her grandfather bellowed from the doorway. He refused to use her given name, instead labeling her with a word that meant “chicken.” If she showed her displeasure or hesitated to answer to the name, the king would only mock her, squawking and calling for her as if calling the hens to feed.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She spun hastily around and dropped into a low curtsy, ankles crossed as she’d been taught. The man was quite particular. He’d kicked her feet out from under her many times before she’d learned the move to his satisfaction.
“This room is a disgrace. Where have you been?” His dark beard, streaked with gray, bobbed above his stout belly as he spoke.
“I found the roots I need to make you tea. It will soothe your stomach and help you sleep better.”
Her grandfather’s fury subsided only slightly. “Brew me the tea, then. But first clean up this room.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She curtsied again, then grabbed her tub and cleared the tables, separating the scraps for the pigs. For all her grandfather’s power, his household was poorly run. He cared only about all things military—weapons, fighting, the ranks of men who lived in barracks at the base of the mountain. An imposing wall of stone and armor, the fortifications encircled the south and west sides of the mountain from cliff face to cliff face. Her grandfather boasted that his fortress had never been taken.
“Who would even want it?” she murmured to herself as she fought a dog for a plate, tossing the animal a ham bone in exchange for the dish. The castle was rough, cold and dark—nothing like the palaces back home in the Frankish lands of the Holy Roman Empire. She thought of their polished limestone walls gleaming in the sunlight, their arched windows and symmetrical towers. The buildings were well-proportioned works of art.
Fier was a military outpost and little more. No place for a lady. King Garren’s wife had died years before, and his only daughter, Rosalind, was sixteen—old enough that she ought to be well trained already in household management, but there was no one to teach her. Evelyn could have done it, having been raised in a noble household in the north, but her grandfather wouldn’t begrudge her the esteem that would come with that position. She’d done her best to help the girl learn how to be a lady, but Rosalind’s only interest in learning had been instruction in letters. Evelyn had taught her to read but little else.
Evelyn carried the full tub back to the kitchen. Still no sign of the kitchen girls. They were most likely getting into mischief with Bertie and Rosalind. Without the head cook to bully them into working, they often snuck away to amuse themselves elsewhere. And it was always more work to go find them than to simply do their work for them.
Disgusted, Evelyn dumped the remains of the meal into a bucket and made another trip to the dining hall for more scraps. Fortunately, the dogs had finished off the bulk of it, so there wasn’t much left to clear.
By the time she’d wiped the tables clean and washed and hung the valerian roots to dry near the fire so she could crush them later for her grandfather’s tea, Evelyn had determined the girls would never return to slop the pigs. If the scraps weren’t carried out soon, they’d attract more flies and the dogs would finish them off. That left her to do the job. She slipped her feet, still secure in her leather shoes, into thick-wooden-soled pattens, tying on the protective if clumsy footwear and picking up the bucket.
* * *
Luke arrived at Fier with the fresh bear hide folded over his shoulders. It was a fine bearskin, not yet molted for summer, probably a yearling bear, the fur unscarred and not too rough. A fitting gift for a king, not that Garren deserved a gift.
Still, Luke wanted to stay in the king’s good graces, especially if, as the pale-haired woman had said, King Garren resented the peace accord between their kingdoms. Besides that, Luke had left his horse at the outpost with his men. Fier was closer to where he’d killed the bear, and the skin was heavy. He didn’t want to carry it any farther than he had to.
That was the excuse he gave himself for bringing the hide east instead of west. Luke should investigate King Garren’s resentment of the peace treaty, and what better way to do so than with a sudden unannounced visit? If Luke caught the king off guard, he might discover far more than if he gave the crafty leader time to plan ahead.
And the pale-haired woman was somewhere in the fortress. She’d saved his life, and he had yet to learn her name. After seeking her for so long, he couldn’t bear to let her simply run away, not without at least trying to follow. She drew him as fire drew fluttering moths.
The men at the gate of the base fortifications looked somewhat surprised to see him, but they recognized him and didn’t try to stop him, instead simply waving him in. Luke had considered the woman’s warning, but it was absurd, really. King Garren knew better than to attempt to take him prisoner, especially given that Garren’s son Warrick was currently a guest inside the walls of Castlehead in Lydia—a visit both diplomatic and personal. Warrick had become engaged to Luke’s sister, Elisabette. The two were smitten with one another, and Warrick often visited their castle.
If Garren attempted to hold Luke against his will, King John could retaliate and hold Warrick for exchange. Surely Garren understood that any assault against Luke would endanger his own son and heir. The pale-haired woman failed to understand the complexities of the political situation. There was no threat against him here.
Rather, her warning made him determined to learn for himself Garren’s thoughts on the peace accord. The Illyrian king had deceived them too many times before. His word could not be trusted. Was the king plotting to take back the borderlands Illyria had ceded? If so, the Royal House of Lydia needed to know, and the fastest way to find out was for Luke to visit in person.
Luke was a prince. The pale-haired woman didn’t seem to know that, but as such, he was practically untouchable. He was certain that Garren would not be so foolish as to risk starting another war, not with Rome and Constantinople obliged to defend their provinces.
Luke located the main palace but found the great hall deserted. He left the bearskin on a bench, added a few logs to the sputtering fire, then decided to take a look around.
He found valerian roots hung to dry in the kitchen and recognized the pale-haired woman’s basket. She had to be nearby, then. But where? He looked out the back door in time to see her clomping in clogs across the yard, carrying a heavy pail.
Luke grinned at the sight of her slender figure, her long pale hair trailing in a pair of messy braids speckled with leaves and bits of twigs from her flight through the forest. Rather than risk startling her, he followed her quietly.
* * *
Evelyn hated carrying the slop to the pigs. The creatures were nearly large enough to slaughter, though the lean winter had left them hungry too often. Pigs were dangerous when they were hungry. They’d eat anything, alive or dead, even their own young. She’d known men missing ears and fingers from getting too close to hungry pigs. Though a stone wall separated the swine from the rest of the castle yard, their muck had seeped to the mud beyond the wall, making the ground all around dangerously slippery.
Evelyn tromped toward their enclosure, sticky mud threatening to suck the cumbersome pattens from her feet. The heavy bucket only made it that much more difficult to walk. Perhaps she ought to have split the scraps into two loads, but that would have meant making two trips or carrying the buckets on a yoke on her shoulder, which made navigating the narrow gaps between buildings even more challenging. And besides that, the yoke hurt.
The bucket handle cut into her hands and Evelyn shifted the weight. She could smell the pigpen long before she
