Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(4)
“Little Marching, Oxfordshire,” the small man next to him said. “I am very much afraid it is, Your Highness.”
Chapter 3
Damien studied the square church and cluster of whitewashed, thatch-roofed houses before letting the velvet curtain of the carriage’s window drop.
So this was Little Marching. After weeks of grueling travel, he had arrived at last.
“And she is here?” he asked Sasha. They spoke in Nvengarian, the language they used when they were alone.
“Yes, Highness.” Sasha, Damien’s former tutor and now his chief advisor and protocol officer, touched his neatly trimmed beard as he always did when he was nervous. “Somewhere.”
Damien rapped on the roof and instructed the coachman to halt in the village square. Rufus, one of Damien’s footmen, jerked open the door and made a deep bow. Damien climbed down before the other footman, Miles, could whip the cushioned stepstool under his feet.
The village was silent as Damien made his way across the cobbled square, past quiet houses with blank windows. He knew the villagers watched—how could they not? He was a stranger in this sleepy hamlet, an object of interest.
And what an object. The hired chaise was gleaming black, the spokes of its wheels picked out in red. The four horses were gray, perfectly matched, and sported purple plumes on their headstalls. The plumes drooped now from the long journey and weather, but Sasha had insisted on them. Damien’s own horse, glossy black and of fine blood, was tethered behind the carriage.
Damien’s tall footmen, Rufus and Miles, had black hair, blue eyes, and bright blue, military-style livery. Sasha dressed in a Bond Street suit, over which he prominently wore his red and gold sash of office.
For traveling, Damien had remained informal—linen shirt, riding breeches with boots, and a loose coat shrugged over it all. His black hair caught the pale sunshine—like all Nvengarians, he did not wear a hat.
But even in subdued dress, Damien’s more than six-foot height and broad shoulders made people take a second look. He did not belong there, and the watching square made sure he knew that.
Damien glanced at a building of crumbling gray stone on one side of the square. “Is that the pub?” he asked his footmen.
Rufus and Miles, self-proclaimed experts on country taverns, confirmed that it was.
Miles and Rufus had discovered that the best thing about world travel was the ale. From Bucharest to Austria to the Low Countries to England, no matter what language the natives spoke, the two young men could make understood the words tavern and ale. Likewise, they’d learned that the international phrase, We’ll stand the next round, could win friends and loyalty in every corner of the Continent and Britain.
Now they came to attention on either side of the public house’s door while Damien ducked under the low lintel and went inside. Sasha and the two footmen followed.
Damien found a typical English public house, low-ceilinged with a smoking fireplace, settles along the walls, and tables bowed from years of use. On this warm afternoon the room was mostly empty, as farmers were in their fields and villagers worked at their trade.
The benches today contained older men, grizzled-haired grandfathers taking refuge in a pint of ale and banter with friends. As Damien entered, every man lifted his head and stared at him.
Damien had been in English country taverns before, plenty of them, but on those journeys he’d been alone with Petri, traveling on horseback or in a nondescript coach. The locals had looked him over then stoically accepted him as another traveler. He’d never before entered a public house with his entourage as the Imperial Prince.
The patrons studied Rufus and Miles, Sasha and Damien, and the silence grew hostile.
Sasha looked around, aghast. “On your feet for the most Imperial Prince Damien of Nvengaria,” he said in clear English.
The landlord, who’d come forward at their entrance, stopped abruptly. Someone snorted, and dark muttering came from the corners.
“Why do they not stand?” Sasha asked Damien in Nvengarian. “Why do these peasants not bow to you?”
In palaces across Europe, Prince Damien was greeted with bows of various depths and at times, downright groveling. But then Damien was rich, titled, and well-liked.
He was known for his generosity, plus he was a crack shot, an excellent rider, and reputed to be one of the best lovers in Europe. He was admired for his athleticism, his intelligence, his energy, and his interest in everything from new inventions to pretty tavern wenches. Good times were never far behind when Damien of Nvengaria visited.
On this journey, however, once they’d reached England, Damien had ordered that they travel incognito, or as incognito as Sasha would let him. Sasha loved pageantry and was dismayed whenever people did not recognize Damien as Imperial Prince.
But then, poor Sasha had been locked in a dungeon for twenty years, and only recently let out into the light. He’d dared defend Damien once upon a time, and Damien’s father hadn’t liked that. Damien, who’d likewise been locked in a dungeon and knew just how it felt, indulged Sasha whenever he could.
“They are not peasants,” Damien told Sasha now. “If you call an English farmer a peasant, he might skewer your balls with his pitchfork.”
The smaller man blanched. “Truly? Why?”
“Because they consider themselves free men, not vassals.” Damien gazed back at the unwelcoming faces and pasted on a smile. “Rufus, remind me of that magic phrase, will you?”