught these two helping him escape.”
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Rachelle McCalla
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: When Evelyn tended Prince Luke of Lydia’s battle wounds, she had no idea whose life she was saving. Yet now the handsome warrior is determined to rescue her from King Garren’s fortress.Evelyn may be Garren’s granddaughter and a princess by right, but the vindictive king has forced her to pay off her father’s debts as a servant. A shared faith deepens her bond with Luke, but revealing her true identity could tear them apart and bring war to two kingdoms. Only courage and trust will help them forge a royal union where two hearts reign as one.