“Estlebrook,” the farmer answers.
“Are you selling your pumpkins?”
I look back at the wagon full of gourds. The man glances over his shoulder, looks at the pumpkins and back at me. He then raises an eyebrow, as if suggesting my question were a foolish one.
I shrug. “It’s a little early in the season for winter squash, isn’t it?”
The man grunts and then turns back to the road. He doesn’t want to talk.
That’s fine.
I curl my hair around my finger, once again wishing for a comb. I stare at the trees; I stare at the road.
“Who do you sell your pumpkins to?” I ask, turning around again. The wagon comes to a halt. “I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet, I swear.”
“I’m not going to keep twisting my neck like an owl,” the farmer answers. He motions to the empty seat next to him. “Get yourself up here.”
I scurry from the wagon and climb the steps to settle down next to the farmer, leaving Danver to nose around in the pumpkins.
“Your fox better not eat anything back there.”
I shake my head, surprised he noticed Danver at all. “Oh, no. He might eat a mouse or two if he finds them, but he won’t eat the pumpkins.”
The farmer grunts, and the horses continue on.
“I’m Winnie,” I say, using a nickname my family hasn’t called me since I was old enough to read.
He gives me a wry smile. “Ergmin.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Ergmin. Thank you for the ride.”
A little brown bird with a bright orange chest settles on the wooden rails next to me, hopping a few times before it finds a perch it likes.
“I know who you are.” Ergmin speaks to me but eyes the bird.
My spirits sink. “You do?”
“What are you running from, Lady Anwen?”
“How did you know?”
He nods to the back. “The fox.”
“Oh.”
“I also tried to sell those pumpkins to your father a few days ago. He told me it was too early for winter squash as well.”
I shrug. It is too early. They’ll rot in storage before winter is over.
“I should return you to the Baron.”
I sigh. “Please don’t.”
Ergmin doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t slow the horses either. We continue on to Estlebrook.
***
The sun is low by the time we reach the town. I stretch as I climb from the wagon and then call to Danver. I let him down, and he runs to the back of the stables.
I stare at the inn in front of me, shifting from one foot to the other, thinking.
“You don’t have money, do you?” Ergmin asks.
I bite my lip and shake my head.
The farmer tosses me a coin. “Don’t get yourself into too much trouble.”
“Thank you,” I call to him as he drives his wagon away.
The copper should be enough for a room and perhaps a meal, if I’m lucky. A stream runs just outside the town, and I can drink from it even if I can’t afford food. At least I won’t die of thirst.
I push through the door. Several seated men take in my appearance, staring at my outfit with appreciation. I ignore them, curse Dimitri again for taking my gown, and march to the woman behind the bar.
She eyes me and shakes her head. “I don’t want any trouble.”
I slap the coin on the counter. “I’m not a gypsy, and I won’t be trouble.”
She snorts and scoops the coin up. “You won’t be turning my inn into a house of ill repute.”
I gasp, taken aback. “How dare—”
“That goes for the lot of you over there!” the woman snarls at the seated men.
They laugh and jeer, and she waves a rag at them, cursing them all before her eyes travel back to me. “If you’re not offering, girl, you should change your clothes.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t have anything else to wear.”
The woman clucks her tongue. “You have a story?”
I glance around the inn. “I got myself in a bit of a sticky situation, and now I’m trying to sort it out.”
“Hmmm,” she says. “My name is Inger.”
“Winnie,” I reply, using the nickname again. “Do you know of any festivals to the west of here?”
Inger narrows her eyes as she sets a bowl of stew in front of me. I’m so hungry, I dive in without any thought to manners.
“I thought you weren’t a gypsy,” Inger mocks. “Why are you looking for festivals?”
I gulp down half the bowl and then make myself slow down before I’m sick. “I’m looking for a gypsy caravan. They have something of mine.”
Inger thinks about my question. “There were many men who traveled through here on their way to the marriage tournament in Lauramore, but I would think it should be ending soon.
Of course—Princess Pippa’s tournament.
“Do you know anyone traveling that way?” I ask.
Inger eyes the men. “None that I would send you with. It takes at least a week to travel to Lauramore anyway. It will be over before you get there.”
I chew my lip, thinking. Tournaments usually have a festival at the end. Perhaps Dimitri plans to attend that?
“What about Glendon?” I scrape the sides of my bowl with the spoon. “Is there anyone you know who will be traveling there?”
If I can make it to Glendon, surely I can find someone to take me the rest of the way to Lauramore.
Inger shakes her head. “You’re going to need to take a carriage. You have money?”
“You have my only coin.”
Inger frowns. “You can earn some from me. You know how to wash linens? Scrub pots?”
Inwardly I cringe, and I don’t answer her right away. Admitting I have no idea how to do either of those things will tell her more than I am willing to share.
She brushes her hair out of her face, studying me. “I figured as much,” she says, taking my silence as an answer. “Come now, finish your meal. You have much to learn.”
***
I lean out of the carriage with Danver perched on my lap, and together we take in the sights. The palace of Lauramore is directly in front of us. Just as I remember from the time my family came when I was young, a waterfall cascades from the mountain terrace, falls next to the palace like a long, white ribbon, and crashes into a pool on the terrace below.
On the same level as the pool, but farther down into the meadow, an arena has been constructed. Flags wave in the breeze, but the seats are empty. I’m not as concerned with the arena as I am with the cluster of peasants, small merchants, and entertainers who have made a temporary camp not far from the structure.
I recognize no one.
“It was quite the tournament,” a young man says from next to me, his eyes trained on Danver.
I glance at him. “Was?”
He nods. “It ended a few days ago. Haven’t you heard?”
I shake my head, waiting for him to continue. He raises his eyebrows, surprised.
“Who won?” I ask, hoping he’ll continue.
“Prince Lionel of Vernow.” He chuckles when I cringe. “But he cheated, broke the Dragon Treaty, and was carried away by the largest red dragon seen in years.”
I laugh. “You jest.”
The man shakes his head. “No, it’s true.”
“Why hasn’t this news reached Primewood?”
He shrugs. “Not many have left Lauramore. Most are staying through the wedding.”
“I don’t understand. You just said the victor was carried away by a dragon.”
“The win went to Lord Archer of Errinton.”
I try to place the man’s face. “I know no one by that name.”
But I do know only vile things come from Errinton.
“No one did,” a woman across from us interrupts. “He was Lauramore’s master archer. He and the princess fell in love not knowing he was titled.” She sighs. “Lord Rigel of Errinton discove
red his heritage, and Archer won the tournament.”
The man scowls at the woman for stealing his story. “We thought the win would go to Prince Galinor of Glendon, but it turns out Archer was completing all the events for him.”
I blink at him, surprised. How dishonorable.
“And you are?” I ask the pair. With how familiar they are with each other, they must be traveling together.
“I am Emery,” the woman says. “And this is Geoff. We work in the kitchens. We traveled to Glendon to buy beef for the wedding feast.”
“When is the wedding?” I ask.
“Three days,” Geoff answers.
What am I going to do for three days? I don’t want to spend them like the first few weeks away from home, scrubbing floors and hanging laundry, but I have used all my coins to get here.
I stare out the window again. It’s already been a fortnight since I last saw Dimitri, and I am eager to find him, retrieve Mara and the changeling stone, and return home.
Unless it was all a misunderstanding—then maybe we can still be together. Say, perhaps, we were under attack and the only way Dimitri could keep me safe was to leave me hidden in the woods. Or, possibly, he felt so terrible for separating me from my family and home that he left me there in a noble, heart-wrenching display of chivalry—and all he took to remember me by was the changeling stone…and my dress…the necklace he gave me…and my horse.
My hands clench into fists in my lap, but I take a deep breath and release them. “Are they hiring entertainment for the feast?”
They eye me. I fidget under their gaze, wondering if they will see through my ridiculous costume. At least Inger gave me fabric to sew a more modest bodice.
“Tambourine girl?” Emery asks.
I lick my lips. “I can do that.”
“I’ll introduce you to Master Draeger when we reach the palace. He arranges the music for the dinners and festivals.”
I smile, feeling both relieved and nervous. I can shake a tambourine if I have to. How hard can it be?
***
“Watch where you are going, peasant,” a woman sneers.
I only barely bumped into her.
Cringing, I apologize and attempt to right her extremely tall hat, which I have knocked askew. She bats my hand away, affronted, and harrumphs as she disappears into the crowd.
“I am sorry,” I call after her.
From across the hall, I feel Master Draeger’s scowl. I clap my hands together, making the tambourine jingle. I attempt to swirl about the room “gracefully, beautifully, and moving as an extension of the music itself”—exactly as Draeger has instructed. Instead, I crash into the arms of one of the visiting princes. The exact prince I have been avoiding all evening.
Surprise flashes across Irving’s face and then it falls away to amusement. “Lady Anwen?”
“Shhh,” I hiss, looking around to make sure no one has overheard.
In a lower voice, he asks, “Darling, whatever are you doing?”
“I can’t tell you, Irving.”
He grins, and it’s a wicked, beautiful thing. “You must. I am your prince, and as my oh-so-lovely subject, you have no choice.”
I laugh despite myself. “Can’t you tell? I’ve run away from home to become a performer.”
“A noble choice, to be sure,” the Crown-prince of Primewood says, grinning. “But I don’t believe you.”
I raise my eyebrows and shake the tambourine for emphasis.
“No one could look at lovely you, and think you are a tambourine girl,” he whispers, his voice dripping with honey.
“I believe I have most fooled.”
He pulls me into his arms and guides me to the music. I notice he’s limping slightly, and I motion to his leg. “What happened to you?”
“Dragon.” He waves the question away. “But I believe we were speaking of you. What I meant was, despite how lovely you are, you make a pathetic tambourine girl.”
I laugh and smack him in the shoulder with the instrument. He winces, and I realize he must have been injured there as well. “Oh, Irving,” I laugh. “I’m sorry.”
The pain slowly leaves his face, and he smiles again. “I mean it, love. You are the worst entertainer I have ever seen. What are you really doing here?”
Draeger scowls at me, but I give him a helpless look as Irving leads me around the hall. Surely the music master wouldn’t expect a mere peasant girl to refuse a prince a dance?
“I met a gypsy,” I begin, keeping my voice low so only Irving can hear. “And he asked me to run away with him.”
Irving pauses in the dance and gapes at me. “You ran away with a—”
“I’m afraid that’s not all,” I interrupt him. “He left me in the woods, robbed me of something very dear, and now I’m posing as a gypsy girl, trying to track him down.”
“Marry me.” Irving’s dark brown eyes go wide. “Tonight—right now. I think I love you.”
He’s as flippant with his words as always.
“You asked me when I was twelve years old, remember? Then later that day I saw you kiss a milkmaid. You broke my heart.”
We both know it’s not the only time Irving has broken my heart, but I don’t bring that up now.
“I am fully sincere.” He grins. “Besides, you must—you said yes that day.”
I laugh. “You are an idiot.”
“I could have you hanged for that.”
“But you won’t.”
We swirl around the hall a little more, and for a moment I allow myself to enjoy the evening.
“Is he here? This gypsy of yours?”
“I haven’t seen him.” I groan. “Who knows where he is?”
“Your parents must be beside themselves with worry.”
“I know.” It’s not the first time I’ve thought about them, but Irving reminds me of Primewood. Now I am so homesick I think I might actually cry. “I can’t go back, Irving—not empty-handed.”
“What is it the man took? Perhaps we can find another.”
His promise isn’t an empty one. Irving, though free with his affections, is generous and kind. It’s the only reason I trust him at all.
“A stone. My father wears it on a chain around his neck. He says it was a gift of fairies. It’s precious to him.”
“What kind of stone?”
I bite my lip and then cringe as I answer, “A changeling stone.”
Irving’s eyes widen in surprise, and he leans in. “Anwen, truly?”
I nod, feeling sick.
“I’ve never seen one—not in my life. Is it real? Can you change with it?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head, marveling at my words. “What have you changed into?”
“I’ve altered my features—the shade of my hair, the color of my eyes. When I was young, I thought it was a lark to change into creatures. I’ve been a horse, a unicorn, a wolf, a fox…I changed into a dragon once, but it was so painful I never tried again.”
Irving gapes at me now. “How did this man steal it from you?”
I groan and hide my eyes behind my hand. “I gave it to him.”
His hands drop. After a moment, he takes me by the shoulders. “It will be all right. We will figure this out.”
“We?”
“Yes. Tonight I will send a message to your parents so they know you are safe.
I shake my head. “No, you mustn’t tell—”
“I won’t.” He looks unusually serious and regal. “But they need to know you are all right.”
I nod in agreement.
He sets me free, waving me back to the crowd. “Go. Entertain.”
I grab his hand before he leaves. “Irving, thank you.”
He winks before he slips into the crowd. With renewed spirits, I dance across the hall. I twirl and shake the tambourine high in the air, but as I turn, I lose my footing and bump into someone. As I look over my shoulder to apologize, I gasp.
The man’s tray of cider tilts sideways.
I reach for him, trying to help, but the tips of my fingers hit the tray, sending it careening down and over. Helpless, I watch as the goblets slide from the falling tray and crash over the head of a dark-haired man at the table next to us. He looks up just before the liquid hits.
The cider spills over his hair, down his neck, and soaks his tunic. He gapes at the serving man. When the server motions in my direction, the drenched man turns to me.
I’m pinned to the spot when his furious, piercingly-blue eyes meet mine.
CHAPTER THREE
Galinor of Glendon
I watch, amazed, as the ire falls from his face, and his gaze drops to his lap. The man must be in shock; he makes no move to clean the cider from himself.
I step forward, reach for a cloth napkin from the table, and dab the liquid from his face. “I’m so sorry—”
He waves his hand. “It was an accident.”
“Still…” I lean down to wipe his dripping chin.
He looks up, and our eyes meet once again. His are truly the deepest blue imaginable. Even dripping with cider, he is striking—more than striking. With dark hair and a knightly build, he may be the most handsome man I have ever seen.
And I just knocked a tray of cider on him.
There is something in his eyes, though. He looks like a whipped puppy. I want to wrap my arms around him and soothe him. I resist this urge, but only barely.
“I am sorry,” I whisper.
A drip of cider trails from his brow and down his nose. Suddenly, and for no explicable reason, I giggle. He gives me a look that is so incredulous, I try to stop myself. That makes it all the more amusing, and it bubbles out again. I bite my lip and try to stop.
A crowd hovers around us, and I wish they would leave. No one steps in to help, but they goggle at us, whispering amongst themselves.
Irving pushes through the crowd, sees the two of us, and then bursts out laughing. “Ah, Galinor, I see you have met Lady Anwen.”
There are a few incredulous whispers due to the use of my title, but soon the spectators disperse. I recognize the name from the conversation with the couple in the carriage. This is Galinor—the prince who cheated in the tournament. I narrow my eyes. He doesn’t look like a man who would need to cheat.
“Lady?” Galinor asks, finally finding his voice. He glances at my gypsy clothing.
Anwen of Primewood Page 2
