The Princess

by Elizabeth Elliott

  The Princess is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Linda Kay Crippes

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN 9780553575682

  Ebook ISBN 9780345538635

  Cover design: Eileen Carey

  Cover photographs: © Alla Samarskaya/Shutterstock (woman), © Matt Gibson/Shutterstock (castle)

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One: The German Princess

  Chapter Two: Poison

  Chapter Three: The Garden

  Chapter Four: Smitten

  Chapter Five: The King

  Chapter Six: The Magician

  Chapter Seven: The Wedding

  Chapter Eight: Ancient History

  Chapter Nine: Magnetic Forces

  Chapter Ten: Childish Things

  Chapter Eleven: Changes

  Chapter Twelve: Another Wedding

  Chapter Thirteen: Lovers

  Chapter Fourteen: Uncharted Waters

  Chapter Fifteen: Revelations

  Chapter Sixteen: Secrets and Lies

  Chapter Seventeen: Trust

  Chapter Eighteen: Diplomacy

  Chapter Nineteen: The English Princess

  Chapter Twenty: Torture

  Chapter Twenty-one: The Truth

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Elizabeth Elliott

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  The German Princess

  London, 1293

  “May I present Faulke Segrave, Lord of Derllys, heir to the Baron of Carreg.” The English knight gestured for the second man to step forward, and then he cleared his throat. “May I also present Lord Faulke’s cousin, Sir Richard Segrave of Hawksforth.”

  At my nod, Sir Roland bowed low, and then returned to his station by the door. I tried to show no outward expression as I eyed the two newcomers.

  Everyone who knew Faulke Segrave claimed he was tall with dark hair and blue eyes, and a face most ladies found pleasing. What stood before me was definitely tall and blue eyed. A chain mail hood covered his hair, which made confirmation of its color difficult to determine. The color of his beard was just as mysterious, since it was caked with dried mud that was an unpleasant shade of grayish brown. Even his facial features were difficult to distinguish under the streaks of muck and dirt that covered his face and beard. As for a pleasing personality, I did not hold out much hope.

  Faulke’s cousin, Richard, was a near twin in appearance as well as in filth. My gaze lingered on their eyes, the whites made more vivid by the mud that surrounded them, the blue even more intense against the white. It was a rather startling effect, as if they were staring at me from behind Venetian masks. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I forced my gaze lower.

  The surcoats they wore might have the Segrave dragon on their chests, but it was impossible to know for certain. Everything they wore, from head to foot, was covered with dried mud. They both looked—and smelled—as if they had recently rolled through a bog.

  I lifted the fingers of my right hand, just a little, and then let them settle again onto the arm of my chair. Gerhardt, the captain of my guard, recognized the signal and stepped forward to introduce me to our visitors in his painfully precise French.

  “I present to you Her Royal Highness, Isabel of Ascalon, Dowager Crown Princess of Rheinbaden, Princess of England, Countess of Maldon, Baroness Helmsford, Baroness Sildon, daughter of King Edward of England, and widow of Crown Prince Hartman of Rheinbaden.”

  The list of titles was meant to intimidate, to make certain the Segraves understood who held the advantage between us. Gerhardt returned to his place by my side and we all waited as the Segraves stared back at us.

  No one shifted their weight or cleared their throat or coughed. The only sounds were the chirps of songbirds in the gardens, and the distant rumble from beyond our walls of the beast that was London.

  The longer the silence stretched out, the more I had to convince myself that I was the only one who could hear the telltale beat of my heart as it pattered out a nervous rhythm. On the outside I presented a practiced portrait to the world of a mature woman nearly twenty-four years old. On the inside I cowered like a child. I had dreaded this day from the moment I received word that my husband had drowned. An accident fueled by idiotic male pride and too much wine had shattered my ordered world just over a year ago. I had left Rheinbaden the day after my official year of mourning ended, and landed in England a month later to meet a father I had forgotten and visit the grave of a mother I could scarcely remember. And now I found myself staring into the angry face of my future.

  The differences between us might be comical, under different circumstances. Their garments were covered in mud. Mine smelled pleasantly of the sandalwood-lined trunks where I stored my finest clothing. I doubt they had washed their hands or faces in the last week. I had taken a long, leisurely bath in rosewater just that morning. Indeed, I had spent hours preparing for this meeting, determined there would be no doubt in the Segraves’ minds that they were dealing with a very wealthy, very powerful noblewoman.

  I wore my finest jewels, my pink gown and surcoat fashioned from the richest fabrics then liberally embellished with designs made of seed pearls. The colors were nicely offset by my dark hair and Plantagenet-blue eyes, but the entire ensemble probably outweighed the Segraves’ armor. The effect was worth a little discomfort. I had greeted kings in these garments. They were seeing me at my very best.

  In contrast, the Segraves looked as if someone had just dragged them from a ditch. I sincerely hoped I was seeing them at their worst.

  Most people consider an audience with royalty an occasion of some importance. At the very least, they bathed and donned clean clothing. Big and broad shouldered, the two warriors looked and smelled so fierce they were more likely to be taken for Welsh barbarians than knights of the realm.

  Just that morning, my friend Avalene de Forshay had surveyed us with a critical eye and claimed we were so radiant that only a religious painting could inspire greater awe. It was the effect I had hoped for, but the mocking looks from the Segraves gave me pause. My people wore their finest court clothing, which meant they were dressed in white and pink, the royal colors of Rheinbaden. And then I recalled that most English considered pink an unmanly color. They did not understand that in the Alps of Rheinbaden, pink symbolized the color of blood mixed with snow.

  The uncomfortable silence was finally broken as the nearby bells of All Hallows by the Tower began to ring, a seemingly endless reverberation echoed by scores of churches across the city. The cacophony of sound made conversation temporarily impossible, unless I wanted to resort to rude shouts, which I did not.

  Several strikes later, Richard leaned closer to his cousin, obviously counting on the bells to cover his words, but the ringing suddenly ceased and the silence amplified his voice. “We should
have insisted—”

  Faulke cut him off with a sharp look, and then he turned to glare again at me. It was a good thing I didn’t scare easily.

  Gerhardt, the captain of my guard, expressed my sentiments exactly. “Sie sind beleidigend.”

  Sometimes Gerhardt saw insult where none existed, but in this instance, I had to agree with him. They were insulting. My hopes for a civil first meeting evaporated.

  Gerhardt was too stoic for foolish notions such as hope. Like most of my people, the captain of my guard bore the obvious marks of his Germanic heritage: blond hair, blue eyes, lean and tall, with absolutely no sense of humor. His steely eyed presence at my side cowed most men, and I watched his hand flex on the hilt of his sword as his mouth became a flat line.

  I looked back at the Segraves. Richard watched Gerhardt as if my captain were a viper. Faulke’s gaze had returned to me. His scowl left little doubt about his impressions of what he saw. I let my mouth curve into what I hoped was a condescending smile.

  Faulke’s hands became fists at his sides and his gaze went to Gerhardt. “Does your princess speak French?”

  The room fell silent again.

  His voice was deeper than I expected, and I found myself momentarily distracted by the sound of it. And then I was amazed that he would ask such a question. French was the native language of every English noble, although most could also speak the English tongue of their Saxon vassals and peasants. French was also the common language of nobles throughout the civilized world.

  Except in Rheinbaden. There, visitors spoke in German or they were not heard. Even the Rheinbaden nobles who spoke French pretended ignorance, since they considered every foreign language inferior to German. As a result, very few of my people spoke French, and fewer still spoke English. Not that it mattered.

  Regardless of who spoke what language, one did not address a servant when their master or mistress was present. It would serve him right if we all pretended ignorance. I actually toyed with the idea until Faulke took a threatening step toward Gerhardt. Political posturing was not worth spilled blood. Not yet, anyway.

  I rose from my seat and saw Faulke’s eyes widen. He stood taller than most men, but then again, so do I. The pearl-encrusted crown made me appear even taller. I answered his question in flawless French. “My subjects do not speak to ausländers without my permission, Lord Faulke. You are ausländers. Outsiders. If you have something to say to me, I can converse fluently in French, Latin, English, Italian, and German.”

  He simply stared at me.

  “I believe additional introductions are in order,” I went on, my tone brisk. “The man you just addressed is the captain of my guard. Gerhardt speaks French, although my ladies and most of my soldiers and servants speak only German. That should not matter, since anything you wish to say to them should be said first to me.”

  I folded my hands and gave him a serene look. This was the moment I had waited for. They were men and therefore thought themselves above me. I had just corrected their thinking. Now would come the well-deserved apologies.

  “An hour ago I was faced with the prospect of immediate imprisonment or a royal bride. You may be happy to know that I have just signed our betrothal papers. It seems we shall be married within the month.” He folded his arms across his broad chest, dislodging a few clumps of dried mud that crumbled to the floor. “You might be a princess, but I am the man you will soon call your lord and master.”

  I was speechless. His arrogance made mine pale in comparison, which was not an easy feat when I was purposely trying to be arrogant. He also made my father’s generosity sound like a punishment, the ungrateful churl.

  Another hard-learned lesson was to know your opponent. My attention went to his shoulders, and then to his arms. His build spoke of long hours spent swinging a sword, likely from the time he could walk. Indeed, both cousins looked as if they had just been plucked from the midst of a battlefield.

  In contrast, my soldiers had spent too many years guarding doorways in my court, and none at all in actual battle. There was no doubt in my mind that these two knights could do serious damage to my men, if they were so inclined, and they certainly looked inclined. And that made me wonder if my new “lord and master” would ever raise a hand against me.

  Fortunately, my father had already given me reassurances on that score. If this man ever dared abuse me, I would ensure that he also learned a hard, painful lesson. That thought bolstered my courage.

  “Most men would think themselves blessed to gain such prizes,” I finally said, in as calm a voice as I could manage.

  “Most men are not brought to the altar at the point of a sword.”

  My gaze went to his side and I noticed for the first time that both men had been relieved of their weapons. Little wonder they were so angry. Still, it was their own greed that formed this prison, and they were being amply compensated for their troubles.

  Despite my own frustrations, I made an unexpected discovery as I watched Faulke draw in a breath and then slowly release it through tight lips. Despite the mud and wild beard, there was something appealing about the shape of his mouth. That is, if one were attracted to rude, uncivilized sorts of men with intriguing mouths, which I am not. Still, amid the dirt and anger, I saw glimpses of a strong profile that some women might find appealing.

  He tilted his head to one side and slowly looked me up and down again, this time in a way that made my temperature rise and butterflies stir to life in my stomach. Some instinct warned me not to underestimate this man, even as I reminded him of his supposed good fortune.

  “Our marriage will provide your family with more wealth and power than you could have ever hoped for from a marriage to Avalene de Forshay,” I pointed out.

  He shook his head. “An hour ago, I learned that the woman I was legally betrothed to marry has been put beyond my reach by your father’s order. The day may come when I am pleased with our impending marriage, but today is not that day.”

  I was not particularly pleased with this day myself. Until the Segraves entered this chamber, I had hoped for a man who would be the complete opposite of my first husband, Hartman. This would teach me to be careful what I wished for.

  A certain amount of resentment from Faulke had been expected. Still, I had not anticipated this level of hostility. The titles he would gain with my dowry included an earldom, several baronies, manors, and all the wealth that went with the accompanying lands. He would soon become one of the richest and most powerful men in England. All he had to do was tamp down his ambitions in Wales. Was that really such a sacrifice?

  It was a stupid question. I had been surrounded by ambitious men all my life, and none of them welcomed the sacrifice of their ambitions. I knew the Segraves’ history. Ruthless Ambition should be their family motto.

  I recalled a conversation I had earlier in the day with Faulke’s former betrothed. “Lady Avalene warned me that you would not be happy with our betrothal, but I did not fully comprehend the depths of your displeasure.”

  Something dark flickered in his eyes. “Lady Avalene was everything I wanted in a wife.”

  Which implied that I was not. The butterflies congealed into an icy lump. Was he trying to make me jealous of Avalene, or simply taking another opportunity to insult me?

  It was difficult to be jealous of a woman who was in love with a notorious assassin. Dante Chiavari, her husband-to-be, was not even an Englishman. And that proved how little Faulke knew Avalene, if he thought he could stir my jealousy toward her.

  I pretended to adjust the cuff of my sleeve as I considered my response, letting my fingers trail across the smooth bumps of the seed pearls that were stitched in tight rows from my elbows to my wrists. The Segraves were driven by their greed for power. So why was he goading me?

  “You are barely acquainted with Lady Avalene,” I said, “which means that what she would have
brought to your marriage was more important than the lady herself. And yet she has very little in the way of lands or wealth.”

  He spread his hands and lifted his shoulders, a silent admission of the truth. “Surely you are aware of the reasons I sought her out.”

  “Aye. Our impending marriage is a direct result of those reasons,” I said. “If you wed Avalene and then fathered a son on her, you could rule all of Wales through such a child.”

  “Those possibilities existed,” he admitted as he tilted his head in a mockery of a bow. “However, now that your father has interfered, there is no longer any chance that Avalene will be my wife.”

  “My father is no fool.”

  “Nor am I,” he countered. “You were married nearly ten years and yet you have no heirs. Our marriage contract is such that only an heir of your body can inherit my family’s lands and titles, along with your own. Your father has found a means to extinguish my family’s line, and ensure that everything the Segraves hold dear will eventually revert to the crown.”

  Ah, here was the true crux of his anger. The Segraves’ holdings in Wales were impressive, given their recent rise to power, with a dozen fortified keeps and their main fortress, Hawksforth, the jewel that presided over them all. Now those holdings were tied to any child I might bear. I had hoped the Segraves would be so blinded by the wealth and titles my father intended to rain upon them that they would meekly accept the terms of our betrothal. Foolish hopes.

  In any event, his accusation did not surprise me, and I had a ready answer. “My husband contracted mumps many years ago, just before our first child was born.”

  “The child did not live long,” Faulke retorted.