Chapter 59
Alinore
THE DRUM OF hoofbeats roused Alinore from her doze. She jolted upright with a snort and gathered up the loose reins in her hands.
Beneath her, Flint pricked his ears and tossed his head.
Squinting at the stretch of track ahead, Alinore saw only trees and bushes. Nothing. Then, turning, she spotted the source of the noise: a flash of a bay horse disappearing behind a bend.
Flint tried to twist his head too, but Alinore tugged back the reins, pulling them to the side to let this hurried traveller pass.
She yawned as she nudged Flint on to the verge.
She had barely slept at the tavern last night.
The comings and goings of travellers in the courtyard had been loud and her room had turned out to be cramped and uncomfortable.
This morning, she felt stiff and a little crestfallen – the exhilaration of her grand plans waning with tiredness and the beginnings of saddle sores.
Yesterday she had taken a wrong turn at one of the forked paths and lost most of the afternoon doubling back.
It had been a frustrating and costly mistake, but she tried to assure herself that she was heading in the right direction now, and if she kept up a pace, she should reach the border of Calestra by nightfall.
Then it was just a few more days riding to Galasque.
Behind her, the thunder of hoofbeats drew closer and Alinore peered down the track once more, intrigued.
She had not yet encountered a traveller in such a hurry; most of the passers-by were wagons dragging produce from town to town, or villagers on foot, trudging to the surrounding fields – not riders tearing down the paths with feverish intent.
The bay horse reappeared around the bend, cantering closer, its rider bent low over its neck. The horse was a fine, neat animal with a noble head. Almost familiar. The way it moved – fluid, surefooted even on the uneven track – stirred something in her memory. She had seen that gait before.
Alinore’s gaze flicked to the rider: a large, bear-like figure.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The rider straightened slightly, lifting their face into the dappled morning light, and Alinore’s stomach clenched. Cloak flying like a banner behind him, wind whipping his dark hair back from his face, was Prince Ottone.
Alinore scrambled to gather up Flint’s reins, hurriedly kicking the horse forward. The gelding huffed in surprise and took off on the wrong leg, throwing his head back and stomping to a halt.
‘Alinore!’ bellowed Prince Ottone. ‘Alinore, stop!’
Before she could gather herself again, a streak of bay shot past her, close enough that she felt the gust of air in its wake. The horse skidded to a halt on the track ahead in a spray of pebbles, blocking the path.
Alinore had no choice but to rein Flint in.
Dust curled through the air in clouds as Prince Ottone swung his horse around to face her. The stallion’s flanks quivered, foam lacing its bit and dripping on to the ground. Both horse and rider were sleek with sweat.
‘I thought it was you,’ said Prince Ottone between panted breaths, his voice rough, cracking at the edges. ‘I’ve been riding all night.’
Alinore stared at him, his broad chest rising and falling, his face flushed.
‘Please,’ he added. ‘Just stop a moment.’
Prince Ottone’s clothes were the plain attire of a groomsman: mud-splattered breeches and a sweat-damp tunic clinging to his body under a travel-worn cloak. His dark-haired head was unadorned – no circlet, not even a cap, just loose strands sticking to his brow.
Alinore told herself that she was angry to see him. Not just angry – furious.
Her fists clenched around Flint’s reins, leather biting into her palms. How dare Prince Ottone come after her and unravel the careful distance she had put between them.
‘What’re you doing here?’ she cried.
‘I needed to speak to you.’
She scowled.
‘I never apologized for how we left things,’ he said in a garbled rush, as if the words might collapse if he did not force them out all at once.
‘I didn’t mean to say what I did – or rather, I never meant to say it like that.
’ He swallowed, his breath still ragged.
‘Things have been difficult since I returned from the war in Journier and I haven’t been myself.
I saw things there that … changed me. So much blood and loss.
I was relieved to be called back home, but not to witness the King’s death.
We weren’t exactly close, but still, he was my father.
’ Prince Ottone paused and pushed a hand through his hair.
‘But all of that doesn’t excuse the fact that I know I hurt you. ’
Memories surfaced of their childhood: chasing each other around the castle courtyards and laughing together in the passageways.
Prince Ottone had always understood Alinore in a way that no one else did – not even Cressyda.
And if Alinore was honest with herself, she had noticed that he had returned from the Journian war changed – more cautious, watchful and quiet.
But she had been so focused on her own quest, so convinced that battles were full of honour and glory, that she had not wanted to concern herself with anything else.
‘I’m sorry, Alinore,’ he added in a deep, soft voice.
She felt her resolve ebbing and she shook herself.
‘You were trying to stop me then and you’re trying to stop me again now,’ she replied. ‘Move out of my way!’
She kicked Flint towards a bank at the side of the track, intending to find an alternative route. Flint’s front legs scrambled on the muddy slope and he shied.
‘Careful, you’ll get hurt.’
‘I don’t need you to look after me!’
‘I know that.’
Prince Ottone nudged his horse alongside Flint.
Bending forward in the saddle, he reached across and grabbed hold of Alinore’s hands.
She jumped at the feel of his large, rough palms, calloused from sword fighting but warmer than she expected.
She thought he was going to snatch away her reins, to wrest control from her, but instead he stayed still, his hold firm but gentle, anchoring her in place.
‘I’m not trying to stop you,’ he said, his dark eyes burning into her own. ‘I understand now that there’s nothing in this realm that could do that.’
It was difficult to concentrate with the grip of his fingers over her own. His thumbs brushed lightly against her knuckles, a whisper of a touch that made her throat tighten unexpectedly.
‘Would you consider a bargain?’ he asked.
She blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. His nearness, the weight of his gaze and the sincerity in his voice left her dizzy. ‘What’re you talking about?’ she snapped.
‘If you return to Tormale with me now, I will escort you to the High King’s court this spring on my way back to battle. I’ll vouch for your knightly training myself.’
Alinore narrowed her eyes, instinctively searching for the caveat hidden in his soft tone. ‘Why?’ she asked, her voice flat and guarded.
Prince Ottone was not perturbed. He simply looked at her as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time.
‘It’s what I should have offered you from the start,’ he replied.
‘You’re a talented fighter and you train harder than anyone I know.
You deserve proper recognition for it. If there’s ever to be a Lady Knight of the Kingdoms of Galasque in our time, it will be you. ’
Alinore felt something stir deep within her: a flicker of the girl who had once clutched her father’s knightly sword in the villa of her old home, dreaming of honour, of purpose, of a place among warriors.
‘Do you think the High King will listen to you?’ she asked.
‘I can’t guarantee it, but there might be some novelty in granting such a thing for him. It’s more likely to lead to success than visiting Lord Lassiaro, anyway.’
There was sense in what Prince Ottone was proposing. Alinore had not completely thought through what lay ahead and she had been ignoring niggles of doubt since she set off yesterday. But still, to turn back now would feel like a defeat.
‘I’ve already spent flecks on lodgings,’ she said.
‘I’ll recompense you,’ replied Prince Ottone quickly.
‘I bought this horse.’
‘It’s a good horse. You can keep it in the castle stables.’
‘I cut my hair.’
‘I told you, it suits you.’
Prince Ottone leant closer, and Alinore stilled.
Her breath hitched as his face hovered just inches from hers, his expression unreadable.
She felt her gaze drawn to his lips; they were full, expressive, and a little chapped from the breeze.
For a brief, confusing, wonderful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her.
The space between them pulsed with something fragile and undeniable.
Then he pulled away.
Alinore blinked, startled out of the moment. She stared at him, stunned, half angry and half relieved, as he grinned like the boy he had once been.
‘Do we have a deal?’ he asked, his voice light but his eyes still watching her closely.
She huffed, partly from the rush of adrenaline, partly from sheer disbelief. ‘You’re infuriating,’ she muttered.
‘Frequently,’ he agreed with a smile.
Alinore glanced down at where his hand still rested lightly on hers. She could feel a remaining echo of tension that had almost tipped into something else. Then she lifted her chin, weighing her pride against the strange, fluttering hope that had taken root in her chest.
‘Yes,’ she said. Then, ‘No.’
‘Which is it to be? The choice is yours to make.’
She twitched in the saddle. ‘I’m not returning to the castle,’ she replied finally. ‘I don’t want to see King Samsel. If he hears of this plan, he’ll find some way to stop it. I’ll need to stay somewhere else in the city until we leave.’
‘I’m sure I can arrange that.’
Prince Ottone released her hands, straightening in his saddle, and Alinore resisted the urge to pull him back to her.
‘So you’ll return to Tormale with me now?’ he asked.
Slowly, she nodded.
Relief flashed across his features. ‘I passed a tavern earlier. I’ll need to stop there a while to get food.
I wasn’t joking when I said I’ve been riding all night to catch up with you.
’ He turned his stallion’s head in the opposite direction and looked over his shoulder, waiting for her to do the same.
Alinore hesitated, a question resting on her lips. ‘Why did you come after me?’ she asked finally.
Prince Ottone’s expression grew serious, his familiar playfulness fading.
‘To make amends,’ he said quietly. ‘And because … I was worried about you.’ Before Alinore could reply, he quickly added, ‘I know you can look after yourself, but I still worry. And so does Cress. You left without saying goodbye.’
At the mention of Cressyda, Alinore felt her old stubbornness returning. ‘A long way to come to say goodbye,’ she muttered.
There was a pause.
‘The truth is, I should never have let you go like that in the first place,’ said Prince Ottone, his voice strained. ‘I mean it when I say that you deserve a chance to pursue knightly training. I shouldn’t have stood in your way. I’m sorry.’
He looked at her with wide, dark eyes that held something deep inside them that she could not quite name.
‘Will you forgive me, Lady Alinore?’
She felt a rush of warmth that she tried desperately to fight off.
It crept up her spine and pooled in her chest, soft and unsettling.
She gulped, forcing herself to remain distant, to hold on to her carefully constructed indifference.
‘I suppose so, Your Highness,’ she managed to reply.
‘I can hardly say no to a prince, can I?’
He grinned. ‘If anyone could, you could.’
For a moment, he looked as though he was about to say something else, and the possibility of it hung between them.
Then came the sound of creaking wheels and they turned to see a wagon pulled by two horses rounding the bend, wooden barrels rattling in its crates. The driver gestured for them to go ahead or move out of the path.
‘We should be on our way,’ said Prince Ottone. ‘No one at Syonno Castle knows that I’ve left and I’d like to keep it that way.’ He clicked his tongue, nudging his stallion into a trot. ‘Come on,’ he called.
Alinore looked one last time at the road behind her. Then she turned her horse and followed him.