Hidden Honor. Anne Stuart
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nag that her father had grudgingly given her for the journey with only minor trepidation.
The men were already mounted. The monks were on particularly fine animals, a surprise. Most holy brothers rode donkeys, not high-strung chargers. Poor old Melange would have a hard time keeping up with even the slowest of them, but it was the best she could hope for. Wat dragged the mounting block over, but before she could move the dark prince spoke, startling her. She hadn’t realized he was so near.
“You’re not riding that pathetic old nag,” he said flatly.
She’d forgotten his voice. She looked up at him, and tried to remind herself that despite his eyes he was nothing but a horrible, wicked, balding man. “It’s the only mount I have.”
“I’ve seen your father’s stables. He takes better care of his cattle than he does his women.”
“Don’t most men?” she responded, then bit her lip. Being outspoken was always a failing, and she didn’t want his dark, unnerving eyes on her any more than necessary.
“Brother Adrian!” he called over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving hers. To her surprise, it was the youngest, baby-faced monk who slid off his horse and came running.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Find milady a better mount. If she tries to keep up with us on that poor beast she’ll be left behind in no time.”
“I don’t know if Baron Osbert would be willing—”
“Baron Osbert has no say in the matter. He would scarce want to inconvenience his prince, would he? He is singularly lacking in wisdom, but even he can’t be shortsighted enough to offend those in power.”
“Indeed,” Brother Adrian said, advancing toward Wat, who stood trembling in his manure-stained boots.
“I don’t know what I can give you,” Wat said in a wavering voice. “The baron has never let her ride much. She’s such a hopeless rider that he was afraid she’d ruin any of his decent horses.”
Prince William was still looking at her. “You really are a disgrace, aren’t you?” he said softly.
“So I’m often told.” She wasn’t about to defend herself. She would ride whatever they put her on, just as long as it took her to her new life.
“Bring her Anthony’s mount. He won’t be needing it.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a brief moment to worry about poor Anthony’s fate before she spoke. “I’m certain Melange will be fine.”
“And I’m certain she won’t. Are you planning on arguing with me?”
That was exactly what she wanted to do, but she thought better of it. One didn’t argue with the king’s son, particularly when he was known to possess an uncertain temperament. “As you wish, my lord.”
He nodded. “A sensible decision. I knew you were wiser than your father. We’re already late in leaving.” He should have moved away. His huge black horse was restless, breathing heavily in the early morning air, ready to jump ahead, but he kept the beautiful creature under control with almost imperceptible effort as Adrian returned with a freshly saddled chestnut mare.
Elizabeth eyed the creature warily. The horse was bigger than Melange, and much livelier. But she certainly wasn’t about to waste her time thinking she had any choice in the matter. Life wasn’t about choices, it was about making the best of what was forced on you.
Riding a strange horse was bad enough, but going through the awkward business of mounting with the prince’s dark eyes on her was worthy of argument. Until she glanced at him and knew he wasn’t going to budge.
The mare held still with surprising patience as she scrambled onto her back, a good sign. Melange, for all her torpor, wasn’t as well behaved. Elizabeth sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. If she hadn’t managed it she had little doubt the prince would have put his hands on her again, in front of everyone, and that was the last thing she wanted.
And then they were off, their cavalcade moving with stately grace through the early morning mist. Elizabeth looked back, one last time, at the assembled servants, the familiar shape of Bredon Castle, where she’d spent her entire seventeen years. And then she turned her back on it, facing her new life.
It was a matter of great pride for Elizabeth that she never cried. Not when her father boxed her ears, not when her brothers called her a maypole, not even when she’d overheard two of the women of the castle discussing her total lack of feminine attributes. Not even when her only chance at married life was destroyed before it even began, when the man she’d been betrothed to chose another. When she looked in a mirror, even in the wavering reflection she could see herself well enough. Red hair—a sign of the Devil. Pale skin that freckled and burned in the bright sun. Way too tall—she towered over most men. Way too skinny—her hips were narrow, not made for childbirth, so what good would she be to anyone? She had breasts, but their relative abundance was more of an inconvenience than a boon. They had no use but to get in her way and occasionally excite the attention of some idiot male. At least in the convent no one would notice.
She never cried, and she prided herself on her strength and resilience, but by the time the sun was high overhead she was ready to sob with pain and frustration.
In seventeen years she’d never traveled more than half a day away from the castle, and then only once, to her aborted wedding. Her mother had no family left to visit, and Baron Osbert certainly never sought out her company on his occasional journeys. But now she’d been in the saddle longer than she’d ever been in her entire life, and her body screamed at each step the horse took.
“My lady?” The soft voice penetrated her self-pity, and she lifted her head to look into Brother Matthew’s pale blue eyes. “Are you ill?”
She cast a nervous glance ahead, but Prince William was well in front of the caravan, almost out of sight. She gave the gentle monk a brief smile. “Just travel-weary,” she said with at least a modicum of honesty. In fact, she was so wretched she could scream from it, but it would do her little good. “You’re very kind to worry,” she added. “I’ll be fine once we stop to rest.”
Such a shame to have such a pretty face lost to a monastery, she thought absently when he smiled back at her. A few more sweet men like him in the real world would certainly improve the quality of life. Instead, most husbands were bullying brutes, and the thoughtful men were devoted to celibacy. As was she, she reminded herself swiftly.
“I’m not sure the prince has any intention of stopping before nightfall,” Brother Matthew said in a wry voice.
Elizabeth couldn’t help her tiny moan of despair.
“I can see to it that he does,” Brother Matthew said, eyeing her with great sympathy. “Just a word in his ear and I’m certain he’d stop. After all, he could hardly expect a frail woman to keep up this kind of pace.”
“I’m not a frail woman,” she said between clenched teeth. There was a time in her life when she would have given anything to be a frail, helpless flower of femininity. God had ordained otherwise, and she had no choice but to take pride in her strength and endurance. Even if it seemed to have abandoned her when she most needed it. “I’ll be fine. I’m just not used to riding such long distances.”
“The journey’s only just begun. There’s no need for him to set such a pace.”
“Perhaps he wants his penance over and done with,” she suggested, shifting around to try to get more comfortable. Her horse took her restlessness with comparative good grace. Melange would have made life pure hell.
“I would imagine he does,” Brother Matthew said. “Celibacy sits very hard on a man like Prince William. Be careful of him, my lady. It worries me that your father couldn’t even spare a kitchen maid to bear you company. As the only woman in this group of men it makes you very vulnerable.”
“I think they’ll manage to restrain