by Barb Hendee
Thankfully, the afternoon passed quickly, and as the sun was dipping in the sky, Rurik turned and called, “Rékausi up ahead,” over his shoulder.
“Are we still in your territory?” Amelie asked Anton.
“Yes,” he answered, “right on the edge. I thought it best. We cross into Damek’s lands first thing in the morning.”
As the town came into sight, Céline squinted at what appeared to be a sea of movement in the streets. “What is that?”
Almost absently, Anton responded, “Our greeting.”
Rurik’s horse entered the town . . . as the contingent came after. Hundreds of people lined the streets, some holding late-autumn flowers or early holly berries, and they began to cheer at the sight of Anton—who still rode between the sisters.
He raised one hand and waved to the people as they cheered, and some began throwing flowers and branches of holly into his path.
Céline had no idea what to make of this. She turned her head and looked past him to Amelie, who appeared equally taken aback.
“Smile and wave,” Anton said quietly. “The people expect it.”
Attempting to recover herself, Céline smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
“Prince Anton!” the people cheered.
Although he very seldom left Sèone, he was loved, even here on the edge of his lands.
“How did they know you were coming?” she asked through her carefully set smile.
“I sent a rider last night. I had to have an inn made ready for us. The innkeeper must have spread the word.”
Céline tried to get her head around this. He’d sent a rider to have an inn prepared? Anton left very little to chance.
The people remained at a respectful distance, allowing the contingent to pass. Again, Rurik seemed to know exactly where he was going, and led the way through town, stopping his mount in front of a whitewashed, three-story building with numerous windows.
Some soldiers began to dismount, and other horses pressed up from behind. Sable was jostled a bit, and Céline found herself separated from Amelie and Anton.
“Céline,” someone said.
Looking down, she saw Rurik standing on the ground beside her.
He reached up with both arms. “Put your hands on my shoulders.”
Wordlessly, exhausted, she did as he said, and he lifted her down. When her feet touched solid earth, she expected him to let go, but he held on to her. Still, his grip was light, as if he wanted her to know she could pull away if she wished.
“I wanted to thank you,” he whispered.
“Thank me?”
“Yes . . . not long ago, I thought . . . I thought I might be finished as a guard of Sèone, but you spoke up for me. And then yesterday, Jaromir told me that you’d named me as head of the prince’s guard on this journey.” He looked around at the flowers and holly in the street. “This was the best day of my life, and I have you to thank.”
“Oh, Rurik, no. I only told the truth about your courage in Ryazan. You won this on your own merit.”
He shook his head. “Not entirely.” His gaze was intense, but she saw only gratitude and friendship in his green eyes. “I would die for you . . . or Amelie. You know that?”
“Corporal?” said a low voice.
Céline turned her head to see Anton watching them. His expression was unreadable.
Rurik stepped back. “My prince?”
“Have someone see the horses stabled and then see the innkeeper yourself about our rooms. We’ll need to have tonight’s baggage brought in.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Rurik barked a few orders to Sergeant Bazin about the horses and then hurried inside.
Anton’s gaze was still on Céline, but he motioned toward the front door. “Shall we?”
* * *
Amelie followed Céline and Anton inside, feeling somewhat ill at ease. She’d never admit it, but it was Anton who made her feel unsettled.
He always had.
He was simply so . . . guarded. Even after living under his protection for nearly half a year, she knew nothing about him and could never tell what he was thinking. Yet here she was, trusting both her and Céline’s life to his judgment. Jaromir might be overbearing, but at least she understood him. She could have a conversation or play a hand of cards with him—or even fight with him once in a while. Anton was unknowable. Untouchable.
Inside, she looked around.
The common room of the inn had been polished until every table and chair shone. The aroma of roasting meat and fresh bread wafted on the air. A warm fire burned in the hearth. A stout man in an apron strode toward them with an eager expression, but Rurik intercepted him before he got anywhere near Anton.
“We will sleep here?” Céline asked Anton.
“A room has been prepared for the both of you,” he answered. “With a palette on the floor for Helga. I apologize for the cramped conditions, but we have all the guards to house as well.”
“No, that will be fine. I like the idea of Helga staying with us.”
Amelie did, too. There was safety in numbers.
As if on cue in a play, Helga stomped through the front door and sniffed the air. Several strands of gray hair had escaped her crooked orange scarf. “When do we eat? I’m starving. That so-called lunch we ate wouldn’t keep a rat alive.”
Anton’s jaw twitched. “Dinner will be served directly.”
Amelie thought perhaps they would get settled in their rooms first, but that wasn’t the case. All the soldiers in their tan tabards and chain armor began coming through the door and finding a seat at one of the tables. She didn’t mind the prospect of eating right away. She’d had tea for breakfast and only an apple and biscuit for lunch. Her stomach was close to rumbling.
It was warm inside, and she took off her cloak, revealing the light blue dress beneath it. Though she hated being forced back into a dress again, she had her own dagger stored in its sheath in her right boot, and Jaromir’s weapons strapped to her wrists, covered by her long sleeves.
Céline removed her cloak as well, showing the lavender wool dress she’d worn. It fit her slender form well, and it matched her eyes.
A Sèone soldier Amelie didn’t recognize came through the door carrying several bags up on his shoulders, and Helga strode over to meet him. “You know which room is Miss Amelie and Miss Céline’s?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was just informed.”
“Good. Then take those up and mind you be careful!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said good-naturedly, and headed for a stairway at the back of the room.
Amelie raised an eyebrow at Céline. “It appears we have porter service.”
Helga plopped down on a bench at a table. “You girls come sit down.”
Amelie’s backside still hurt, but she was hungry enough to risk sitting on a wooden bench, and she took a place beside Helga. So did Céline.
However, Anton stood uncomfortably, with his jaw still tight, looking down at Helga, as if uncertain what to do.
“Here, my lord,” Rurik called.
The young corporal appeared to be preparing a small, single table—with one chair—by a window. In visible relief, Anton said, “Please excuse me,” and he walked over to sit by himself. The instant he was seated, Rurik joined another table populated by some of his men.
“Anton’s too good to eat with Helga?” Amelie whispered in Céline’s ear.
“I don’t think he has a choice. We’re on uncertain . . . social ground here.”
And that was another thing that bothered Amelie. No matter what Anton did, Céline always defended him. Amelie dropped the subject. Young women in white aprons began coming through a door behind the bar, carrying trays full of tankards of ale and plates of roast beef.
After that, for a while Amelie forgot everything but the food.
In addition to tender beef, they were served potatoes, warm bread, and apple compote. After dishing up once, she devoured everything on her plate and looked arou
nd for more.
Céline smiled. “Not so bad after all, traveling with the prince? Do you remember our camp rations with Jaromir?”
Although Céline had clearly meant this as a joke, it only gave Amelie a fresh jolt of anxiety. Honestly, she’d rather they were eating camp rations and drinking water from a bucket with Jaromir than trusting their lives to Anton.
During dinner, darkness fell and candles were lit. A few of their guards lit pipes, and more ale was served. Amelie glanced over at Prince Anton. Once his dinner dishes were removed, he stood up and took a step toward the stairs.
Just then, Rurik called out, “Céline, will you entertain us like you did before?”
On the dark road to Ryazan, Céline had considerably lightened the mood at night by the campfire. Amelie was exhausted, and she knew Céline was probably more so. But her sister stood up.
“What would you prefer,” she asked, “fortune-telling? A story? A song?”
Four men—who had all been on the previous trip—rang out together, “A story!”
This didn’t surprise Amelie. The men loved stories, and Céline was gifted at the art of “telling.”
Céline walked toward the hearth. “An adventure? A romance? A comedy?”
“What about something darker?” Rurik asked, flashing her a grin from across the room. “We aren’t in the northern forests now. Tell something to give us a shiver.”
“A ghost story?” Céline smiled in return, and her face lit up.
Amelie then noticed that Anton had frozen in place by his table, watching this exchange.
The innkeeper and the serving girls gathered by the bar, watching Céline expectantly. Her face glowed by the candlelight from the tabletops, and firelight glinted off her blond hair.
“My own sister and I are close, and we hold each other dear,” she began, “but not all sisters are so fortunate, and some are divided by jealousy.” She lifted her hands to her sides, palms upward. “And between siblings, jealously is the most dangerous emotion of all, more than hatred, more than fear.”
With that, she lowered her head briefly, and when she raised it again, any and all traces of her previous smile were gone.
“Years ago, up in the north, there lived a man with two daughters, both beautiful. The elder had rich brown hair and the younger had hair of copper gold. But while the elder sister’s nature was cold and reserved, the younger was more open with her love and affection, and people were drawn to her.”
Céline moved away from the hearth, slipping easily through the tables and chairs as she spoke. Everyone watched her.
“There was a handsome and prosperous young farmer who lived not far from them. They didn’t know him well, but one day, he came to visit, and after that, he came more often. In this province, it would be considered poor manners for him to pay attention to a younger sister if the elder were not yet married. So the young man did his due by speaking mainly to the father and to the elder sister.”
Céline’s voice dropped lower.
“But . . . at every chance, his eyes strayed to the younger sister.”
She stopped on the other side of the room and slowly began walking back toward the hearth. “The father organized horseback rides and dances for entertainment, and soon, the young man could be seen riding at the younger sister’s side and dancing with her in the village common hall, laughing and enjoying her company. The elder sister watched all this without a word, waiting and biding her time.”
Anton still remained frozen where he stood, staring at Céline.
“Then one afternoon, the sisters went walking by the great river that flowed through their father’s land, and the elder sister called the younger closer to the edge. When the younger sister willingly came, perhaps thinking to see something in the water, the elder sister pushed her into the deep river. The poor young woman struggled in the cold water, crying, ‘Help! Help me, sister. Grab my hands!’ But the elder sister stepped back and watched. The younger sister’s head went down beneath the surface, came up, and went down again as water flowed into her mouth and nose . . . and then she came up no more. The current carried her dead body downstream.”
A serving girl by the bar gasped.
“The elder sister ran home, telling a tale of how the younger had fallen into the river and could not be saved. Their father and the handsome farmer both wept. The young farmer was bereft, and somehow the elder sister managed to overcome her cold nature and offer him comfort. Before long, the two were betrothed, with him in ignorance that he would soon wed a murderess.”
She paused. The common room was silent but for a soft crackling from the hearth.
“Then . . . ,” Céline began again, “a band of traveling minstrels were walking along the river, and one of them saw something on the shore. They went to investigate and found the body of the younger sister. Even in death, her beauty moved them. Their singer, who was a woman, knelt by the younger sister’s side and touched her dead face and said, ‘I wish with all my heart that I could tell your kin what happened to you and where you were laid to rest.’ But as they had no idea who the dead girl was or who her family might be, the best they could do was to bury her.”
Amelie couldn’t help looking in Anton’s direction. He stood rooted to the same spot with his eyes locked on Céline.
“Several nights later, the father, the young farmer, and the elder daughter went into town to the large common hall to hear the minstrels play. Entertainment of this sort was rare in their part of the land, and the father thought that perhaps some fine music might ease their sorrow. They took their place among a small crowd as the minstrels made ready. The singer stepped out to begin her first song, and to everyone’s astonishment, her face began to alter, growing rounder and lovelier, and her hair turned thick and copper gold . . . until she had taken the form of the younger sister, and she began to sing in sorrow-laden strains. ‘I weep. I weep for my lost father. I weep for my lost love, and I weep for my sister, who pushed me into the river and watched me drown.’”
Several of the soldiers drew in sharp breaths.
“Then the singer looked exactly as she had before. But the handsome farmer turned and looked in horror at the elder sister, who had guilt all over her face.” Céline was nearly whispering now, but her voice carried across the room. “She would soon be punished for her crime of jealousy . . . exposed by a singing ghost.”
Céline dropped her head. The story was done.
The room remained silent for a long moment, and then applause burst out, filling the large space.
Amelie took a final glance toward the front window.
Anton was gone.
* * *
The following morning, they got a late start. Though somewhat frustrated, Anton realized he should have expected this. It was the first time Corporal Rurik had ever been charged with packing up twenty-five people, their horses, their wagon, and then getting everyone back on the road.
Finally, though, the large party pulled out of Rékausi and crossed over into Damek’s territory. The road they traveled was once again lined with thick, dark trees while a drizzle of rain fell from the sky. Anton rode behind Céline and Amelie, keeping himself as isolated as possible.
For the most part, his mind had been so occupied he’d barely noticed the delay.
Every step closer to Kimovesk filled him with further dread.
Worse, he could not stop picturing the sight of Céline from the night before . . . and the sound of her voice as she’d told that story. He wanted to push the image from his thoughts, and he couldn’t.
In all his life, he had only fallen in love with one woman. After the lonely, pain-filled years of his childhood and youth, at the age of eighteen, he’d met Jocelyn Chevrier. She was sweet, sheltered, and shy, with a gift for small kindnesses. With her, for the first time, he didn’t feel alone.
Though from a noble family, she was not royal and she was not rich. Prince Lieven had forbidden a marriage. This was the only time Anton defied his fat
her, and he didn’t care about the repercussions. As Anton was already ruling over Sèone, his father couldn’t afford to disinherit him. Anton dealt with the initial anger without flinching—though it troubled him more than he cared to admit, as he had no wish to hurt his father. But almost immediately following the marriage, Jocelyn became pregnant, and then all was forgiven.
Prince Lieven wanted a grandson.
Jocelyn died in childbirth, along with the baby, and Anton had wished to die with them. It took him a long time to recover, and he’d never even looked at another woman . . . until now.
In most ways, Céline was nothing like Jocelyn. She was certainly not sheltered or shy. She had suffered more than her share of hardships and exhibited a poorly hidden caution of most men. She was a consummate liar and showed no compunction against using this talent when necessary.
But . . . she was also warm and sympathetic and generous with small kindnesses. She was beautiful and intelligent and took pride in supporting herself and Amelie with her noted skills as an apothecary.
He had not thought to ever feel so drawn to a woman again, and yet he couldn’t act upon his feelings or even tell her.
Marriage was out of the question. She would be viewed by everyone who mattered as a gypsy peasant, and given the current political situation, even Anton wouldn’t go that far outside social convention. Nor would Céline wish him to. She cared about her country, and she wanted to see him named as grand prince. That left him with the prospect of making her his mistress, and he’d never allow such a thing for someone so fine as Céline. On several occasions, he had wanted her to touch him so badly that he almost forgot himself, but one or both of them had pulled back at the last moment.
Thankfully.
No, it was his fate to remain isolated, and he understood that. Unlike Damek, he would not marry for money or connections, and love was rare for him. Yet self-awareness was a strength—or at least his father had always said so.
His tall stallion walked easily along the muddy road, and again, he fought to push the image of Céline last night standing in front of the hearth, telling that story, from his mind.
