The square was filled with more people than Una had ever before seen. Ribbons and banners were strung between buildings and poles and, near a fountain in the very center, musicians played and young people danced. All around her she heard the murmurs, “The crown prince! The crown prince!”
She saw a great house on the far side of the square, toward which most of the people seemed to be pressing. It had huge double doors, once white, now grayed from heavy smoke, and above was a balcony large enough to hold an entire company of soldiers. The house, she guessed, must belong to the mayor, and on that balcony the people expected soon to see the reason for all their merrymaking.
She pushed her way forward, and people, after a glance at her face, let her through without a word. She stood at last just under the balcony where the fevered excitement had reached a zenith.
“Excuse me,” she said, touching the sleeve of a burly man, a butcher by the stains on his hands and fingernails. “Is the crown prince expected soon?”
“Yes, miss,” he rumbled in the jewel-like tones of Southlands, shrugging off her hand and stepping back. “Why else do you think we’re here?”
“To celebrate his betrothal?” Una asked, reaching out to grab the butcher’s sleeve again, afraid he’d escape before answering.
“His wedding, miss,” the butcher said, using both his strong hands to shove hers away. “Don’t you know he marries Lady Daylily, the Baron of Middlecresent’s daughter, at the week’s end?”
Una let him go, and he disappeared into the crowd. She turned her gaze up to the balcony. “It’s not him,” she whispered. The flame inside hurt so badly! “It’s not my Leonard.”
Suddenly a great shout filled the square. Una wanted to clap her hands to her ears but dared not expose the scales on her left hand. She could not tear her gaze from the spot at the front of the balcony, between two flags, where she knew he would stand.
Then there he was.
She hardly recognized him clad in blue and scarlet, rich clothing fit for a prince. A crown of silver graced his head where once had sat a bell-covered hat. His face, so comical, so expressive, was now bearded and solemn even as he smiled down on the people. He was thinner, older, sterner.
But he was her jester.
“Prince Lionheart! Prince Lionheart!” the crowd cried, and there was love and pride in their voices.
“Leonard,” Una whispered.
The prince raised a hand to salute the crowd, then reached behind and drew someone up beside him. She was radiant, smiling, dressed in elegant fur wraps against the winter chill. She seemed ready to burst with joy as she waved to the people and clung to her prince’s hand.
“The Lady of Middlecresent! Lady Daylily!” The crowd redoubled its shouts, and the musicians struck up a lively tune so the young people could dance again to express their joy.
Una clutched her stomach. The fire rolled inside her, and she felt she’d be sick as she watched the beauty accepting smiles from the prince. Her jester. Her Leonard. Sobs and fire choked her throat. Without hope that her voice could be heard in that joyful din, she raised her right hand to her face and shouted, “Leonard!”
The noise did not decrease; the festive mayhem did not abate. But the prince stepped away from his lady, leaned over the rail, and searched the seething masses. His gaze met Una’s.
He gasped.
Blood like lava pounded in her veins, and she panted with the terror of it. For Una felt, in that moment when she saw the look on his face – not a look of joy or delight, as she had so long dreamed of seeing when at last reunited with him, but of pure surprise and, an instant later, pure horror – that she would burn him alive with the heat of her eyes if she could.
“Una.” His lips formed her name, though she could not hear him. His hands tightened on the rail, and he shook his head and looked again. She gazed up at him, all the sorrow in the world on her pale face, and he knew his eyes did not lie.
The lady touched his shoulder and asked a question. Startled, he turned to her and made a hasty reply. Then he vanished from Una’s sight, leaving the lady standing alone.
Una could not look at her but turned away, waiting. She knew he would come. This time, he would come.
27
"Una!”
She turned around, and there he stood. His crown was gone and he wore a cloak to hide his rich clothing, but she would know him in a thousand.
“Leonard,” she whispered, her voice drowned in the din around them.
He stepped forward, his eyes intent on her face. “Una, what . . . what has happened to . . . What are you – ”