“To the dungeons, I hope,” Boris said, jaw set.
“Well, I’m hardly going to have him sent to my private rooms, am I?” Tzsayn replied. “Now, please excuse me, but my lady looks a little distressed. I think fewer men and fewer swords will improve the appearance of this room no end.”
Ambrose resisted the urge to struggle as he was pushed out and down the corridor. How stupid he had sounded! An urgent matter for the princess’s ears only! He couldn’t have made it look more like he’d had some secret rendezvous with Catherine if he’d tried. Had his clumsy words destroyed Tzsayn’s trust in her at the very moment Catherine was going to need it most?
Down and down the guards took him. It really was a dungeon that he was going to. The walls here were bare stone, the steps narrow and worn. A guard pulled open a heavy wooden door to reveal a small cell beyond. The light from the corridor illuminated a crude wooden bed, a table and chair. Ambrose was pushed inside and the door was shut and bolted behind him, leaving the cell black and silent. Until the scurrying sounds began.
CATHERINE
TORNIA, PITORIA
I will be loyal to Brigant and my father.
Pledge sworn by Princess Catherine of Brigant on her sixteenth birthday
THE ROOM was cleared of all the guards, but Tzsayn, Boris, Catherine, and her maids remained. Tzsayn walked over to Ambrose’s sword, which still lay on the floor, and peered at it as if he’d never seen one before.
“I must say, with every passing moment I’m more excited about our forthcoming marriage. I’m sure it won’t be dull at all.” He turned to Catherine. “However, I think we should find somewhere else to discuss what just happened. I’m desperate to hear all about Sir Ambrose.”
He took Catherine’s arm gently but firmly and escorted her to the door.
“We’ll go to the Blue Room and have some tea, I think. Will you join us, Prince Boris? You drink tea, I presume?”
“I’ve no desire for tea at this moment,” replied Boris tersely.
“Then it’s just us, my lady,” Tzsayn said to Catherine.
A short time later Catherine and Tzsayn were seated at a small round table in a room decorated with beautiful pale blue and white tiles. Sarah and Tanya sat nearby, pretending to talk to each other, but Catherine knew they were listening intently to her conversation.
Catherine tried to roll her shoulders discreetly to release the tension there. Tzsayn seemed calm. Too calm for a man who had just discovered his fiancée with another man. She tried not to imagine what might have happened had he come in earlier to find Ambrose gently brushing her tears away.
And now Ambrose was in a cell. But at least he was alive.
“So, do you want to tell me about this man, Sir Ambrose, before tea or after it?”
Catherine’s mind raced. So much had happened. If Ambrose’s news was true—and she believed it was—instead of a wedding to unite their two ruling families, Brigant and Pitoria were facing war. But should she tell Tzsayn? How? And would he believe her? The trust between them was a fragile thing, new and untested. Better to strengthen it first with the truth—as far as she could tell it.
“Sir Ambrose was my bodyguard in Brigant.”
True.
“He is an honorable man from a good family.”
Also true.
“He has never done anything wrong, except defend himself successfully against Boris’s men.”
He’s kissed my hand and touched my face, but that isn’t so wrong . . .
“He would never do anything to harm me. In fact, he risked his life to come here today.”
“Need I ask why, or is the way he looks at you all I need to know?”
Catherine hesitated, blushing.
“Ambrose is honorable. And I . . . I have never done anything that I should not.”
“I’m not sure he is and I’m less sure you haven’t.”
Catherine protested, “Your Highness, I—”
“I apologize,” interrupted Tzsayn. “That was glib. I can see you’re upset. You care for him very much?”
Catherine swallowed. “It’s not that . . . not just that. I do care for him, I admit it.” She glanced up at Tzsayn, but his face was unreadable. “But I know my duty, and I have not jeopardized it with a foolish love affair. At this moment my distress is for another reason.”
Tzsayn seemed surprised. “Can you tell me the reason?”
“I’m . . . There’s something more. Something bigger, but . . . I’m not sure what to do about it. I’m torn between my duties . . .”
“Your duties to whom?”
“To Brigant and my father, and to you, Pitoria, and my life here.”
Before she could say more, the servants arrived with the tea. Catherine straightened her back and sat in silence while they set out the urn, glasses, and lemons, trying desperately to imagine what her mother would advise. After what seemed like an age, the servants left. Tzsayn poured two glasses of tea and placed one before her.
“Catherine, the only advice I can offer is that you must do what you think is right, what you believe in.”
But what do I believe in?
To betray her father, her country, was wrong. But so were her father’s plans. He had lied to her, deceived her. Let her believe in a marriage and a future that was nothing more than an illusion. King Arell and Prince Tzsayn had shown her more kindness and honesty in her few days in Tornia than her father had done in her whole life, but that didn’t mean her loyalties should change. Or did it?
Catherine felt her eyes beginning to prick with tears. “I’ve been so naive. I thought I could come to Pitoria and win people over with a few dresses and a flower. I wanted to be liked—loved—by the people. My father rules by fear, and I wanted to do the opposite. We Brigantines have a certain reputation—you implied as much yourself . . . I’m used to warriors. I’m used to fear and hate and being on my guard day and night against a wrong look or a misplaced word.” Catherine took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not looking for sympathy, just trying to explain myself.”
Tzsayn reached out and took her hand, saying, “I’m honored that you trust me enough to do so.”
“People expect Brigantines to be aggressive, violent . . . to bring fear. I wanted to change that. I hoped that people might see me differently. But perhaps I’m wrong to even try. Perhaps people should be afraid of us.”
Catherine drew a shuddering breath as she made her choice. Slowly she pulled her hand free from Tzsayn’s, slipped it inside one of the slashes in her dress, and took out the letter.
“This is the message Ambrose just handed to me. My father is gathering an army in the north of Brigant. He’s going to invade Pitoria. These are his orders, under his seal. Ambrose stole this and brought it to me because he knows the danger I will be in when the fighting begins.”
Tzsayn was still, so still he might have been carved in stone. Then he took the orders and read them. And then read them again.
“This is not a forgery? This is definitely your father’s seal?”
“Yes. And Ambrose has seen the soldiers. He believes the wedding is”—she drew another deep breath, forcing herself to say it—“a diversion. A means to ensure that all the lords of Pitoria are here in Tornia, far from their lands in the north.”
Tzsayn’s scarred hand that held the paper trembled, but whether with fear or anger Catherine couldn’t say.
“Your father would do this? Risk everything on war? Risk his own daughter’s life?”
“It’s exactly the sort of thing he would do.”
“He has shown himself to be the warmonger my father always feared. And you have shown yourself to be better for Pitoria than I could ever have hoped.” Tzsayn rose swiftly. “Thank you, Catherine. I need to talk to Ambrose about this before I speak to my father. I won’t hand him back to Boris.”
“What will happen to Boris and his men?”
“If Brigant does attack, they are enemy soldiers. They’ll be arrested.”
“And . . . what am I?”