The Secret Princess

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.