The Runaway Princess

  Evangeline had reveled in Leona’s foreign correspondence. Each letter that had come through her hands, each word she had translated had lodged in her brain, and she had been proud of her memory before. Now that proficiency was likely to get her killed.

  How long had she slept? How much time did she have?

  She hastened to the window and climbed on the table.

  The afternoon light cast the tower’s shadow across the meadow and into the trees, emphasizing its height, underscoring the need to hurry, and showing that, without a doubt, the drop was just as sheer as she remembered.

  She glanced at the door. There were less dangerous ways to escape. She knew how to pick a lock, and that sharp, narrow implement used to dig weeds would easily fit in the keyhole. But if she succeeded, what would that earn her? Nothing, if Marie Theresia was telling the truth. If everyone here in the convent really thought she was the princess and the savior of their countries, then when they saw her sneaking across the entry they would block the outer door until someone could call Danior.

  She looked out at the window again and caught her breath at the vista spread out so far below. Sadly, having Danior stop her from escaping seemed the ideal solution right now.

  That was not acceptable.

  Picking up the coil of rope and a pair of rusty pruning sheers, she chopped a length long enough to wrap around her twice. With that, she fashioned a crude seat, and tied it onto the iron ring. She wrapped the contraption around her. The seat would bear her weight as she moved down, protecting her from a fall that would leave her mangled and bloody.

  “That would serve him right.” She slapped the seat on the table, then dragged the remaining coil of rope to the stone column, tied it—she knew how to do that knot, too—and slipped the other end out of the window, hoping against hope the rope wouldn’t reach the ground.

  After all, she couldn’t go then, but her conscience would be clear. She would have tried.

  Whispering a prayer, she leaned out and looked.

  The contemptible rope lapped at the highest boulders surrounding the base of the cliff. From there she could climb to the ground and make her escape, and her heart jolted with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

  Stupid thing, anticipation, but she wasn’t afraid of heights, only of falling, and if the seat worked as described, she would not fall. No, she’d have the adventure of her life.

  She dragged the rope back up, all the long way back up, and placed it beside the seat and the ring. Wiping her sweaty palms on her chemise, she donned her petticoats and her green gown, trying futilely to smooth the wrinkles away. And when she saw the series of little rents created by the brambles, tears welled in her eyes.

  The gown had cost her over two hundred pounds, an unbelievable sum, and to a woman in dire need of adventure worth every pence. The silk had flowed across her body like a dream, making her almost believe she was, in truth, a princess. She loved it for what it represented—wealth, freedom, and a frivolous dream she dared pursue. Now the dress was ruined.

  Well. She straightened her shoulders. There would be other gowns. Valiantly she ignored the fact that she no longer had two hundred pounds, nor two pounds, nor even a ha´penny. Leaving here was an act of courage for more than one reason. A woman in her straits could be sent to the workhouse.

  She tied the garters that held her thin silk stockings, then pulled on her slippers. The sole of one was almost gone, battered by last night’s flight, but she couldn’t wait for the new pair of boots promised to her. Especially since she had the strong idea Danior would want to place them on her feet himself.

  You’ll depend on me for everything.

  Terrifying words, for she wanted to depend on Danior.

  The day was waning. By the look of the shadows, it was after five o’clock. Danior would be in with supper soon; she knew it like she knew her own name. “Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall,” she announced to the walls. Taking the bread and cheese from the tray, she tied her makeshift supper in a clean rag from the ragbag. That she fastened around her waist. Taking up the goblet, she gulped down the wine and hoped the spirits would dull her pounding dread.

  The seat had to wrap around her waist and tie into the ring—not a problem. And between her legs and into the ring—a big problem. Gently she cherished the gown’s fine silk between her palms. Ruthlessly, she found a tear in the front and with a quick jerk, ripped the skirt up to her knees. She repeated the procedure at the back, then trussed her petticoats all the way up around her waist and her gown almost that high. Her calves were showing, but who would see them?

  She found gardening gloves and donned them. She tied herself into the seat, the ring in front, then looped the long rope through and leaned against it. The knot at the column stretched and held. The knots of the seat stretched and held, and the length of rope slipped through the ring. She could control it with the grip of her hands. This was going to work. It had to work.

  Grimly, she sat on the wide stone of the windowsill, then inched backward. She maneuvered one leg out—into nothing. Nothing was up this high except for a light breeze, laden with the smell of freedom. She gritted her teeth. Getting out the window was the worst part, she assured herself. Even if she fell she could catch herself with the grip of her hands. All this would take was a little courage.

  Too bad her stock of that had been so depleted.

  Her knee slipped off the edge and scraped across the rough stone. Then she bay on her stomach and worked her other leg free. Slowly, she slid backward until she dangled, held up only by her increasingly frail-looking arms. Pulling her feet up, she placed them flat against the outer wall, her knees bent to her chest. She would straighten her legs when she started. When she let go.

  Slowly, she released one hand. The rope held more of her weight now. She hung, attached to the building by a death grip, with one arm. The moment had come, the moment when she must signify her trust in the rope, the knots she’d produced, and the Swiss mountaineer’s knowledge. She looked at her hand, fingers clenched around the sill, tendons on the back raised and taut. She looked at her arm, saw the muscles bulging with the strain of holding her weight. Just let go, she told herself. You’ll be all right.

  And if not, the prayers over her body would be many and immediate, because she’d scream all the way down.

  On that resolve, she released her hold and snatched at the loose end of rope.

  She didn’t fall. She hadn’t fallen. She let her breath out with a whoosh.

  Cautiously she straightened her legs so that her body formed an L, then she took her first tentative step down. The rope held steady. She took another, and another. The rock wall was almost smooth beneath her feet. The distance between her and the window widened, and she wasn’t foolish enough to look down. Her knees trembled as she walked down the wall, but that nuisance was minor compared to her growing exhilaration. This was fun. This was adventure. This was what she’d dreamed of!

  Tossing prudence to the wind, she pushed both her feet against the wall and gave a big bounce, just as the mountaineer had described. For a moment, it was like flying, a pure birdlike release from the autocracy of gravity.

  Then her hand slipped. Her breath lurched. She grabbed hard, catching herself before she gained too much speed. Her feet struck stone and she skidded to a stop, her toes bent inside her slippers, her soles scraping along the weathered rock. She hung, trembling, and risked a glance down.

  The boulders at the base of the tower were both too far and too close. From this height, they probably wouldn’t kill her, but they would break every bone in her body.

  Then she looked up. She was more than halfway down. Her hands burned inside her gloves, and she tried no more mountain goat leaps. Instead she descended steadily, her sense of triumph expanding with each step. She looked down occasionally now, and each time the boulders appeared closer. Closer.

  They were here. She walked her legs down the wall and onto the flat surface of a rock Her kn
ees were shaking, she noted. Blisters throbbed on her palms, and somehow during the climb a sharp edge had sliced through one of her soles; the bottom of her foot was bleeding.

  But she was down. She had made it. Her fingers shook in delayed cowardice as she worked to free herself from the knots, and she kept glancing up at the window, sure Danior would stick his head out and roar at her.

  She mocked herself for giving him credit for intuition when the man didn’t have an intuitive bone in his body. Yet in his determination to bring the princess back to Serephina, he had assumed almost mythical proportions to her.

  The last knot gave way, and she allowed herself one quiet shout of glee. Then, using her battered hands and feet, she climbed off the boulders and jumped onto the grassy meadow that surrounded the convent. Falling to her knees, she kissed the blessedly level earth. Rising, she walked backward toward the edge of the forest, staring, amazed, at the rope dangling from the window so high above.

  She was here. She was free. She had succeeded!

  Turning, she ran toward the shadow of the trees.

  Right into the arms of the revolutionaries.

  Fourteen

  Danior stared up at the rope dangling from the storeroom, down the sheer cliff and into a coil on the ground.

  Rafaello stood beside him, his complexion blanched, his gaze fixed on the wicked boulders scattered at the base of the tower. “The princess is mad.”

  “More than mad.” Danior shoved the lock of hair off his forehead. She was crazy, insane, totally feckless and without concern for her own safety.

  “We could have found her at the bottom.” Rafaello turned even paler. “All bloody and whimpering . . .”

  “Don’t think about it,” Danior said. As usual, Rafaello was squeamish Unusually, Danior found himself to be a little squeamish at the thought of her, lying broken and lifeless . . .

  Danior used to think he understood women. In fact, he had flattered himself into believing he understood them very well. On the whole they were a simple gender, delighted by little tokens of affection and awed by a man’s wisdom and attentions.

  Some men disagreed with Danior. Victor told him bluntly that women only acted amiably because he was a prince. Victor said that when women were on a manhunt, they dissembled and simpered. After a man had been bagged, he claimed, they became bold and disrespectful.

  But that didn’t explain Ethelinda.

  She hadn’t bagged him. Quite the opposite. Just to evade him, she’d run like a fawn into the most hideous danger. When had the gentle girl changed so much? He remembered her well, all smiling grace and amiable goodness, obedient and mild . . . and somehow she’d become this termagant.

  This woman.

  He had never been particularly enthralled with marrying a Serephinian. His country and hers had quarreled for generations, and every good Baminian knew that Serephinians were light-minded, interested only in the trivial, and given to unsteady morals. Yet the prophecy had correctly predicted both his birth and Ethelinda’s, and the people of both kingdoms had taken that as a sign that the terms of Revealing would come to pass. In his youth, Danior rather relished being the one on whom all hopes were pinned. Now he was older, the responsibility weighed on him, and he was impatient to reign—over two kingdoms.

  If only the woman Evangeline would cooperate!

  At Château Fortuné, he had pursued her to her bedchamber, listened to her ineptly told tale, then tried to seduce her.

  Stupidity. He’d frightened the girl with his impetuous appetite, an appetite that had taken even him by surprise.

  But my God, if he could have had her, he now would have been glad for it. She wouldn’t have descended that rope, risking her life and falling into rebel hands.

  Instead, she would be in his arms, contented from his lovemaking, and, when he was done stroking the shell of her ear, kissing the wide sweep of her mouth, suckling on those magnificent breasts, she would be looking forward to the next lovemaking.

  His frustration at his own stupidity made his blood race, and deliberately, he turned his mind away. By Santa Leopolda, she was not hurt. She was only captured, and that because she had been reckless and wayward. He should have suspected her plan, but . . . with his gaze, he measured the distance between the window and the ground.

  No. He never should have suspected this.

  When had Ethelinda become the kind of woman who would climb down a cliff to escape her true destiny? He rubbed a tight muscle in his neck. To escape him.

  Damn the girl!

  “Master.” Victor knelt at the edge of the forest, his face bent close to the ground as he examined the footprints crushed into the young grass. “Four men were here, but come and look at this.”

  Vibrating with anger and fear, Danior strode to Victor’s side.

  “A bloody footprint. She cut herself on the rocks on the way down. As long as they make her walk, and as long as she keeps bleeding, we can follow.”

  Danior looked into the darkening forest. It would be evening soon. The shadows were lengthening, and the kidnappers had an hour’s head start on them. But Victor was the best tracker in Baminia, and he would find Ethelinda somehow.

  Then it would be up to Danior to free her.

  A kerchief fluttered in the breeze, caught on a bush’s branch. Below, a chunk of cheese lay smashed, and a loaf of bread was covered with ants. “She lost her dinner. She’ll be hungry.” A thought that unduly distressed him. For all the slenderness of her waist, Ethelinda had shown a surprising dedication to her dinner. He had thought to lure her with the promise of his chef’s skill; he did not like to think of her hungry. “We need supplies.”

  “We’ll have them.” Victor straightened and pointed to a contingent of four nuns approaching from the convent.

  Soeur Constanza walked in the lead, carrying a pair of boots, socks stuffed into each one. Marie Theresia assisted an old nun, hobbling and bent. And a young nun led a donkey laden with traveling bags.

  Danior had admitted his identity to the good sisters, and now he was reaping the benefit. They were coming to his rescue. “We can’t use the donkey,” he decided. “It’ll slow us down.”

  To his surprise, the old nun heard him and lifted her head. Her voice sounded clear across the distance, and her blue eyes pierced him. “It’s not for you, young prince, but for us. We’re making our pilgrimage to Plaisance.”

  Danior stared over Soeur Constanza’s head at the old woman. “In the midst of a revolution?”

  “No one can hurt me. I go with God’s authority.”

  “You could wait.”

  She smiled slowly, as if his ignorance amused her. “Regardless of any danger, Your Highness, all of your subjects will be leaving their homes and making for Plaisance. You know well that in three nights, the moon will be full.”

  It was true. After the night of the full moon, the day would dawn that had been prophesied a thousand years ago by Santa Leopolda herself, and Danior knew his people would crawl to Plaisance to witness the miracle. Yet the holy lady wasn’t taking his advice to stay home, nor was she offering to help him, and his princess had been kidnapped.

  Dominic would hold Evangeline, waiting for Danior to come after her, and when he had them they’d be tried at a sham tribunal for the crime of being royal.

  Danior had to get her before Dominic reached his stronghold. “There won’t be a Revealing if I don’t find the princess.”

  “There won’t be a Revealing if we don’t get to Plaisance, either,” the nun answered without a speck of deference to his position as her prince. “You’ll need a blessing, my prince, before you can open the crystal case.”

  Something regal in her manner reduced him to the role of sulky boy in knee breeches, and he replied rather more sharply than he should. “If you are not there to bless us, I’m sure the archbishop will be glad to substitute.”

  “Whether I am there matters not a bit, and the archbishop, you’ll find, will not be able to help you in your need.”
br />   He didn’t understand her, and he didn’t care for the way her lids drooped or the barely visible gleam of intelligence in her eyes. She knew something. The old woman knew something he didn’t know, and she relished her insight and his ignorance in a manner that lifted his hackles. And every moment he spent arguing, Evangeline slipped closer to a trial and execution.

  The old nun must have read his thoughts, for she demanded, “Why are you dallying with me? You should be rescuing your princess. She has been lost before; you dare not lose her again.” She pointed a crooked finger at Soeur Constanza, who lifted a bulging bag from the donkey. “Soeur Constanza will give you the lady’s boots, and some supplies, as many as you can carry and still move quickly.”

  She offered help, yet this old woman who had spent her life in the convent was telling him how to outfit his expedition, and while she was none too tactful, she was furnishing the inventory, and the bag looked like the size he would have packed.

  Stiff with reluctant gratitude, he stood with his hands hanging by his side. “You’re most generous.”

  “Take the boots,” the old nun commanded. “Take them.”

  Soeur Constanza lifted his hands and placed the boots in them, then turned and handed the sack to the silent Victor.

  “Find she who would be your queen.” In a voice that allowed no doubt, the old nun said, “There’ll be no other chance.”

  The little party moved along, and the first whisper of old wives’ tales winnowed into his mind. Tales of the holy woman who had foreseen the schism of her beloved countries, taken their treasures, and uttered the prophecy that drove him in his quest today.

  As Soeur Constanza moved to join the little band, Danior caught her arm. “Who is she?” he asked.

  “Our mother superior.”

  “And?”

  In the tone she had used to announce dinner, Soeur Constanza said, “A thousand years ago the saint came to live among us, and she is with us still.”

  “The saint,” he repeated, not believing it, not daring to disbelieve.