“Discussing me?”
“Being talked about is always a good thing in Pitoria. And soon they will all be talking about that dress.”
“Good. But I need your help on other things too, Sir Rowland. Firstly I need a horse to ride today, and horses for my maids too. They must be the most well-groomed and well-behaved animals in the parade.”
“Wonderful. Wonderful! Yes. Yes. Yes. I’ll see to it at once.”
Catherine laughed. She was so used to being told why she couldn’t do things that Sir Rowland’s quick and positive response warmed her heart.
“Secondly I want to make our progress more of an event. Some musicians or acrobats perhaps.”
“Excellent suggestion. Fewer soldiers, more entertainers. Music that people can be drawn to. That is easily arranged. And dancers, of course.”
“And finally I need a symbol. Something to carry that will link me to Pitoria. Some flowers might do it.”
“A wissun, perhaps? It’s a white flower that grows all over Pitoria. Fragrant and beautiful. Loved by everyone.”
“I like that. I knew you’d be a good adviser.”
“Then white will be your color.” Sir Rowland hesitated, then said, “If you don’t mind me saying, Your Highness, it’s good to see you embracing Pitoria in this way. There were some who thought the marriage was a ploy of your father’s. It’s well known he has held a grudge against King Arell since the war between Calidor and Brigant. Your actions will help dispel those concerns. I think Prince Tzsayn will be pleased to hear of your enthusiasm too.”
“Really?” For a moment, Catherine had almost forgotten that her wedding was the end point of this journey. “I hope so. I want to find a position for myself in this country, Sir Rowland. I don’t want to be locked away in a tower. I want to do something with my life. The people of Pitoria think we’re bloodthirsty warmongers. I want to prove them wrong. I want to conquer the people not as my father would, with swords and spears, but with a dress and a flower. Do you think that’s possible?”
Sir Rowland bowed. “I think you have the power to conquer anyone, Your Highness, as you have already done me. Today, I myself shall be wearing a wissun, and I’m sure many of the crowds will soon do likewise.”
MARCH
DORNAN, PITORIA
MARCH RAN through the woods back to the fair, hoping that he could find Holywell. He went to Erin’s red and gold tent and was relieved to see that Holywell was still there. March walked up to him as casually as he could.
“Edyon is in the woods. I’ve told him about his father and that we’re here to take him back to Calidor.”
“And he believes it?”
“Yes, but he wants proof. We need the ring the prince gave to Regan.”
Holywell sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Regan is still in there with Edyon’s mother.”
“So she must know what he’s here for.”
“Which means we must keep Edyon away from her and get rid of Regan. The plan hasn’t changed, brother,” Holywell said, and he nodded over to Regan, who had appeared from the tent, “and the time is right. We need to get him alone, somewhere quiet. There’s a place beyond the caravans, a little dip by the stream. I’ll be waiting there. Your job is to bring him to me.”
March nodded. “I’ll tell him the prince has sent an urgent message.”
Holywell slapped March on the arm. “Good. Be ready to assist me. Regan will be no pushover.” And, before March could reply, Holywell strode off toward the stream.
March had no time to think as he hurried after Regan, getting back into a servant frame of mind; becoming a servant was as easy as slipping on a coat for March. He broke into a run and, full of urgency, called out, “Sir! Sir!” and finally, “Lord Regan!”
Regan turned round.
“Lord Regan.” March bowed low. “Excuse me, sir. I’ve been sent with a message.” March raised his head so Regan could see his face. “I’m March, sir. Servant to Prince Thelonius.”
“And you were told to shout my name out in the streets?”
“My apologies, sir.” March bowed again. He knew not to make excuses but to wait and hope that the lord would forgive and in this case believe that his own master had sent a message.
“Stand up straight, boy. Let us go somewhere quiet.”
“Yes, sir. My associate is this way. He has the message, sir.” And March set off, trying to lead the way from behind, which was always the difficulty with noblemen. “The prince sent us with the utmost urgency. I’ve been searching the fair for you.”
“Who is your associate?”
“Brown, sir.” March chose the name of another of Prince Thelonius’s servants whom he was sure Regan wouldn’t know by sight.
“And when did your master send you?”
“The prince said that you had been gone three days, sir.”
“You’ve done well to catch me up.”
“That was the prince’s order, sir. And we had favorable winds for our crossing.”
“How did you find me?”
Was that suspicion in Regan’s voice?
“Brown, sir. He worked out where you would be.”
“Did he now? How did he do that?”
So many questions. Too many questions . . .
“I’m not sure, sir. He can tell you himself. He’s just ahead, sir. Beyond the tents, by the stream.”
“And did the prince send anything else?”
March felt sweat breaking out on his brow. Something was wrong. Perhaps a real messenger would have been given a password or token to confirm their identity. Regan was certainly suspicious about something.
“Brown has everything, sir. I was honored that the prince trusted me with this task, but he still considers me too young and inexperienced to travel alone. Brown has been to Pitoria before and speaks the language.”
They rounded the last tent, and the open field was ahead. It felt exposed, but March realized it was a good place for an ambush. The slope of the ground down to the stream would hide them from view of the tents, and yet the spot wasn’t so isolated as to feel like a trap.
Holywell was there, standing with his back to March and throwing small stones into the stream. March stopped a pace behind Regan, ever the polite servant.
“Brown?” Regan asked.
Holywell turned and bowed low, keeping his head down so Regan couldn’t see his eyes.
“My lord Regan.”
“You have a message for me.”
“Yes, my lord.” Holywell rose and stepped forward, putting his hand into his jacket as if to draw out a paper. He took another step, frowning as if he couldn’t find it, and then another step and he drew out his hand, blade gleaming, and charged at Regan.
“Treason!” shouted Regan, instinctively stepping sideways, grabbing Holywell in a headlock, and forcing the arm holding the dagger behind his back. They staggered around like a wild beast, Regan grunting and wrenching at Holywell’s head as the dagger fell to the ground.
March had to do something to help Holywell. Heart racing, he picked up the fallen dagger, but Regan was watching him. The lord released Holywell, pushing him away, and drew one of his own daggers, slashing at March. March leaped back, and Holywell threw himself at Regan, grabbing him round the waist, propelling them both down the slope past March. They tumbled headlong into the stream.
March ran after them. Holywell was lying on his side, purple-faced and panting, blood pouring from a wound in his neck. Regan was facedown in the water, not moving. Upstream, March could see a woman and child looking their way. He turned from them as casually as he could, walked slowly out of their view, and then plunged into the water. He had to get the ring and get Holywell away as quickly as possible. March splashed over to Regan and heaved at his body. On the second attempt, March managed to turn him over. Blood was coloring the water around Regan from a stab wound in his chest, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Hands shaking with the cold water and fear, March unbuttoned Regan’s jacket, his years of practice at dressing and undressing others finally proving their worth. He quickly found the ring, put it in his own jacket, and grabbed Holywell, who was still purple and gasping.