Page 17 of The Consolation Prize

Armand shook his head. “I ride a massive destrier and carry a sword at my hip,” he pointed out dryly, then hesitated. “Have you?” He watched her in the looking glass as he dunked his razor in the bowl of water. Una hesitated before she shook her head and he was quick to pick up on it.

It struck him, that he might do well to set more store by what she did not say, than by what she did. “You’ve had some experience, I deduce,” he said and saw her look up in dismay.

“No, no,” she protested weakly. “For I always traveled with a personal guard of at least three men, even when split off from my father’s forces.”

“A personal guard?” he echoed. “What happened to them, when you were captured?”

“They were captured also,” she said simply, then caught sight of his expression. “You must not imagine I formed any attachment, for they were very rarely the same men. My father kept them in strict rotation, so no bonds were formed.”

Armand frowned. “And why was that?”

Again, she paused before answering. “In case of betrayal or some conspiracy against him.”

Armand’s eyebrows shot up, but Una was not attending him as she was tucking some money in the foot of one stocking. He still wondered at her stricken expression when he had mentioned thievery, but he did not have time to pursue that right now. Instead he dried off his face and made haste to dress. He avoided the gold and burgundy chauses and opted instead for an old black pair out of his pack.

“If you let me have the torn one, I will mend it for you,” Una said, looking around from where she was pinning her veil in the dressing mirror.

“Pardon?”

“The gold legging. I noticed last night it was ripped.”

Armand looked down at the chauses he had bunched ready to shove into his bag. “Oh, right,” he muttered. Was it? He picked out the gold one and tossed it on the bed next to Una’s things. “Thank you,” he said, resigning himself to the fact he would likely have to wear odd legs again at some point.

“I can make you a new hat as well, if you like?” she suggested helpfully.

Armand knew for a fact he had managed to lose that damned feather cap at some point last night and had rejoiced in its loss. “I don’t usually wear them,” he said firmly and saw her silently mouth “Oh.”

“Let’s make a pact,” he said on impulse.

Una turned about and approached him with interest. “A pact?” She gave him a questioning look.

“For our journey. Let’s vow to be true companions to one another on our adventure.”

He was surprised to see a flush cover Una’s cheek and was gratified to see he’d said the right thing. “I’d like that!” she exclaimed looking pleased and after a moment’s hesitation, held out her hand to him. He enfolded it in his own and they shook on it.

Armand found he was in a good mood as they made their way to the hostelry to collect their horses. The sun was shining, and something always invariably came along in his experience, even when things looked bleak. Who knows, maybe this marriage wouldn’t be such a bad bargain after all?

“Do you have that song in the South too?” Una asked with interest, as he strapped their baggage to the horses.

“What song?” he asked, before realizing he had been whistling a tune.

“ ‘The Wicked Archer of Trusslowe.’ ”

He shook his head. “We don’t call it that. Here it’s called ‘The Maid of Hamblin’s Ruin.’ ”

“Oh. Either way, I suppose it is always a tragic tale for such a pretty, lilting tune,” she commented wistfully.

Armand, thinking of the rather raucous lyrics of “The Maid of Hamblin” thought a change of subject might be in order. “Er, yes,” he murmured, stepping back. “I think we’re all loaded up. Shall we be off?”

They navigated their way out of the city without any mishap, though he noticed Una looked tense as they approached the city wall, which was guarded by soldiers wearing the King’s colors of blue and gold. Drawing his horse abreast of hers, Armand shot her a reassuring smile as they passed through without challenge. He saw her visibly exhale with relief when they passed out of the city gates.

Had it been her father, he wondered, who had started those rumors of a warlike princess, who espoused the Blechmarsh cause like a true prince of the blood? What a load of bullshit that had turned out to be. He recalled a portrait he had seen of her once, or the remains of it, for it had been slashed and vandalized by Southern soldiers running amok in a castle they had taken over the border.

She had been sat astride a horse, brandishing a sword and dressed in breastplate and chain mail above her skirts. From what he could remember, the depiction bore little resemblance to the reality, for all it had suffered so much damage. He felt a coldness pass over him now, as he imagined what they might have done to the real woman if they had ever got their hands on her in the aftermath of battle.

She must have seen all manner of horrors and had no doubt seen man in his most bestial and unworthy state. It was little wonder she hadn’t thrust him from her screaming, he thought wryly and once again, felt uneasy at his dim recollection of their wedding night. He hoped to the gods he had not been a brute with her. He found he did not altogether trust her assurances that he had “acted just as he ought.” The gods knew, her expectations had probably not been high to begin with.

Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus on the present. “If we take this main road today, we shall be sure to find an inn for our midday meal and also lodging this evening,” he remarked cheerfully, and Una smiled back at him.