The Runaway Princess

  “Why didn’t you betray me?”

  “If I decided to kill my own damned brother, I’ll have a better reason than money.” Victor’s mouth curled in disdain. “You don’t kill a king because you want a new robin’s egg blue lining to your cloak.”

  Evangeline blushed as she remembered her early admiration of Rafaello. She had liked him better than Danior. She had thought he should be the prince because he was more handsome, refined, and benevolent. Her gaze sought him out among the prisoners. He wasn’t handsome anymore, with his tooth broken and his lips swollen like two eels. His elegance had been destroyed along with his costume. And his benevolence hid a rotten core.

  Big, bold, stubborn, too sure of himself, blunt to a fault, right too often for comfort—Danior was more than a prince. He was a man of integrity. The man she adored.

  The man who loved her.

  “Did you capture Dominic?” Danior asked.

  Pascale shook his head. “No sign of him.”

  “Free, he’ll try to incite a riot, and that brother of mine has a persuasive way about him.”

  “See if he’s been spotted.” Victor ruthlessly took charge, and Pascale rushed off to obey.

  “Help me up, Victor, my collarbone’s broken.”

  Evangeline started for Danior, but he shook his head. “A broken bone is a small charge for a kingdom—and a queen.”

  She watched as Victor wrapped his arms around Danior’s waist. Danior rose slowly, grimacing. The throng saw the blood on him and quieted. Then, when he stood, they screamed their approval. Victor stepped away. Stepping closer, she saw that Danior’s complexion was pasty.

  “If you fall down in a faint,” she warned, “it will ruin the whole effect.”

  “Standing after being shot is always the hard part.” He waved his arm at his people. “And I’m leaning against the table.”

  “This is nothing,” Victor spoke over the chants of the ecstatic crowd. “You should have seen the time we were hiding in the trees to ambush Nappie’s troops. I told Danior he was too big, and sure enough, that French sergeant spotted His Highness and shot him. Danior hit the ground bleeding like a pig—”

  “Dear heavens.” Evangeline’s stomach turned, and she swayed.

  Victor surveyed her pale face thoughtfully. “Your princess has got an awful weak stomach—but then she is Serephinian.”

  “Mind your manners,” Danior warned one more time.

  Taking her hand, Victor kissed it, and in a voice that traveled no further than their little group, said, “Still, you’re royal to your fingertips and I’ll serve you as my queen, Miss Evangeline Scoffield of East Little Teignmouth, Cornwall.”

  He knew. Victor knew the truth, but Evangeline never doubted him. He’d never betray her secret to anyone.

  To Danior, he said, “I’ll have the assassins sent to the dungeons.”

  “Get the names of the heroes.” Danior’s color had returned, and he gestured toward the cathedral. “I’ll honor them at the wedding feast tonight.”

  As if nothing untoward had happened, the ceremony started again. The throng quieted, the fanfare played, and reassured about his safety, the archbishop started out from the cathedral. Perhaps the crystal case trembled in his hands, but he approached with dignity and grandeur and placed the blessed heirloom on the table.

  Evangeline stared at it. She’d heard about it. She’d seen a sketch of it in one of Leona’s books. But she never dreamed she would be able to see the scepters and crowns so clearly through the quartz-like stone. She could see no seam, no way to open the case; it appeared that nature, not saint, had placed the jewels inside.

  Yet as the archbishop intoned a sermon about this exalted endeavor, Danior slipped his hand into the pouch at his belt and drew out—“A pry bar?” she whispered. “You’re going to open the crystal case with that puny pry bar?”

  “It should work,” he said. “It better work.”

  Eyeing the glazing on the crystal case, she had to agree. She wasn’t the princess, so even if Santa Leopolda had put it under a spell, the magic would fail. This lowly pry bar was their only hope.

  The archbishop ended his homily.

  Danior solemnly took Evangeline’s hand and led her to the table. In a clear voice, he spoke the words written so long ago for this very occasion. “Separate have been our countries, separate have been our lives, yet today with the opening of the crystal case we, Danior of the House of Leon and Evangeline of the House of Chartrier, shall fulfill the prophecy.”

  A slight murmur rippled through the crowd as they heard the princess’s new name.

  Danior nudged her. “Your turn.”

  Leona had drilled her on this ritual, but for one terrifying moment, Evangeline’s mind went blank.

  The archbishop looked at her anxiously.

  Danior murmured, “We shall unite . . .

  And the words came. In a clear, strong voice she didn’t recognize as her own, she proclaimed, “We shall unite Baminia and Serephina for all eternity. We shall join in marriage until the ends of our lives, and peace and prosperity shall reign forever.”

  Danior touched her cheek briefly. “You’re good at this. But I knew you would be. Stand here.” He placed her in front of the case with her back to the gathering, took his place beside her, and with one hand stuck the pry bar in what looked like a tiny chip on the side.

  “That doesn’t look like a latch to me,” she said apprehensively. “It looks like what happened when the Leons dropped the case out of the towers.”

  Danior ignored her. “Raise your hand high so everyone can see it,” he instructed, wiggling the pry bar. “Now place it on the crystal case, right over here. Now I’ll do the same”—his warm hand covered her cold fingers as they rested close to the side—“and the case will pop open.”

  Nothing happened.

  Uneasiness rippled through the onlookers.

  “Maybe I’m doing it wrong.”

  With slowly rising terror, Evangeline said, “Maybe it’s really magic.”

  He twisted the pry bar the other way.

  The people stirred and murmured.

  Danior pulled the pry bar away as the archbishop craned his neck to see what they were doing. With a queasy smile, the exalted priest suggested, “Your Highnesses, perhaps if you placed your hands on a different spot.”

  “Absolutely.” Danior nodded at him. “Thank you for your guidance, Father. Santa Leopolda no doubt meant for us to put our hands in the center.”

  “She’s not the real princess,” a voice yelled.

  Dominic. Evangeline recognized his voice and swung around, searching the throng. There he was, close to the stage, off to the left, grinning at her with obnoxious delight.

  No one laid hands on him.

  If the crystal case had opened, they would have shut him up, but the miracle hadn’t happened. He spoke to their fears.

  “Why didn’t it open?”

  “Maybe he’s right.”

  Evangeline heard the muttering, saw heads shaking. “Danior, if this doesn’t work . . .”

  Danior’s mouth set in grim lines. “It’ll work.”

  Evangeline remembered the underfed peasants she’d seen wandering the streets of Plaisance. “But Dominic’s inciting them. They’ll rip us to shreds.”

  “I’ll get it open.”

  With gestures, Victor directed his men toward Dominic, but the crowd moved restlessly, blocking them. The Blanca villagers jostled their grumbling neighbors. Honest Gaylord had disappeared, and Fair Abbé had taken his place. The nuns split into two groups. One moved toward the stairs. The other moved toward Dominic as the muttering became louder.

  Once again, Evangeline raised her hand, and the muttering died, leaving a silence of awesome proportions. Turning back to the case, she placed her hand on it. Danior placed his hand flat on hers. He inserted the narrow pry bar and turned it—and the metal rod twisted in two.

  Voices took up Dominic’s chant. “Impostors!” “Seize them!?
??

  Danior dropped the parts and laid his hand on his sword hilt. As coolly as if they did not face a horrible death, he said, “My men have instructions to clear a path to the cathedral. Follow Pascale and I’ll hold off the mob.”

  Tasting her fear, she shook her head. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Danior was wounded. He had said he was sure he could open the case, so why had he made plans to save her?

  “She’s not the real princess,” Dominic shouted again, vile laughter in his voice. “She’s even got a different name. She’s a fraud. This is all a fraud.”

  Evangeline smelled their sense of betrayal as the crowd answered his rallying call. “He’s right.” “We’re doomed.” “They’re not royal.” “Kill them!”

  “Go.” Danior pushed her toward the cathedral.

  “Wait!” a woman’s voice rang out above the rest.

  Evangeline turned toward the steps.

  “Wait.” Marie Theresia could be heard across the square as she assisted the old nun onto the stage. The tumult died in little bits as she announced, “We’ve forgotten the last and most important of Santa Leopolda’s instructions. I will convey God’s blessing on this holy moment.”

  “What a pile,” Dominic shouted contemptuously.

  But the young postulant commanded attention, and people listened. Leaving the old nun, Marie Theresia approached the table, where the crystal case remained stubbornly closed.

  “God’s blessing,” the archbishop said in tones of surprise. “But I should do that.”

  “You hold the case.” Totally at ease, Marie Theresia handed it to him and pushed him toward the edge of the stage.

  “Please.” She gestured to Evangeline.

  Evangeline, startled and dumbfounded, stepped to the front. The people were watching, faces turned up in mingled suspicion and expectation. They could see everything now, and why not? Evangeline and Danior had nothing to hide, only a desperate hope that God would take pity on them.

  The archbishop held out the crystal case. Evangeline placed her hand on it.

  “Danior.” Danior, Marie Theresia called him. Not Your Highness, but Danior.

  He watched Marie Theresia with a curl of a smile about his mouth. He stepped behind Evangeline so that he stood at her back, then for the third time, he laid his hand on top of hers. Taking her place at their right, the little postulant lowered her head in prayer. Then, pulling up her sleeve in a workmanlike manner, she laid her hand on top of theirs.

  Fire shot through Evangeline’s hand.

  With an incandescent flash, the crystal case sprang open.

  Evangeline jumped back into Danior’s arms. He cradled her as, joyous at their release, the jewels flashed in the sunlight.

  When the archbishop would have dropped the case, Marie Theresia reached out and steadied him. “It’s all right,” she said to the shaking cleric. “Everything’s all right now. Take it to the table.”

  A detonation of gladness shattered the moment of silent awe. The people who in desperation had almost turned against their prince and princess now embraced them. Hats flew into the air, flowers pelted the stage, children clung to their fathers’ shoulders as their daddies danced.

  In the midst of the celebration, Dominic screamed, “No, that’s not right. She’s not the princess!”

  And Danior clasped the little postulant in his arms. “Ethelinda.”

  “Marie Theresia,” she corrected him, and turning, she extended her hand to the old nun. “Here’s someone for you, Evangeline.”

  As the ancient nun hobbled toward her and fixed her in her gaze, Evangeline again had a flash of remembrance. An old woman with flame-blue eyes looking down at eleven-year-old Evangeline. Taking her chin and lifting it. Turning it from side to side in austere analysis. Saying to one of the hags in charge, “I’ll take her.”

  “Leona!” Tears of joy welled in Evangeline’s eyes as she embraced her mentor. “I thought you were dead. What happened to you? How did you get here?”

  “Not Leona,” Marie Theresia said. “Santa Leopolda.”

  The revelry in the square continued unabated, but Evangeline no longer heard. She’d stepped into a place where reality and fantasy, truth and magic melded. “I don’t understand.”

  Leona took her hand. “Of course you do. You have a superior intelligence, for which I was most grateful.”

  “You’re trying to tell me you’re over one thousand years old?”

  “That is the legend,” Danior said.

  Evangeline turned on him. “You don’t believe in legends.”

  “I didn’t believe in the magic, either.” He grasped the edges of his cape and rocked on his heels. “Now I don’t believe in pry bars.”

  Leona—Evangeline had to call her Leona—reached out to Marie Theresia. Holding real princess and counterfeit princess each by the hand, she explained, “As soon as Ethelinda reached the convent school at Viella, it was obvious the child was destined for God. What could I do? I had little time, the prophecy had to be filled, and I had to find another princess. You, Evangeline, were the only one of the House of Chartrier who was the right age, but you were gone, disappeared in the turmoil of the revolution. I had to go to England, find you and train you in far too short a time, then lure you to adventure and send word to the prince that his princess was at Château Fortuné, then make it appear only you could be the princess.” The old woman sighed. “I’ve been busy.”

  As Evangeline remembered the trials of the last four days, indignation grew in her. “But why all this subterfuge? Why not just tell me?”

  “I taught you to be an analytical thinker, Evangeline, so you know the answer to that, too. I don’t make up the prophecies, I just speak them. When Ethelinda was born, I thought she was the one I had foretold. She was not, but I didn’t know for sure if you were the princess God required. You had to prove yourself worthy. As for Danior of Baminia”—Leona smiled, and all the wrinkles in her face deepened—“he may have been born to the position, but he, too, was tested, and until last night I thought it unlikely he would show the strength of character needed to be king.”

  Surprising Evangeline, Danior knelt before the old nun, and reluctantly Evangeline faced the truth. This was the saint. The very saint chosen by God to speak the prophecies, place the jewels in the crystal case, and watch over the Two Kingdoms until they could become one.

  “May I have your blessing?” Danior asked.

  “Evangeline.” Leona sounded just like Evangeline’s old instructor. “Kneel with your betrothed.”

  Still confused, amazed, thunderstruck, Evangeline did as she was told.

  Leona—Santa Leopolda—laid her hands on their foreheads. “God’s blessing on you both. May you rule together in health and wisdom to the end of your lives.”

  Danior slipped his arm around Evangeline’s waist. She caught a glimpse of his intention right before he kissed her in front of Santa Leopolda, Marie Theresia, the archbishop, the crowd and, she had no doubt, God Himself. It was no polite pressing of the lips, but a full-body declaration of passion and love, the kind that made Evangeline want to slip out of her clothes and into a warm bed . . . with him.

  When at last he had removed the starch from her bones and any lingering sense from her mind, he let her go, and she sank back on her heels.

  The sounds of the square came blasting back, startling her with the crowd’s extravagant approval.

  Santa Leopolda grinned a wicked, old lady grin at Evangeline. “Your adventure has just begun.”

  And before Marie Theresia turned away to help Santa Leopolda off the stage, she whispered, “I give you my name.”

  Everything was all right, Evangeline realized. They’d found the real princess, the assassins had been caught, Evangeline had found a home, Danior had found . . .

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear, and she hugged him and reveled in his ardor.

  “Highnesses, I hate to keep breaking this up,” Victor said, “but if we don’t get this spectacle goi
ng again, you won’t be married before dark, and you know how irate Cook gets when she has to set back dinner for a thousand.”

  Laughing, the prince and his princess stood and waved to their people.

  “What’s happening there?” Evangeline indicated a scuffle in the midst of the largest group of nuns.

  “Dominic’s trying to get away,” Victor said laconically.

  Danior and Evangeline looked at him.

  He shrugged. “They say he came in their care, that he’s crazy, and they’ll take him to the convent and lock him away again. I say I’m not fighting with a bunch of nuns over another bastard brother we don’t know what to do with. Now, you want to get your crowns, scepters and seals so we can have a wedding?”

  “If he keeps showing such good sense, you’re—we’re going to have to make Victor our prime minister,” Evangeline told Danior.

  Victor snorted. “Old soldiers don’t prime ministers make.”

  “We’ll see.” Danior bowed Evangeline toward the table where the crystal case waited, open and displaying two crowns, two scepters and, Evangeline was sure, two seal rings beneath the velvet.

  One crown’s wide gold oval would fit Danior. One’s smaller oval would fit Evangeline. Both were decorated with polished rubies, emeralds, and diamonds set in the medieval style.

  But the scepters—Evangeline reached for the biggest and met Danior’s hand there. She wrapped her fingers around the gold near the top. His big fingers grasped the gold near the bottom.

  They both tugged.

  “It’s mine,” Danior said. “The largest crown is mine, and this matches.”

  “It’s mine,” Evangeline argued. “The largest crown is yours, so the largest scepter is mine.”

  “Don’t make me wrestle you for it.”

  “You won’t beat me easily. I hide a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  He considered that, the memory of their quest in his gaze, and he decided on a wiser course. “Evangeline.” His voice took on a kindly, exasperated tone. “We can’t fight in front of our people today. It would be undignified.”

  He was right, damn him, but . . .

  “Sereminia,” she said.