Chapter 1 – The Exile Princess #3
“Miche said he found signs of a fire under one of the pines to the north. The ashes were still warm,” said another voice. She didn’t recognize either of them, and she knew everyone in Aldeburke. “Guess it’s time to start shaking trees.”
Oh, no.
Her heart pounded. She strained her ears, listening for the quiet steps.
They weren’t like Tam, blundering through the trees like an ox; there were two men, one to her left and one to her right, moving as patiently as if they were picking over every pine needle.
There was nowhere to run. There was nothing to do but curl up as small as she could and wait, hoping they would pass her by.
The branches moved under her. A man’s face, broad and grey-eyed, peered through them, then whistled and turned his head to call.
“Your Grace!”
* * *
“Your Grace?” Ophele echoed faintly, as a new face appeared below her.
“Remin of Andelin,” he snarled, shouldering the branches out of the way.
Ophele’s first glimpse of the infamous Remin Grimjaw was of furious black eyes and shaggy black hair, his white teeth snapping the end off every word.
“Get down here or I’ll come and get you, if I have to rip up this tree by the roots. ”
He looked fully capable of doing just that. His voice sounded like a bear’s would sound if they could talk, deep and rumbly as a landslide.
Petrified, she let herself bump down through the branches.
Even in Aldeburke, they had heard of Remin Grimjaw.
Over the years of his war with Valleth, the Emperor’s command had been broadcast to the furthest corners of the Empire and taken on an almost mythic significance, as if the Age of Heroes had come again.
And no one had forgotten the promised reward.
The Andelin for my duchy. The Brede for my own. And your daughter for my wife.
Hard hands gripped her arms and yanked her out of the tree, and Ophele shrank back automatically as he loomed over her like a rockfall.
“Was this some scheme of the Emperor’s?” he growled, low enough that he would not be overheard.
His clothes were surprisingly plain for a nobleman, rough wool and leather, with a heavy fur cloak over massive shoulders.
His eyes were like two angry ink spots under thick black brows.
“Did you think I’d give up and go away? Your father owes me a wife, girl. I am here to collect.”
Her eyes flew open, and she turned her face away, hiding in the depths of her cloak in confusion. She felt as shocked as if he had ripped the tree up by its roots and clouted her with it. Wife? A scheme of her father’s?
It all came together at once, an impossible series of events that led to the man glaring down at her, waiting for an answer as to why she had so deeply disgraced him as to actually hide. It was a grave insult. It was certainly an offense against the Emperor: direct disobedience of his orders.
But it didn’t make sense. Everyone knew the Duke of Andelin was going to marry Princess Selenne.
It was a story that had every maiden in the kingdom sighing, and even the maids of Aldeburke repeated it with relish, how the handsome knight had fought a war to win the hand of the fair princess.
Lisabe had been complaining for months about how it wasn’t fair; House Hurrell had given everything for the Duke’s House, surely she should receive some consideration…
But Ophele knew that romantic tale was nonsense.
People were strangely quick to forget that the Emperor’s challenge was not a reward.
It was not a magical task, like finding three grains of wheat in a wagonload of corn or sending him off to slay a troop of Skulkingmen.
The Emperor hated Remin Grimjaw, and had been trying to have him killed since he was a child.
Even saying the name of his parents’ House was treason.
Until Remin had crossed the Brede River, no one expected him to do anything but die on its southern bank.
And as payment, the Emperor had promised him a daughter. Not the Crown Princess.
Ophele’s heart fluttered in panic. Stars, he must hate her.
She should greet him. She should apologize. But his hand tightened on her arm and that black glare was a weight on her head and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as if it had been rooted there.
“Nothing to say?” he said after a long moment, and turned in disgust, escorting her firmly back to the manor house. “Best get your sulks out of the way now. There will be no time for such childishness where we’re going.”
Ophele’s face flushed. She knew she looked like a child in her short gray skirts, showing a length of shin and bare feet as if she were still ten years old and wearing her hair in two plaits.
His strides were so long, she nearly had to run to keep up with him, tripping along with his huge hand clamped around her arm.
He didn’t even look down at her. His black eyes were fixed on the manor house.
“Here,” he said coldly in the grand foyer, thrusting her toward Lady Hurrell. “Have her cleaned and dressed. I don’t think much of your guardianship if you let your princess sleep in the woods and dress like a beggar’s brat.”
“I must beg Your Grace’s forgiveness,” replied Lady Hurrell.
She was a tall and elegant woman with blonde hair and china-blue eyes, exquisitely coiffed even for a search party.
Her red smile made Ophele shiver. “We told you to stay in the house yesterday, silly child. Your feet are filthy. And you will cling to those gray rags, didn’t I tell your nurses to burn them? Dear me…”
They had told her nothing. Ophele blinked as she realized what the lady was doing and dug in her heels, opening her mouth to protest. But Lord Hurrell was already blustering.
“Her Highness means no offense, Your Grace, she will wander no matter what we say. We try to allow her these small pleasures…”
He was making her sound like a simpleton. Lady Hurrell’s fingernails sank warningly into Ophele’s shoulders.
“Leise. Nenot,” she said, and the maids took a firm grip on Ophele’s arms, propelling her down the hallway to the back of the house.
This was terrible. Ophele had known that one day she would be married off and even suspected that Lady Hurrell intended her for Julot, and if that happened, she would climb straight to the highest rafter in the library and throw herself off it.
But Remin Grimjaw was equal parts hero and bogeyman, like the Skulkingmen or one of the Stone Teeth, who chewed human flesh between mossy jaws.
Remin Grimjaw was a brute stained with blood.
They said after his victory, Remin Grimjaw had scoured the Andelin and slaughtered every man, woman, and child to be certain no one loyal to Valleth remained.
And her father had tricked Remin Grimjaw into marrying her.
Ophele sat like a block of wood as she was scrubbed and groomed, the pine sap combed from her hair, her maids going about the task as if they were doing laundry.
It hurt. It always hurt. But the marks of harsh scrubbing and rough handling were easily concealed by her clothing, and Ophele knew better than to complain.
All the while, Lady Hurrell stood and watched, twittering her brisk, cheerful poison.
“Such a skinny child,” she said, shaking her head. “It is fortunate the Duke is not marrying you for your beauty. Stars, that hair is as common as a sparrow.”
Ophele knew she was plain. Her hair was an unremarkable brown, her eyes a tawny hazel, and she was a skinny, unpromising creature, as if her base conception had stunted her growth.
When they were done, she was swimming in one of Lisabe’s old gowns, a faded pink that hung off her shoulders and bared four inches of her ankles.
“My poor Ophele.” Lady Hurrell swayed toward her with the stalking grace of a hunting cat, her hands resting on Ophele’s shoulders as she sat her down at a dressing table.
The contrast between the fine lady and the ragamuffin in the mirror was stark.
“His Grace is quite a fearsome specimen, is he not? He has been furious since yesterday, wondering where you were. What they say about his temper is true, I’m afraid. ”
There was no sensible reply to this. Ophele’s face was as blank as a doll’s, the only defense she had, but the pulse in her throat was fluttering frantically.
“I was fortunate in my marriage,” the lady continued.
Her fingers smoothed through Ophele’s hair, tugging small locks loose and twisting them in her fingers.
“Even after your mother disgraced us and brought down our House, my husband never lifted a hand to me. Lord Hurrell is a kind man. There are many who would have vented their frustrations on their spouse in such dire circumstances.”
Lady Hurrell was a liar. She knew the lady was a liar.
She wanted something, this was a trick, she shouldn’t listen.
Ophele’s shoulders hunched as the lady tugged her hair, a gesture that looked like a caress but was actually painful little yanks, like a chicken pecking a weaker hen.
Lady Hurrell’s caresses were as painful as Leise and Nenot’s punishments.
“No one would have helped me, if he had,” the lady murmured.
“For we were exiled, and I had not the refuge of my natal family. Can you imagine how desperate it would have been? My husband might have beaten me terribly, or starved me, or even killed me, and there was no one who would stop him. It is why I am so afraid for you. For you are only a bastard, and neither the stars in heaven nor your father on earth would even bother to protest.”
As terrible as Lady Hurrell’s lies were, it was this truth that made Ophele’s heart contract with terror.
She was right. Neither the stars nor the Emperor had ever shown the slightest interest in what became of her, not once in her whole life.
If she married the Duke of Andelin, she would be at his mercy.