The Secret Princess

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.