Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(110)
The city below it contained the townhouses of the elite and the aristocrats, each family vying to create the most elaborate abode. The results put Mayfair houses to shame. Hidden courtyards, ornate gates, complicated gardens, cascading fountains, and variegated glass windows were the norm. The burghers, not to be outdone, did with paint and plaster what they could not afford to do with carving, gilding, and stained glass.
Even the peasant class, the most numerous in the town, whitewashed their houses and filled window boxes with a riot of blooms. All styles blended into a charming, homey mess that Damien had missed with every breath he took.
Just before they rode through the unmanned city gates, Petri said, “Sir,” in a slightly worried voice.
Damien glanced over his shoulder. Petri was gazing behind them across the narrow plain they’d just traversed. The Nvengarian soldiers looked too, and halted their horses. Penelope turned, her lips parting.
Behind them came a mass of humanity. The crowd must have begun to gather after the first village, picking up people from the next one, and so on, following the entourage from town to town. They surged forward, not a mindless mob but people walking purposefully and quietly, women holding the hands of children; farmers, peasants, and burghers walking together; barons riding on horseback beside them. Damien felt the residents waiting for them in Narato as well, the tension wound high.
The captain signaled his men forward. They road beneath the arch of the city’s entrance to a winding, cobbled street. “Bar the gates,” the captain ordered.
“Bad idea, Captain,” Damien said in a mild tone. “Gates can be ripped down, the iron bars used as weapons.”
The captain looked uneasy. He’d likely helped defend Nvengaria against Russian forays in the north or the Turks in the east, but had never dealt with the madness of a Nvengarian uprising. He gave Damien a nod. “Leave them open,” he told his soldiers.
Damien felt Penelope’s gaze on him. He reached for her hand and she placed hers in his without hesitation, as they pulled their horses to walk side by side.
Except for their road-weary appearance and the fact that the army men were more or less arresting Damien and Penelope instead of guarding them, this could be a parade of the Imperial Prince and Princess riding among their people. Damien determined to make damn certain that’s what it looked like.
The mass of people who flowed into the city were joined by those pouring out of houses, shops, and inns to walk with the quiet and increasing crowd.
The captain led Damien and his party up the tight turns of the castle road, each turn overlooking a steep drop to the city below. The crowd halted at the bottom of the hill, uncertain whether they should proceed.
With a clatter of hooves, Titus broke away and raced back down toward them, laughing and whooping.
“Let him go,” the captain barked as two lieutenants made to peel away and chase him. “He’s not important.”
Below them, Titus halted before the crowd and sent up a cry, the ancient ululation of the Nvengarian people. The sound was used in times of war or drunken revelry—it never truly mattered which.
The cry was taken up here and there throughout the crowd, along with whoops and shouts that rose to engulf the city. Damien, on the last bend, turned in his saddle and saluted. The crowd shouted louder, waving flags of Nvengarian blue and gold, banners that had not all been torn down on Midsummer’s Day.
“Greet them,” Damien said to Penelope. “They need you.”
Penelope gave Damien a look of trepidation but then she drew a breath, smiled, and raised her hand in a very pretty wave.
A wall of responding sound hammered at them. The horses moved restlessly, ears flicking, hooves sparking on the cobbles.
People now filled every street below the castle in a riot of color and noise, banners waving back and forth in the sunshine. They cheered, yelled, and ululated, and when Penelope waved again, the sound pulsed forward, every throat shouting for the princess.
The captain was wise enough not to restrain Damien and Penelope in front of their adoring people. He merely rode on, as though he and his men guided and guarded the prince and princess, until they reached the elaborate arch of the castle’s entrance.
The captain headed the procession through the arched tunnel, which was filled with ancient murder holes that could drop arrows and boiling liquids down onto an enemy. They emerged into the bright but empty courtyard of the castle—here the captain ordered his men and Damien’s party to dismount. The portcullis clanged closed, but Damien still heard the shouting of the crowd, now muffled behind thick walls.
The troop led Damien and Penelope, on foot now, into the castle proper. Damien walked beside Penelope on her right, their hands entwined. Sasha was close on Damien’s other side, bumping into him from time to time, the man’s breathing ragged. Damien sensed Sasha’s terror but his equal resolution to see this through.
Petri had put himself on Penelope’s left, placing himself between her and the officer who tried to escort her. Egan hulked behind them, a frowning Scotsman in full MacDonald plaid. Titus had remained below, continuing to stir up the crowd.
The captain led them through ground-floor halls that were plain and utilitarian, then upstairs into much more lavish rooms. Cathedral-like ceilings soared above them, stained glass filled windows, gilded moldings glittered in the sunshine, and tapestries draped walls alongside Dutch and Venetian paintings from centuries gone by.