Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(36)

Therefore, he walked with Petri to the village to check on preparations.

They found Little Marching teeming with activity. Carts and wagons filled with lumber and canvas rumbled through the High Street. At the end of the High, in the village square, a platform had been built, the banner of the Imperial Princes of Nvengaria—two snarling, golden wolves on a background of deep blue—already hanging from it. Awnings with the blue, red, and gold of Nvengaria fluttered from nearly every doorway.

The tavern stood open, and despite the work going on, plenty of men had found time to drop in for a pint. As soon as Damien ducked inside, a shout went up.

“Three cheers for Prince Damien!”

“Hip, hip, hooray!” Nvengarian flags came out and waved in fervor.

“Where did they get the flags?” Damien murmured to Petri in Nvengarian.

“Rufus and Miles,” Petri answered.

“Ah.” Damien turned back to the crowd and called out in English, “Landlord, I will—what is the phrase?—I will stand the next round.”

The cheering rose. Men working outside hurried in to partake. The landlord handed tankards to his barmaids as fast as he could.

The landlord’s daughter flashed a hopeful smile at Damien as she brought him a tankard. Damien thanked her politely, then gave Petri a nod. Petri, taking the cue, slipped in beside her and easily diverted her attention. The village girls were finding Petri’s warm smiles and faulty English quite enchanting.

Damien quietly sipped his ale, listening to the others talk and enjoy themselves. When he felt the time right—the patrons sufficiently benevolent toward all things Nvengarian—he stepped in front of the crowd and raised his hands for silence.

It took a while, because every man in the place started shouting. “Quiet, the prince is about to speak!” “I am quiet—you get quiet.” “If we all stop shouting, the man can talk!”

At last, Damien simply cut across their noise. “My friends.” The chatter slowed and then ceased as they turned to him. “I thank you for the warm welcome you have given me and my people. I have grown to love your village in the brief time I have been here.”

This engendered more cheering, as Damien had known it would. But Damien was used to waiting for crowds to quiet between sentences. In Nvengaria, if there was no pause in a speech, one could never be certain what was said, because the speaker would not be heard over the screaming of the crowd. The villagers here, at least, quieted in case he said something interesting.

“I have had word,” Damien went on, “that the Prince of Wales will indeed be attending our little fête.”

More cheers. Englishmen, in general, rather despised the portly Prince Regent, but having royalty visit a village was reason for celebration, and of course, another round of ale.

“You must do something for me,” Damien said over the noise.

The hubbub died down again. Eager, somewhat glassy gazes fixed on Damien.

“You must show great honor to your prince,” Damien said. “You must cheer mightily for him, and wave your English flags, and show your love of England to him. He will reward you well, I think.”

A farmer in the back raised his flagon. “Long live Prince George!”

“Long live Prince George! God save the King!”

Damien waited, smiling gently. He wanted the villagers on his side in his quest to win Penelope, in case he had to recruit them to help spirit her away. Prince Damien had learned how to be welcome, even by people who instinctively disliked and mistrusted foreigners.

However, he needed the Prince Regent on his side as well. The Regent was already envious of Damien, and he might be less than pleased to discover that Damien had walked into an English village and taken it over.

Damien hadn’t really—he knew that. These men were salt of the earth who might grumble over the posh gents in London overtaxing their poor bit of land, but by God, they were English taxes and English bits of land. No foreigners would tell them what to do.

Damien also needed England to come in firmly on his side in the uneasiness in Nvengaria—he could not afford to let England back Alexander. Republics were fashionable these days, and Grand Duke Alexander had the Council of Dukes and the Council of Mages cowed.

If Damien could keep England on his side by making Prince George believe he was the center of attention at this fête, then so be it. The villagers must cheer and admire the Regent and let Damien fade into the background.

“Thank you, my friends,” Damien said to the assembly.

The same farmer shouted, “Long live Prince Damien!”

A huge cheer rattled the rafters. Damien bowed politely, smiled his thanks, and stepped away.

“I did not understand all of what you said,” Petri remarked in Nvengarian. “But it sounded impressive.”

Behind them, another man slurred, “Three cheers for Prince Damien!” His followers took up the call.

“Hip, hip, horaaaaay!”

To the same chant that had ushered them in, Petri and Damien ducked out of the tavern.

“They are good people,” Damien answered his valet.

Petri shot him a look. “It is not simply their good nature. You are a natural ruler, sir. The peasants in Nvengaria do not bow only because they are required to. The peasants here do not have even that stricture upon them, and yet they show their respect. And their liking.”