This had to be what his sister had seen, and it was certainly unusual, but it seemed of minor importance: boys training to be soldiers wasn’t news in Brigant. So why would the king have persecuted Anne for coming here?
Ambrose edged closer in the darkness. By the nearest fire was a group of boys, all wearing jerkins, which seemed to be their uniform. The two boys in the center were wielding wooden practice swords, and those around them were watching, giving occasional whoops of admiration and encouragement. The sword-wielders were impressive for their small stature, moving fast on their feet, their swords crashing hard into each other. And they kept at it. Ambrose knew only too well how tiring swordwork was.
“Seen enough?” Ambrose felt a sharp poke in his back.
There were two of them, about thirteen or fourteen, wiry and muscular, wearing army jerkins, though where there would normally be a badge to identify their lord was a square of red cloth. Both were carrying wooden practice spears.
Ambrose glanced around. Two boys would be easy to deal with, but he wanted to know what was going on. Better to try talking first.
“Who’s your commanding officer, boy?”
“Who’s yours?”
Ambrose smiled. “Prince Boris. I’m with the Royal Guard. Who are you with?”
The boy swung his fist to the red patch on his jerkin. “The Reds. Strongest and best.” But he quickly looked uncertain. “You’re not in uniform, sir. You coming to see the captain?”
“Of course.” Ambrose didn’t want to see any captain, as the captain would know he hadn’t been sent here by Boris.
“Oi, Rashford. We’ve got a visitor.”
The two boys with the wooden swords came over and, as they approached, it occurred to Ambrose that these two would not be so easy to beat in a fight. And their cockiness as they walked over seemed to indicate that they knew it too. One of them shouted, “What’ve you got, Frank? More spies?”
“Says he’s with the Royal Guard. Says he’s here to see the captain.”
Ambrose got to his feet, dusting sand off his thighs and saying in as casual and friendly a tone as possible, “I’m no spy, though I admit I wanted to watch you without you knowing I was here. I wanted to see how good you were. I saw you two practicing with swords. That was impressive. You’re Rashford, are you?”
“Yes, leader of the Reds.”
Ambrose now had an idea of how to get away. “How are you with spears, Rashford?”
The boy smiled. “Not bad.”
“It’s my weakest weapon,” said Ambrose with a rueful grin. “I’ve never mastered the throw. Care to show me your technique?”
“Give me your spear, Frank. And give our visitor yours, Luke.” Frank twirled the spear in one hand, then tossed it sideways to Rashford, who caught it and twirled it round in his hands before spiking it into the ground. Luke tossed his spear to Ambrose. It was well balanced and the wooden point sharp. It might have been a training weapon, but it could do serious damage.
Rashford said, “You throw first, sir. I’ll see if I can match your distance.”
Ambrose weighed the spear in his hand and flexed his shoulder. Then he took a few paces forward and threw the spear.
“Not so bad, sir. Nice style.”
“You’re very generous.”
“Well, I didn’t comment on the distance, which, if I’m honest, sir, is pretty dismal.”
Ambrose had to stifle a laugh. “Let’s see how you do then.”
Rashford raised his spear to his shoulder. He was small and wiry, with narrow shoulders, not the right build for a spearman at all. He took a few paces forward, threw—and Ambrose turned and ran.
He reached his horse in a few strides and swung himself into the saddle. As his horse wheeled round, Ambrose saw Rashford’s spear had gone almost twice the distance of his own. It was a huge distance for a slim boy, and for a moment he was frozen with surprise. But then he gathered the reins and kicked his horse into motion.
The boys were running after him, shouting for him to stop. They were quick too, keeping pace with him and grabbing for his legs, but then he kicked the horse harder and galloped away.
The thud to his head knocked Ambrose sideways and forward across his horse’s shoulders. He lost a stirrup, and before he knew it he was half under his horse’s body and being dragged along the ground. A hoof caught his back, knocking him free, and he rolled forward through the sand and tried to get up, but everything was swaying and then it went black.
CATHERINE
BRIGANE, BRIGANT
People dismiss, belittle, or ignore women. But when I represent my country I am not a woman: I am a land and a people and a queen.
Queen Valeria of Illast
IT WAS less than a week before Catherine’s departure for Pitoria, and the arrangements were coming to dominate her every waking moment. She thought of Ambrose still, every day, but she was also having to think of Tzsayn, her marriage, her journey, and now her clothes. Her mother had ordered for her numerous dresses in the Pitorian style, and they had finally arrived. The day dresses were each a different color of the Pitorian flag: green, red, and black. Her mother had said, “You must show the Pitorians that you are one of them. Show them you are proud to be Pitorian and they will be too, and they’ll thank you for reminding them that they should be.”
Still, Catherine had snorted when she saw the gowns laid out next to each other in her dressing room. They were ridiculously bold. Even the black ones had shiny ribbons and feathers woven round the bodice, sleeves, and hem.
“They look complicated.” Catherine picked one sleeve up in her fingers. “What there is of them.”
“Pitorian women are more comfortable exposing skin,” agreed her mother. “Believe it or not, these are quite conservative.”
Catherine tried one of the red ones on, but it didn’t seem to hang correctly and she felt exposed; the left side of the gown was open from armpit to hip.
“I look like I’m in rags . . . bloodstained rags.”
“Hmm . . . Can’t you do something with your arms?”
“Such as?” Catherine put her hands on her hips, elbows poking through the slashes in her sleeves.
“No, don’t do that! Hold them straight.” Her mother winced when Catherine did so. “Oh dear, that doesn’t look right either. Perhaps carry something. A prop. Yes, that would be useful. Something to help tell your story.”
“A hint of despair?”
Her mother frowned. “Never show that, Catherine. Remember Queen Valeria. She won her people over to her. But to win people over they need to see you as a winner. You don’t want them to link you to despair, but to hope. To a brighter future. To success.”
Catherine couldn’t think of anything that could link her to success. She’d never felt she’d had any success or even the opportunity for it. As for hope, in these clothes she could only hope people didn’t laugh at her.
At that moment there was a knock on the door to her chambers, and then Sarah almost ran into the dressing room, bobbed a curtsy to the queen, and turned to Catherine.
“Your Highness,” she said breathlessly. “A messenger has come from the king. His Majesty commands you to appear before him.”
Catherine felt her heart race. She had never been summoned by the king before. Was it about her marriage? Possibly. Probably. But there was also a chance it had something to do with Ambrose . . .
The queen rose, a picture of calm.
“Tell the messenger the princess is dressing. She will attend on the king as soon as she has finished.”
When Sarah had gone, the queen said, “You’ve gone pale, Catherine. Do you know what this is about?”
“Perhaps the wedding arrangements?” Catherine replied.
“Is there anything else it could be?”
Catherine knew her mother must have heard something of the fight between Ambrose and Boris’s men, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to talk about it. Now it seemed she had no choice.
“There was . . . an incident a few days ago, when I was riding at the beach.”
“A trial of honor, I believe. I heard that Boris lost a man. And the traitor fled.”
“He’s not a traitor. And he didn’t flee.”
“You show your emotions too clearly, Catherine.”
“But it’s true. Sir Ambrose is no traitor; he’s a loyal guard.”