Catherine tripped on Ambrose’s boots and he said, “It’s easier if we walk side by side.” He put his arm round her shoulder, pulling her to his body. Catherine had never felt a man so close to her, and her pulse quickened even more.
Within a few moments they stepped out into a cobbled alley. Sir Rowland turned and seemed surprised to see Ambrose holding Catherine, but before he could say anything Ambrose suddenly pushed Catherine away from him with a cry of alarm.
Two men in black jumped down from the wall above, one landing on Rafyon and the other on Ambrose. The four men tumbled to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Catherine pressed herself against the wall by the tunnel entrance, backing into Tanya and Jane. Sir Rowland pulled a long knife from his jacket and, with surprising speed and strength, stabbed the man grappling with Ambrose.
Rafyon rolled to the side and his assailant stood, saw that his comrade was dead, and scrambled back up the wall he’d jumped from. He twisted to face Catherine and threw one of his knives. Tanya yanked Catherine back into the tunnel as it clattered against the wall where she’d just been standing. Then she heard a cry of pain. She hoped it was the assailant but could see that Sir Rowland had dropped to his knees.
Catherine clung to Tanya, and Ambrose was beside her, eyes wide. “I thought he’d got you. I thought . . .”
“But what of Sir Rowland?”
Rafyon was with him, and he looked up at Ambrose and shook his head. Catherine went to the ambassador and knelt beside him, taking his hand, but his eyes were already fixed and still.
Rafyon was looking up the wall. “One of them got away, Geratan. See if you can catch him. We’ll wait here.”
Geratan nodded, quickly scaled the wall, and disappeared.
They waited in silence. Jane was crying and holding on to Tanya. Catherine remained bent over Sir Rowland’s body. Another wasted life. A man of kindness and wisdom destroyed by her father.
When Geratan returned, jumping lightly down into the alley, he shook his head. “I caught a glimpse of him, far ahead of me. I couldn’t catch him. He’s gone.”
Rafyon turned to Catherine. “We must go on. It’s not far to the horses. I’m sorry, but we must leave Sir Rowland’s body here. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”
Catherine nodded. There would be time to mourn him later. Ambrose again grasped her hand and they ran after Rafyon. They went down one alley after another, twisting and turning until all sense of direction was lost. Catherine’s heart was beating so hard she thought she’d collapse, but she forced herself on and they turned into a courtyard—and there were the horses!
With them stood more men, some with the blue hair of the prince’s guard and an equal number with white hair. Ambrose swept Catherine into his arms and carried her the last ten paces; she clung to him and looked over his shoulder, realizing that they were now well outside the castle walls, its great central tower high but distant. Ambrose lifted her onto her mount, and she had to let him go.
He leaped onto his own horse. “Stay close to me, Your Highness. We don’t stop for anything.” And he set off fast.
Catherine looked quickly around. Jane and Tanya were already mounted, so Catherine kicked her horse and they raced after Ambrose, clattering down the street, the blue-haired soldiers shouting for people to make way.
* * *
* * *
Catherine was exhausted. She was used to riding, but not like this. Tanya and Jane had not said a word of complaint, but Catherine knew they must be feeling as bad as she was. The soldiers had been trying to keep the ladies’ spirits up with encouraging tips—“Try to relax a little” and “No need to grip so hard.” Timid Jane never replied, but Tanya struck up a conversation and was disappointed that the men didn’t know the name of her horse, so she called it Boris. One of the soldiers laughed and said, “It’s a mare.”
“Yes, but if I call her Boris I don’t feel so bad when I kick her.”
It was well after midnight when Rafyon called a halt. Bone-weary, the fugitives dismounted from their equally tired horses with barely enough energy to build a small fire and share a few mouthfuls of bread.
Afterward, Tanya, Jane, and Catherine lay down and rested. Catherine looked to Ambrose and he caught her eye, but then turned away to answer Rafyon. Catherine watched them talk. Ambrose’s hair half hid his face, which was serious for the most part, but then broke into a smile at something Rafyon said.
Catherine forced herself to close her eyes. She shouldn’t spy on Ambrose; she was riding to meet Prince Tzsayn. But despite their exhausting journey Catherine couldn’t sleep, her mind too full of the day’s events, Sir Rowland dead and the assassins in black waiting for her—or were they waiting for Prince Tzsayn? She was sure that Noyes was behind it. The dead man was one of his, and finding out about Prince Tzsayn’s secret tunnel and lying in wait at the end of it was more Noyes’s style than Boris’s.
Not wanting to think of it any more, she lay silently, hoping for sleep, half listening to the men talk about the attack on the castle and their escape. She was drifting off when one of Rafyon’s men called out, “Sir Ambrose! We hear you’re close to being the perfect soldier. But it’s obvious to us that you’ve got just one glaring fault.”
Ambrose asked, “What’s that?”
There was jeering, as if Ambrose should know. Catherine braced herself, assuming they would say it was that he was Brigantine.
“What’s his problem, boys?” called Rafyon.
The men chorused back: “His hair’s not blue!”
Catherine smiled and slept.
AMBROSE
WEST COAST ROAD, PITORIA
THE SECOND day on the road north from Tornia, they came to the first roadblock. The soldiers changed position to ensure Catherine and her maids were protected on all sides, and Ambrose rode forward with Rafyon to find out what was happening. He assumed the checkpoint was to stop Boris, though in truth it didn’t look like it could stop very much at all: there were two men at the barrier, which was merely a pole supported on each side by a stool, but it was official, as one of the men manning the post had the scarlet hair of the sheriff’s men.
The red-haired man saluted Rafyon and explained, “We’re checking on all who are traveling south, sir. One of our men was murdered in Dornan a few days ago.”
“Has Prince Tzsayn passed this way?”
“Yesterday, sir. With many of his men. A fine sight. They were traveling fast.”
“As we must too.”
“May I ask, sir? The white-haired men? I’m not familiar with which lord they represent.”
“That is the white of Princess Catherine of Pitoria, the future wife of Prince Tzsayn and your future queen.”
The sheriff’s man peered back at Catherine. Ambrose looked back too. Catherine’s small figure was upright on the horse. She looked as strong and dignified as ever. Though he knew she must be exhausted and worried, she didn’t let that show.
News of the invasion reached them later that day, from travelers coming south. A huge Brigantine army, thousands strong, had crossed the border, scattering the Pitorian defenders and advancing on Rossarb. Ambrose knew the Brigantines would have no pity on anyone in their way; they gloried in fighting and despised prisoners.
Catherine closed her eyes for a moment and said, “I had hoped that somehow it was all a mistake, but it’s true. Pitoria and Brigant are at war.”
Ambrose nodded. “I’ve spent all my life training and expecting to fight for Brigant. But now . . . perhaps I’ll be fighting against them.”
“Could you do that? Fight against your own countrymen?”
Ambrose wasn’t sure. “Brigant is still the country of my father and my brother. But it’s no longer my country.” He turned to Catherine. “I don’t know where I belong anymore.”
Catherine met his gaze. “I recognize that problem.”
“My only certainty is that I swore to protect you and that’s what I’ll do. I will ensure you get safely to Tzsayn.”