The Secret Princess

by Rachelle Mccalla

  She looked away, glancing to the carcass of the bear lying still in the clearing, then back in the direction of the village of Bern, where she’d saved his life. She stared that way for some time, not looking at him, nibbling at her lower lip uncertainly. Her dress was coarse, patched, befitting a woman of low station. A puzzle, indeed, for rarely did women of low station travel far beyond their homelands...unless they’d been sold as slaves.

  He couldn’t bear the thought that the woman who’d saved him might be owned by someone else—not when he had the means to buy her freedom.

  “You saved my life.” He stepped forward tentatively, fearing she might bolt again. “Please allow me to repay you.”

  But the woman shuffled backward away from him, shaking her head, her face pale again. “No,” she whispered, “no.”

  * * *

  Evelyn rubbed her eyes, blinked, looked at the man again. She had to be dreaming. She had to be. She’d dreamed of him plenty of times before, but this dream was different. She was certainly awake this time. This dream felt real.

  “You are not the man I helped,” she told him frankly, looking him full in the face and denying the way her heart leaped inside her. Granted, this stranger looked like the soldier she’d sewn together, but plenty of other men looked like him, too, at least at first glance. She’d stared at other men for months, thinking she’d seen him, then feeling foolish for hoping to find him alive knowing she couldn’t possibly see him ever again.

  He was dead. He’d died. Her efforts had failed, and the enemy had returned. In the battle that had erupted, the hut where he’d been sleeping had burned to the ground. There’d been nothing left of him but charred bones and ashes.

  She’d prayed there had been some mistake. But though her hope-filled eyes had spotted plenty of men who resembled him from afar, on closer inspection none of them were as handsome as the soldier.

  “I am,” the man insisted, stepping closer.

  Evelyn stumbled backward. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but she didn’t like it. “You can’t be. That man died.”

  He stopped advancing, scowled, reached for his shirt. “I’m not dead. You saved my life. I can show you my scar.”

  A wall of brambles prevented her from retreating further, so Evelyn turned her head and pinched her eyes shut. She couldn’t see, wouldn’t look, refused to resurrect the grief she’d felt at his death. It hadn’t ever made any sense, anyway, why the death of a stranger should tear so deeply at her heart. Her prayers for his recovery had gone unanswered, but her disappointment shouldn’t have been any deeper than what she felt daily, reduced to the status of a lowly servant in her grandfather’s household.

  God hadn’t rescued her from her position. Why did it hurt her heart so much that God had failed to save the soldier? Sorrow had stung her deeply when she’d heard of his death. Thoughts of him could drive her to tears even still. She certainly wasn’t going to revisit those raw emotions, not in front of this stranger. She kept her eyes closed, her head turned away as she sought to control the sadness that rose up inside her.

  The sun had warmed the day, and the wren that had sung to her as she’d dug valerian roots hopped closer, singing exuberantly again.

  Fingers brushed her hand, the light touch so shocking she nearly screamed again.

  “Please.” His voice was low, gentle, far too close to her. “I owe you for my life. What can I do to repay you?”

  She shook her head and kept her eyes closed tight. “You are not that man. That man died.”

  “How do you know he died?”

  “They showed me the charred bones and ashes. There was a battle. The hut burned.”

  “The hut didn’t burn. Or maybe it did, but I was gone by then.”

  “You were too weak to walk.”

  “My men helped me out.”

  “Your men?” She peeked back at him, assessing his clothing, trying to determine his rank. He spoke with words that would indicate he had soldiers serving under him. But then, her grasp of the Illyrian language was tentative at best. Surely she’d misunderstood. His dress was no different than a common woodsman’s, not even that of a soldier.

  But the man she’d tried to save had been similarly dressed, and they’d told her he was a soldier—and an important one. They’d wanted him to live so they could use him as a tool for bargaining.

  She had studied his face in the firelight as she’d prayed for God’s mercy on his life and wondered then what made the man so important that they’d threaten her, a life for a life. If she failed to save him, they’d promised to kill her. When she learned the fire had killed him, she’d half expected to die then, but it hadn’t been her fault, so they’d let her live.

  Besides, with her knowledge of healing, she was useful to her grandfather, even if he purposely gave her the hardest, most demeaning jobs at the fortress as she worked to pay off the infinite debt her father owed him.

  Fingers brushed her hand again. She froze and pinched her eyes more tightly shut.

  He cupped his hand over hers and drew her arm toward him, settling her fingers over the scar. “Do you recognize your handiwork?”

  She opened her eyes cautiously, looked at the scar, blinked and inspected it more closely.

  He’d been cut from just above his navel to his ribs, saved only by the thick wall of muscle that had kept his organs from being spilled. The scar followed the exact line, etched with feathered strokes marking each neat stitch.

  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—not
hing 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.