“Good morning, brother.”
“Don’t fucking good morning me. This is not a fucking good morning; it’s a fucking mess. Delaying the wedding—it’s unheard of! I’ve seen Arell. He’s all apologies and ‘you know my son has a delicate disposition.’ I’ve demanded to see Tzsayn and his bloody delicate disposition, but got no joy with that, of course.”
“If Tzsayn’s ill, there’s nothing we can do.”
“If being the operative word. He’d better be on his fucking deathbed.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s only a delay of a few days, brother. You told me yourself that Tzsayn has physical weaknesses. King Arell has been nothing but enthusiastic since we arrived and Tzsayn himself has seemed to warm to me too.”
Boris’s look changed and he eyed Catherine suspiciously. “And yet yesterday the husband-to-be found his bride with her lover.”
“No, brother. He found me thrown to the floor and your men with their swords drawn, spoiling for a brawl in the king’s home as if it was a roadside tavern.”
“Don’t try to deflect the blame. What did you tell Tzsayn about Norwend?”
Catherine sighed extravagantly; she’d rehearsed this speech and needed to get it right. “I told him the truth, of course, as we ladies must with our future husbands. I explained that Ambrose was considered a traitor in Brigant. That he had bested two of your men a few weeks ago and that you must carry the shame of that. Prince Tzsayn didn’t appear to have any problem believing the truth of it.”
Boris advanced on Catherine and she stepped back. “Going to throw me to the ground again?”
He stopped and snarled, “You haven’t answered my question. What did you tell Tzsayn about why Ambrose was here? Why was he here?”
Catherine smiled and flicked some invisible dust from her skirt before raising her eyes to meet Boris’s. “He loves me, brother. An emotion impossible for you to understand, I know. And he wanted to see me before my wedding. Love makes men do strange things. I believe Tzsayn is falling a little in love with me too. He believes nothing has happened between me and Ambrose, except that Ambrose has declared his love. So that leads me to believe that Tzsayn has delayed the wedding either because he is genuinely ill or because he is having second thoughts about having a brother-in-law who is rapidly becoming a joke in Pitorian society.”
Catherine advanced on Boris now, pointing at him as she hissed, “Why would I risk marriage to a prince for a love affair with a wanted man? I’m not the fool here, Boris. I’ve gone to great lengths to prove to the king, the prince, and the people of Pitoria that this marriage is my heart’s one true desire. If the marriage goes ahead, I’ll be the future queen of Pitoria; if it doesn’t, I’ll return to Brigant in shame. I should be marrying the prince of Pitoria today; instead I’m stuck here with you!”
Boris stepped back from Catherine’s tirade and she was pleased to see he was genuinely shocked. He went to the door. “If I find this delay is because of you . . .” Then he was gone. As the door slammed behind him, Sarah, Tanya, and Jane in unison gave the sign to “Go and keep going!”
Catherine turned from them and sighed with relief. Her heart was pounding, but it certainly didn’t seem as though Boris suspected that Ambrose had news of the invasion—for once she was pleased that Boris believed Ambrose was her lover.
Catherine had only just recovered herself when Sir Rowland arrived.
“I’m not sure what is happening, Your Highness. Prince Boris is furious. He insists that if the wedding doesn’t go ahead today, he must have assurances from Tzsayn, in person, that it will happen tomorrow.”
Because any longer than that and word of the invasion will be out, thought Catherine. His plans are crumbling, but what will he do about it?
“And if he doesn’t get those assurances?”
“The wedding will be off. He’ll leave and take you with him.”
Catherine felt weak at the thought of that. She was determined that she’d never go anywhere with Boris again.
“Well, I believe Tzsayn wants the wedding to go ahead, as does King Arell,” she said with false brightness.
“Perhaps, Your Highness. But I should tell you that there are rumours that Tzsayn is not ill but has fled the castle. Some say his men were seen leaving in the night.”
“Why would he do that? On the eve of his wedding!”
Catherine was sure her acting skills were not up to much and Sir Rowland’s reply—a flat “I don’t know, Your Highness”—convinced her that he wasn’t convinced. “But whatever is going on here, I’m concerned for you, Your Highness.”
“Thank you again, Sir Rowland. However, I’m sure the wedding will go ahead. I trust Tzsayn. Though of course I’m sad about the delay and his illness. Perhaps you can use your influence to spread a positive tone about the situation among the wedding guests, that the wedding will happen soon.”
“I’ll overflow with positivity,” Sir Rowland replied with a smile. “I shall go and spread it around.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to leave but then added, “There is one other thing, Your Highness. I’ve made enquiries about the demon smoke, but I’ve learned nothing new.”
Catherine smiled. “Oh well. Perhaps it was nothing after all.”
But Catherine was sure Lady Anne’s message was linked to her father’s invasion. She just had to work out how.
AMBROSE
TORNIA, PITORIA
THE MORNING after Tzsayn left, Ambrose decided to test his promise that he’d be treated well, so he asked the soldier guarding the room for food, drink, clean clothes, and water to wash in. They were all brought quickly, along with soap and towels. He was even given his sword and daggers, taken from him after the fight with Boris’s men. At first Ambrose was amazed his weapons had been returned—until he realized there was nothing he could do with them. If he hurt or even threatened any of Tzsayn’s men, he’d have no future in Pitoria. He had no option but to stay where he was.
Tzsayn was irritatingly good at this. He was irritatingly good at a number of things, it seemed. The way he’d controlled Boris, the way he’d arrived in time to stop the fight, and—most irksome of all—the way he had helped Catherine to her feet, as if only he was entitled to do it. Tzsayn was a prince and behaved like it. He, Ambrose, was nothing in comparison: the second son of a provincial marquess. In fact, he had to remind himself, he could hardly even call himself that. He was a wanted man. A proclaimed traitor. And powerless.
But he was still a soldier. He felt that too. He’d much rather be up in the north than lying on a soft, warm bed, even if that meant fighting against Brigantines. He wasn’t sure he could call himself a Brigantine anymore, even if he wanted to. He was a man of no country, but that didn’t mean he had no honor or loyalties. His loyalty would always be to Princess Catherine. He could still fight for what he believed in. He could fight for her.
This should have been Catherine’s wedding day, but instead it would go down in history as the day Brigant invaded Pitoria. Tzsayn would still be two days from reaching the border, but Aloysius and his thousands of men would already be on Pitorian soil. All day, Ambrose stood at the window, staring north, as if his eyes could cross the hundreds of leagues to the border and catch a glimpse of the struggle unfolding there.
I should be there, damn it, not stuck in some guest room in Tornia.
As night fell, the sound of music echoed distantly through the castle.
Ambrose knocked on the door, and his guard stuck his head into the room.
“What’s happening with the music?”