Once we settled on an amount, she was quite helpful. She fixed my hair, which was apparently a hideous mess. And she helped properly fitting the bodice—during which time I discovered that this woman wasn’t nearly as well-endowed as I had thought. Her bodice and low-cut chemise combined to do absolutely miraculous things to the princess’s cleavage.
I had been worried that someone might recognize me once I slipped into the crowd with my face uncovered. Looking down as she tightened the laces binding me, I realized that my worries might not be such an issue, at least for half the population. It also gave me a convenient place to stash the elf whistle.
“There,” she said after adjusting everything. “Now you don’t look too frightening.” She reached down and smoothed my apron. We had traded undergarments, and my old chemise, despite being cut more modestly, was still wet and clung to her in some rather distracting ways. Again I was reminded how long it had been since I’d shared intimate company with a woman, and that feeling—more than the bodice thrusting my cleavage toward my chin—reminded me of exactly what I lacked at the moment.
As much as I told myself that what I was doing was for Lucille’s benefit, I was really motivated by selfishness. Of course I would do just about anything to return her to her body; it was the only way I could return to my own.
The woman gave me an inscrutable expression and touched my cheek. “You’re really too pretty to be waylaying serving wenches.”
“I’m not waylaying you,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m bribing you, remember?”
She laughed. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have followed through on your threat if I’d started screaming?”
“It would have been the huge barbarian who waylaid you. That’s what I brought him for.”
“I see.”
I hunted for a good place to conceal my dagger, and settled for my upper thigh. I fumbled with it a moment, before my most recent contract employee reached down and said, “Let me.”
She slid my hand away and started working with the buckle to fit the sheath snug against the skin. She quickly managed it, but left her hand against my inner thigh. “You haven’t even asked my name.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, “I’ve had other things on my mind.”
“Evelyn,” she said.
“Uh huh.” I reached down and removed her hand. She squeezed it for a moment. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to tie you up now.”
“I know.” She looked into my eyes, and what I saw there . . .
Let’s just say, I didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. Whatever it was, I didn’t have the time to deal with it right now. Instead, Brock and I tore apart enough dishrags to tie together to make credible restraints, bound Evelyn hand and foot, and Brock gently set her down into the barrel I’d arrived in. Last I put the remains of the harlequin outfit in with her. She looked up at me with a half-smile and said, “I normally work in Brightwood, at The Three-Legged Boar. If you ever want to return my clothes.”
I nodded and Brock put a clean dishrag into her mouth as a gag. I lifted up the barrel lid. I hesitated a moment, then I told her, “My name’s Frank.” I put the lid in place over a very puzzled expression.
I did not want to ponder any of the implications of what Evelyn had said—mostly because entertaining certain ideas would be admitting to myself that my current princessly state was something more than a temporary affliction, and that wasn’t anything I was ready to deal with on any level.
Instead I filled a tray with a full supply of ale tankards and walked with Brock out of the tent.
“What does Brock do now?”
Good question.
“Keep posing as a servant. Carry things around and work your way toward the tourney field. At some point I’m going to get close to the queen. It’d be nice if I can do this without being noticed, but there’s more than likely going to be some sort of commotion. I’ll probably be yelling. A lot. If that happens, I want you to ready some sort of distraction. A big one.”
He smiled. “Brock can do this.”
“Wench!” Someone shouted in our direction.
I turned and saw an old man hooking a finger in my direction. “No fraternizing on the job. Get those drinks out here.”
“Got to go,” I smiled at Brock and moved in the direction the crotchety old guy indicated.
As I passed the old man, he slapped my butt. “Speed it up, missy,” he said with a cackle. From that point on I knew that serving girl wasn’t going to go on my list of favorite disguises—though my earlier speculations were borne out by the fact that the old man was so fixated on my bodice that he was oblivious to the change in its occupant.
• • •
Welcome to the world of the highborn and noble, I thought as I stepped over some scion of some great house or other who had passed out in a pool of mud, piss, and vomit. I weaved through a population of titled nobles, courtiers, and diplomats, all personal guests of the Grünwald crown, and I think I could have exchanged most for any random denizen of The Headless Earl. The only differences seemed to be clothes, diction, and the cost of their indulgences. That, and I suspected the thugs at The Headless Earl were more polite to the servants.
Then again, what would you expect of a crowd gathered to watch men of knightly virtue beat the crap out of each other?
Between me and the field of honor was a good two to three acres of drunken lords, princes, barons, and whatnot from a dozen different places. Even though the arms of Lendowyn were notably absent from the serving tables, there were probably more than a few people present who may have actually met the Princess Lucille at one point or another. Unfortunately, I saw no way to get close to the royal pavilion, and Queen Fiona, other than through this mass of inebriated nobility.
Thin as it was, my disguise held up. There was the noble disinclination to notice the existence of common people, especially servants. And there was the general intoxication of the populace. Then there was the last line of defense, my cleavage-emphasizing bodice.
I drew a lot of unwanted attention, but none of it because anyone recognized me.
Still, as I dispensed tankards and dodged lewd dukes and groping earls, I began to recognize that my serving-wench persona was unlikely to get me too close to the queen. Close to the royal pavilion, the long open-air serving tables gave way to benches of seats for spectators. That area seemed much less rowdy, and my protective coloration would stand out. I didn’t see any of my fellow wenches carrying tankards into the stands. Then there was the pavilion itself, which was its own building in the midst of the stands, separated by brightly painted canvas walls from the less-royal spectators.
I worked the tables close to the tourney field, occasionally using my skills at clandestine acquisition to keep my tray populated with full tankards. I didn’t want to run out and have to return for more. In many cases all I needed to do was lean over slowly as I collected empties, and no one would notice the empties weren’t.
As I played my role, I kept one eye toward the royal pavilion, looking for means of surreptitious entry. I saw half a dozen ways to enter unobserved, and all had the same problem. The queen faced the field, on a dais, in front of everyone. Behind her was a tightly packed group of advisors, nobles, and guardsmen. Even if I made it into the pavilion, there was no route from inside to the queen—over, under, around, or through—that would escape notice from her entourage. Even then, there was another serious problem. To the right of Queen Fiona, standing at attention, was her champion.
Sir Forsythe the Good.
Of course he’d be here.
I turned away, afraid that even at this distance, Sir Forsythe might recognize me. That complicated things even more as I tried to think of any possible way to get to the queen without him seeing me. Cleavage alone wasn’t going to be enough camouflage to get close enough to snatch the ring. Nâtlac aside, Sir Forsythe probably thought himself too pure of heart to be distracted that way.
I could hide within and wa
it for the queen to leave the festivities, but that would give me a very small window of opportunity, in a tight space that was probably even more tightly packed with guardsmen. And, more likely than not, Sir Forsythe would be there as well.
This was looking less and less possible. Worse, I could see the rings glittering on her hand. So close . . .
I watched as the next pair of knights took the field. They strode in front of the pavilion. They were dressed in full plate armor that shone in the sun, the type of overly engraved nonsense that only got worn when nobles dressed up to play at war. Good at looking pretty, not so good on the battlefield.
Behind them, their squires led their warhorses. All of them came to a stop before the queen. The knights removed their helmets and handed them to their squires, both young men, boys really, wearing broad hats and tabards embroidered with their knights’ colors. The knights turned from their squires to kneel and pay their obeisance. The queen stepped down from the dais to stand before the kneeling knights and provide royal sanction to the contest.
Then she held out her hand so the knights could show her proper respect, and they both placed a chaste kiss upon her jeweled hand.
I now had an absolutely insane idea.
CHAPTER 24
It was impossible to get close enough to the queen unseen. My next best option was to do so unnoticed.
Even in a skirt and bodice, I was gratified to find my ability to sneak around the clusters of tents was unimpeded. Unlike princesses, working women tended toward sane footwear.
I worked my way around the back of the stands, and into the service area of the tent city around the tourney field—toward the smell of horses. The staging area for the main event wasn’t hard to find, with ranks of tents flying the colors of noble houses and stinking of manure.
I think there’s some sort of metaphor there.
I didn’t know the schedule of events, but it was also easy enough to find a knight who was going to the field soon. I just had to find a team of men gathering to strap a beefy gentleman into a tin can.
Seeing that, and the knight’s colors, meant it was likewise easy to identify the matching squire, alone and waiting by the knight’s horse. Again, the squire was little more than a boy with a dusting of adolescent hair on his lip and several youthful blemishes across his face.
That made attracting his attention into a nearby supply tent extremely easy. A few years older, and he might have been slightly suspicious of the flash of leg and bosom that attracted him inside. But, the young male brain being what it was, he wandered into my clutches almost as if he’d been ensorcelled by some evil mage.
It almost made me feel guilty.
The most difficult part of the whole enterprise was stripping the clothes quickly off his unconscious body and getting dressed before his knight was completely poured into his armor. I didn’t have time to get fancy by strapping down my breasts again—probably a good thing, between the harlequin outfit and the bodice, they were on the verge of open rebellion anyway. And I didn’t braid my hair, instead I just shoved it under the squire’s cap, which was a size or two too large anyway. Between the baggy shirt and the tabard, my shape was more or less hidden. The boots were loose, but I only had to walk a short distance.
The elf whistle I hung round my neck under the tabard to keep it handy.
I was just about to tie up the naked squire when I heard a clanking approach. I had to run clumsily to go untie the bored warhorse from the tent stake the squire had used, and station myself in the squire’s place.
I’ll be the first to admit that this was nowhere near my most effective disguise. I wasn’t as tall as the lanky teenager I replaced, I had a better complexion, I was lumpy in all the wrong places, and a thick lock of my hair had come free from under my cap to dangle in front of my face. Standing there, in retrospect, I realized there was no way my impersonation should work.
I stood frozen, refusing to breathe as the knight walked into view with a retinue of servants.
And for once, the universe was on my side. His servants were too preoccupied manhandling the knight up on the horse to pay me any attention. My nominal task was to keep the horse steady during the operation, but the warhorse in question was so well trained that he might as well have been a rock. The knight himself was too handicapped by his own obnoxiously plumed helmet to notice I existed.
Once their man was in place, everyone retreated to several paces behind the horse and the knight, leaving me my place in the lead. This was good, in that I probably looked a little less out of place from the back than the front.
We all stood still, waiting for the call for our guy to get jousted all to hell.
Even though I had no idea who this knight belonged to, I was again aided by the well-trained mount. When a herald somewhere shouted about the champion of house such-and-so, the until-then immobile horse pawed the ground and I knew to start leading it toward the field of so-called honor.
• • •
Throughout my career of going places I should not be, to retrieve things I should not have, it has been a useful tool to use the human tendency to see exactly what one expects to see. Many times if someone is presented, without fanfare, a scene that is almost what should be there—but not quite—they will be disinclined to observe closely the actual discrepancies.
My march across the tilting field, toward the royal pavilion, had to be the ultimate test of the premise. Here I was, a barely disguised out-of-place young woman, leading a warhorse toward the queen herself, under the watchful eyes of thousands of spectators, scores of whom should recognize me for one reason or another if they had cause to look closely enough.
Each step I silently prayed to whatever forces were in charge of my fate to just get me a little closer. Each step, just a little closer. And, to my amazement, my brazen effort worked. The inevitable recognition never came, no noble stood from the stands to point an accusing finger and shout, “It’s her!”
Or, for that matter, “It’s him!”
As we came to a stop in front of the pavilion, and my knight dismounted, even Sir Forsythe seemed oblivious to my presence. My knight did me the favor of removing his helmet and handing it to me without even looking in my direction. I held it, the plumes making my nose itch, but further obscuring my face from the pavilion and the stands. He walked in sync with his opposite number, to kneel before the queen as the prior combatants had. It was hard to believe that I had gotten this far, and as Queen Fiona strode from the dais to give the royal imprimatur to the current round of ass-kicking, I readied myself to dash in front of the queen.
And, as she lowered her jeweled hand to receive her knightly devotion, a naked young man with a bleeding scalp ran onto the tourney field screaming, “Treachery!”
I took that as my cue. I tossed the helmet I held to the side, ran up in front of the startled queen, and echoed the knight’s gesture, taking her hand, and giving it a chaste kiss as I palmed the three rings she wore. The oversize cap tumbled off as I raised my head. Our eyes met, and as the queen stared at me in shock, I said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry about the entrails, Your Highness.”
From behind her, Sir Forsythe drew his sword and scowled at me, “You!” he cried out as eloquently as could be expected. Other members of the queen’s retainers scrambled out of the pavilion, and the knight kneeling next to us grabbed for me. He was surprisingly quick for someone wrapped in a fancy tin can, but he ended up with a gauntlet full of my tabard.
I ducked out of the tabard and ran for the horse, which seemed the quickest mode of escape available. I vaulted onto the saddle, swinging my leg with enough force to send one of my ill-fitting boots flying off into the face of one of the knight’s servants. I sat on the horse, snapping the reins with the hand that didn’t hold the rings, trying to kick it into motion.
The horse only moved to turn one eye to me and give a dirty look.
Damn horse was too well trained.
I was now trapped on top of the
animal, surrounded by the knights’ retainers on one side, the queen’s on the other. Someone grabbed my leg and I pulled free, losing the other boot as I stood up on the saddle. Sir Forsythe waded toward me through the crowd.
At the top of my lungs I screamed, “Brock! If you’re going to do something, do it now!”
He already had.
From my vantage, I saw the horses before I heard the hoofbeats. Four chestnut mares were loose, and, galloping from the confines of the tents by the knights’ staging area, one headed for the tourney field, three others toward the crowd.
Then came the warhorses.
“Oh, crap.”
I don’t know where Brock found four mares in season, but he had found an efficient way to make the knights’ mounts break training. Only six had broken free of their grooms to give chase to the mares, but ten hoses galloping through a crowd of drunken nobles was pretty significant as far as distractions go. The sudden stampede was enough to give pause to the people surrounding me and the horse I was on.
One of the mares galloped wildly down the jousting field toward us. The beast under me snorted, and I barely had time to drop back down and grab the saddle beneath me before my mount decided that the game had begun, knight be damned. He reared, throwing the knight’s men to the four points of the compass, and started galloping toward his prize.
For a few strides it was as if I was part of a joust, an invisible opponent on top of the much smaller mare, our paths separated by a yard-tall hedge. Ahead, on our side of the hedge, the naked teenage squire stood, eyes wide in shock, unmoving.
I screamed “Move!” at him. A pointless gesture since, by the time the word was out of my mouth, the horse was upon him. The only thing that saved the squire was the fact that my mount, intent on a mounting of his own, decided just before reaching him to vault the hedge.
I took that moment to jump off, seeing no way my ride could end well. I rolled along the field and up against the hedge. I did a quick inventory, making sure I still clutched Queen Fiona’s three rings in my fist. I had a panicked moment when I couldn’t find the elf whistle’s strap around my neck, but then I felt that it had fallen into my shirt.
Dragon Princess Page 18
