Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(109)
Damien knew the prophecy was broken. Sasha’s rituals had only served to get Damien married to an innocent young woman who deserved a much better husband than an outlaw prince of a violent people. Even if Damien overthrew Alexander, life as Imperial Prince would be far from peaceful. Alexander was but one danger—Damien’s existence was fraught with them.
Penelope ought to have married some minor baron or other safe gentleman, whose idea of excitement was an especially long walk before returning home for tea. Damien could imagine Penelope sitting before the fire in some comfortable country home, sewing her husband’s shirts, smiling at him while he described the remarkable things he’d seen during this walk.
Lovely woman. She was meant to lead a happy, domestic life, not be an exotic princess fleeing assassins sent by men like Alexander.
Damien had felt the frantic madness of the prophecy recede while he’d held her during the storm. Once the haze of magic had gone, Damien realized how foolish and selfish it had been to bind this woman to him.
But when he’d tried to make her see reason and return to England, she’d lifted her chin and given him her beautiful, stubborn look and told him she’d follow him to destruction and beyond.
And by-the-bye, Damien, I am carrying your child, she’d more or less said. The shock of that still had not left him.
He moved protectively to Penelope’s side under the gaze of the troop’s commander. “May we keep the pace slow, gentlemen?” he asked. “My wife tires easily.”
He exaggerated—Penelope was the most resilient lady Damien had met—but he did not want an arduous horseback ride to endanger her or their child.
The captain, a tall man with coarse black hair, his Imperial Army uniform crisp, gave Damien a nod that spoke of respect if not obeisance. He’d be civilized about things, he seemed to say.
The soldiers brought forward horses for Damien, Petri, Egan, and Titus. Titus, lip curled, slid his hand toward the knife at his belt as the soldier approached him, but Damien glared him to obedience. The last thing he needed was for Titus to start a blood bath. The Nvengarian army was disciplined, but they were, after all, Nvengarians.
Once Damien and party were mounted, the captain led them at a walk through a countryside that was quiet and still. Lush farms opened from villages clustered near the river’s banks, but today no farmers tilled the fields.
The River Nvengar was wide and flat, navigable, though shallow. Flat-bottomed barges usually filled the river, gliding around everything from the rowboats of peasant boys to the overly ornate watercraft of dukes. Today, however, the river was strangely empty.
“Is it a holiday?” Damien asked the captain in a conversational tone. “Or a funeral?”
The captain gave him a stiff glance. “His Grace the Grand Duke ordered the folk to stay in their houses while the outlaw prince was captured.”
“Interesting,” was all Damien said.
The road took them along the river, which was dappled with sunlight—a pleasant and beautiful ride on a summer’s day. When they approached the first village on their route, Damien quietly said, “Petri.”
Petri knew what he meant. He halted and dismounted, to the distress of the horsemen surrounding him, but they relaxed when he merely opened a pack and extracted a coat and sash. He handed the coat to Damien, who drew it on as Petri climbed onto his horse again.
The coat was part of Damien’s Imperial Prince’s uniform, a bit wrinkled now, but Petri had polished every medal until they glistened, while they’d waited out the storm, and brushed the epaulets until the silken threads shone in the sunlight. Damien settled his gold sash of office over his shoulder, meeting the captain’s disapproving look.
“They should know which of us is the outlaw prince,” Damien explained to him. “It will avoid confusion.”
The captain did not answer, only gave the curt order to ride on. Damien felt Penelope’s smile on him. She knew, and understood.
The village square held signs of a Midsummer’s Day festival, now abandoned. Colorful ribbons littered the streets; blue and gold banners with Nvengarian script reading Long Live Prince Damien lay tattered and forgotten.
The doors of the houses and shops were shut, the streets empty. Damien sensed the villagers’ presence, however—no doubt every man, woman, and child glued themselves to the windows to watch the procession go by. Damien gave the entire silent village an acknowledging nod and a wave. Penelope, the wonderful woman, did the same.
He found similar silence and disarray in the next village, and the next, and the next. The villages grew larger as they neared the main city, and the scattered and torn decorations became more abundant and elaborate. In the town nearest the capital, a platform had been built with a painting of Prince Damien hanging at the rear. Alone and deserted, the picture swung on its cord in the light breeze.
Damien sat straighter in the saddle. He sensed the restlessness here, the building of tension that would soon explode. To bring the point home, he leaned over, lifted Penelope’s hand, and kissed it.
They rode on. The city of Narato rose up a hill that was crowned by a castle with a thick wall—the fortifications that had defended Nvengarian princes for eight centuries. Renovations through the years had graced a more elegant fa?ade over the old fortress walls, until the castle glittered with glass windows, balconies, and fantastic battlements that became more ridiculous with each ruler.