Chapter 3 – A Bed of Roses #5
The door closed. She avoided the eyes of Mistress Goel and Rosset as she swept everything into her much-battered valise.
She didn’t know what had become of her wedding dress or diamond jewelry; the maids had taken them away after they undressed her the night before.
All that remained were the cosmetics, brush, comb, and assorted sanitary items, creature comforts that were nothing compared to the parcel of willow tea Mistress Goel pressed into her hands.
“It was an honor to serve you, Your Highness,” she said, her eyes flashing displeasure in the duke’s direction.
It had taken both her and Rosset’s efforts to get Ophele down the stairs, and they bid farewell in the same place that they had met, with Ophele clutching her valise and feeling more than ever like a stray no one wanted.
But she was glad she had held her tongue.
All the knights were hurrying about the stable yard, swinging their saddles onto their horses and securing the supply wagon.
The idea of asking the Knights of the Brede to wait until she felt better was unthinkable.
“Princess,” the duke said, riding up to her on his big black horse and extending a hand. “Come, up you get.”
He lifted her into her usual position, resting in the crook of his chest and arm, so large and solid it was like sitting in a chair.
But the first bouncing step of the horse stabbed into her belly like a spear.
Stifling a gasp, she clutched the arm wrapped around her waist, the steel of his vambrace cold under her fingers.
“All right, Princess?”
She nodded, pale. Her backside fit neatly between his thighs and rested on the saddle, and the jolting of the horse spanked painfully into all the places he had explored so thoroughly the night before.
A few townspeople turned out to see off His Grace and the knights, waving and shouting so loudly, there was no chance for conversation until they passed through the city gates.
“We received word this morning that there are bandits near Tresingale,” he explained as the horse settled into a brisk, ground-devouring walk that rolled like a small boat over an endless series of waves.
“There are still a lot of deserters from both armies in the valley and we’ve just begun bringing in supplies and livestock, we can’t afford to lose them. ”
That sounded important. She bit her lip and tried to find a less painful position, her head resting on his chest.
“Where is Tresingale?” she asked. It was the first time that he had spoken so many words to her at once.
“It’s on a bend of the Brede near Drieze Watch, in Firkane,” he answered willingly. “The nearest bridge is thirty miles upriver, but I’ve ridden the length of the Andelin and there’s no better place. The grazing is good and there’s a natural ridgeline for defense…”
It seemed she had found a subject the normally taciturn duke was willing to discuss at length.
Ophele tried to focus on his voice. Adventurers in stories had to endure far worse than this on their quests; Beacon the Voyager had cut his own foot off to escape prison and make his way back to his ship before it sailed.
Surely, the duke must have endured worse; wasn’t that why they called him Remin Grimjaw?
She had seen all the scars on his body with her own eyes.
And so, reminding herself of the misfortunes of every adventurer she had ever heard of, Ophele settled herself to endure.
* * *
It wasn’t until they paused for the noon meal that Remin realized something was amiss.
The sound the princess made when he lifted her down from the saddle was similar to some of the less pleasant noises the night before, and he glanced back sharply. The princess was frozen in position behind him, biting her lower lip. Her face was very pale.
“All right?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes.”
But when she tried to follow him, the hitching steps were nothing at all like her usual quick, bouncing gait, and he frowned.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “Don’t lie. Are you injured?”
Her shoulders hunched and she glanced around quickly, as if frightened someone would overhear.
“It hurts,” she confessed in a whisper, with tears of pain welling in her eyes and red to the tips of her ears. It took him a moment to realize what specifically might be hurting.
“Still?”
“Yes,” she said wretchedly. “I have tea, Mistress Goel gave it to me—”
“I told you to tell me if it hurt,” he said, lowering his voice. “All the way from the city? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I thought—Mistress Goel said it was normal.” She wilted under his black glare. “And you said there were bandits…”
It took an effort to keep from cursing aloud, but Remin swallowed the words and lifted her up, trying not to be angry with her.
There was a small possibility that this was an intentional ploy to delay them on the road—she had become very friendly with Mistress Goel, and it was impossible to know what agents the Emperor might have in Celderline—but it was more likely that this was exactly what it appeared to be.
The noise she made when he set her on a handy rock made him scowl ferociously.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as a further heaping of coals on his head. “The tea helped before, I can keep going if—”
“Stop apologizing,” he said shortly. “I’ll go get it. Do you need to relieve yourself?”
Her face turned crimson. The blush spread all the way down her neck and chest, so dark it even disguised the livid marks of his mouth on her skin.
“Your Grace—”
“Yes or no?”
He was not easily embarrassed, but she was humiliated enough for both of them as he helped her into the bushes.
He learned a great deal about women’s clothing, anatomy, and the purpose of the bundles of cotton in her valise over the course of the next few minutes, as well as his deficiencies as a caretaker.
He knew less about women than he knew about his horse.
He should have gotten her a maid.
Settling her by the fire to wait for water to boil for the tea, he sought out Miche to demand to know if all women endured this after their first night.
“I guess some of them must,” the blond knight said, looking startled, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “I imagine being on horseback all day doesn’t help. Sorry, Rem. My expertise is in deflowering, not the bit that comes after.”
“Shut up.” Miche’s face had never looked more punchable. “Will she be all right?”
“I’ve never heard of a woman dying of it. Just what did you do last ni—”
“Shut up,” Remin said again, and stalked off to find Tounot, who often served as medic when their camp surgeon wasn’t available.
If the princess had been one of his soldiers, Remin would have had no qualms about pushing on, unless it looked likely to kill her, and she didn’t seem like she was going to die.
But for some reason the sight of her sniffing back tears was intolerable.
“Willow bark tea is probably best,” Tounot replied, when Remin pulled him aside to discuss the trouble. “Anything alchemical would be overkill. Or there’s wine, if you just want to make her sleep. Does she have a head for it?”
“No.” Remin brightened. Letting her sleep through the pain seemed ideal. Retrieving a skin of wine from the supply wagon, he went to dose her.
“Wine?” she said dubiously, when he presented the remedy.
“I know you don’t like it, but just drink it.” Guilt made him sharper than he meant to be. He probably could have foregone the fourth or fifth round with her last night, but at the time she had seemed to be enjoying it.
She nursed the wineskin with a sour face as they finished their meal of bread and cheese, and by the time he lifted her back onto his horse, she was already a little giddy, nestling into him like a kitten in a basket.
“S’warm,” she said, slurring the tiniest bit. It had been less than an hour and she had consumed about one and a half cups of wine.
“Drink a little more,” he told her, lifting the skin to her lips. He didn’t want to make her wine-sick, but as the horse swayed into motion, a crease appeared between her eyebrows, and she shifted uncomfortably against him. “Does it still hurt?”
“Yes,” she said. Her head was resting on his chest, her hair tickling his chin. “Sorry…”
“Don’t apologize. You have to tell me right away next time,” he said, more gently. “It’s never my intention to hurt you.”
“Really?” There was a plaintive note in her voice that made him look down at her, surprised and a little insulted.
“Yes, really. I took an oath to protect you, remember?”
“Those aren’t real,” she said with unexpected cynicism, and sipped from the skin again without being told. “The lord and lady took n’oath, too.”
“Lord and Lady Hurrell?”
“Mmm.” She sighed, rubbing her cheek against the fur trim of his cloak. Her eyelashes were very long and thick, curling over her flushed cheeks, and Remin shifted in the saddle, trying not to picture certain memorable interludes from the previous night.
“Why did they lie and say you were sick?” he asked, partly to satisfy his curiosity and partly to take his mind off the feel of her body against him.
“Lisabe,” she said, as if it were obvious. “House Hurrell fell with House…Your Grace’s house. They always said you owed. Because they were loyal.”
“Why did you go along with it?” His mouth tightened. He had suspected something of the sort, but it was something else to hear it stated so baldly.
She was silent for so long, he thought she was going to refuse to answer. Or maybe she had already fallen asleep. Lifting her chin with his fingers, he found himself looking into troubled eyes, a warm and tawny shade like sunlight on the velvety hide of a doe.
“Tell me the truth. I won’t be angry.”
“Remin Grimjaw.” Her eyes closed as his finger stroked the dainty length of her jaw. “You…you were so mad, ’member? And Lady Hurrell said she would tell…tell…she said, if you were my husband, and I made you mad, then you could do…anything…”
Her voice fell to a whisper and she burrowed against him as if she were trying to hide from that terrible anything. And he had lied. He was angry that anyone would insinuate he would abuse his wife, especially in front of that wife, for the despicable purpose of making her afraid of him.
“I have never harmed a woman in my life,” he told her, stiff with offense.
Assassins did not count. But this was the wrong thing to say, or at least the wrong tone in which to say it, because she lowered her eyes and nodded, clearly placating.
“I haven’t,” he repeated with less heat. “I won’t. I promise, Princess.”
With his men nearby, he couldn’t bring himself to reassure her more thoroughly. He had to satisfy himself with squeezing her briefly against him, her face pressed into his chest.
She hiccupped.
“That’s nice,” she whispered, her chin tilting up to look at him. Her eyes were hazy and her lips parted, pink and tender. “Remin Grimjaw said he promised. You smell nice.”
He took the wineskin away.
“You,” he said, trying to ignore a certain anatomical stiffening, “are drunk, Princess.”
“Am not.”
“I assure you, you are,” he said, amused. She was bolder with a little wine in her veins.
“Not a princess,” she enunciated, sounding aggrieved. “But don’ tell. S’a secret. Shh.”
Remin frowned. He had all the paperwork to prove she most definitely was a princess.
“Your father is the Emperor,” he said, looking down at her through narrowed eyes. He hadn’t anticipated this when he gave her the wine, but he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. “Aren’t you a good and filial daughter to him?”
“How? Never…never seen’n Emp’rer.” Her eyes were closing.
“What about a messenger from the Emperor?” he asked, giving her a little nudge to keep her awake. “Right before I came to Aldeburke.”
“Messjer?”
“Yes. Where did you meet him?”
“Never metta messjer,” she said sleepily. “Not even’on my birthday…”
Her head sank against his chest, and she was asleep.
Remin looked down at her thoughtfully. A sweet face could conceal sinister intentions.
He had already learned that the hard way.
It wasn’t impossible that she was faking her intoxication, or at least pretending to be drunker than she actually was.
He had known masters of deceit, spies and killers sent by the Emperor who must have been raised from birth to their calling. Child assassins.
Could she be one of them? Her lips moved, soft lips, innocent-looking lips, her head rocking gently from side to side with the sway of the horse, her delicate body as boneless as a doll’s.
Seventeen. He had never been so innocent; he had killed his first assassin when he was fourteen, and took command of an army three years later.
Years of war and intrigue sometimes made him feel old and tired, as if he had already lived a lifetime. But if she was innocent…
“She out?” Miche drew his horse over, surveying the sleeping girl.
“Dead drunk,” Remin replied, looking down at her ruefully.
“You still haven’t introduced her to us formally,” Miche noted. “We owe her our oaths too, Rem. She’s our lady now.”
“She is.” Again, he wondered if it really might be true. “We’ll do it properly tomorrow.”