The Secret Princess (3 page)

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

E
velyn 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.”