Page 63 of Heart of Snow
I cocked an eyebrow but kept my face straight ahead. “After our last conversation, I sensed Your Grace would that I keep my opinions private.”
“Felipe,” he reminded. “And if you refer to our discussion of heretics at the Ommegang, I grant you I have no interest in pursuing it further. This dissension would never be tolerated in Spain. My aunt hasn’t managed this place with the strict discipline and watchful eye that’s needed to keep such ignorant backsliding in check.”
My blood surged. Mining gems of truth from Catholic lies was “ignorant backsliding”?
“But never mind that,” he continued, his tone light. “I did not like the way we left things the other week. I could see I’d upset you.”
“You have a habit of doing that,” I answered.
“Oho!” He twisted in his saddle. “What have I done now to deserve your sharp tongue?”
“Your Grace can hardly be ignorant of your offense. You take great pains to get me alone with you, frightening away any other prospects I have and effectively clearing out my chances for a good match.” I glanced to our right, past the pages beating the brush and over to Egmont, who rode alone.
The prince followed my gaze. “Men who are so easily frightened are hardly worth your regret, my lady. Besides, they may scatter like sheep now, but when I am gone, your prospects will return again. You are too beautiful to be left alone for long.”
I ignored his compliment. “You mean to use me for your amusement, then? To flirt and make me a mere dalliance until duty calls you to another town? Another woman?”
“You wound me.” He pressed a hand to his heart, but his amused smile betrayed the truth. “Wound me when I have done nothing but show an interest in your company. You are clever, Margaretha, and I should like to pass my time in Brussels in the presence of such an intelligent, comely woman.”
I shifted in my saddle, looking forward without deigning an answer.
“You’re angry!” He gave a surprised laugh. “I have never met a woman who was angered by my attentions. Am I too poor a prospect for you?”
I rolled my eyes and shook the reins to push my horse ahead.
“Did you have your sights set higher than the emperor’s son?” he called after me. “Perhaps I’ll introduce you to my father. We’llsee if he is good enough for you.” His laugh carried on the wind, but I ignored it, keeping my horse just ahead of his to discourage further conversation.
With the hunt about to begin, I had to wait through the chase, through “The Mort,” the breaking, and the hounds getting their share of the kill, before the party disbanded and the prince finally abandoned me. Once free, I sought out Baron Pempflinger, who received me with an uncertain smile.
“What a relief you are,” I said. “I haven’t spent more than two hours in the prince’s presence, and already I’m exhausted by his self-absorbed talk. I’m glad to have found you. You’ve always known how to please me with your conversation.”
His smile brightened. “I have just the thing to amuse you.”
As we trotted together toward the palace, he regaled me with a clever story about a fox and a bear drinking blackberry wine, and my laughter brought over Sir Lamberg, who had a story of his own to tell. By the time we’d pulled into the stables, I’d managed to collect the familiar trio of men around me.
“I think you incapable of such a feat,” Baron Pempflinger challenged Sir Lamberg’s story, dismounting from his horse. “To carry a wild boar that distance is impossible.”
“Not at all,” I interceded. “If anything, Sir Lamberg is being too modest.”
A page set a mounting stool beside my horse, and I was about to climb down when Sir Lamberg was up the steps and lifting me off my horse. I couldn’t stop my eruption of surprised giggles as he carried me down the stool, spun me in a circle, then very gallantly set me on the ground. Holding my hand to my chest to catch my breath, I turned around to thank the page for the stool.
“Did Prince Felipe ask you to tend—” I stopped short, finding myself looking directly into the familiar, stormy gray eyes of my new page.
Friedrich was dressed in the queen’s livery, almost unrecognizable for the stubble spread over his jaw and the untrimmed hair curling up to catch on his turned-brim cap.
Neither of us spoke.
“Lady Margaretha?” Krell had come up behind me, silent as silk. “Are you unwell?” He looked back and forth between Friedrich and me, then took a protective step in front of me.
“No, no, I’m all right.” I set a gloved hand against his brawny arm and gave him a winning smile but couldn’t help glancing at Friedrich again.
“Shall we dress for supper?” Baron Pempflinger offered his arm, and I reluctantly took it, my mind grasping for anything I might say to Friedrich, any kind of parting or greeting I could offer to pay particular attention to him without arousing the suspicion of the men around us.
“Page, will you be sure to polish the saddle? The leather is drying.” It was nothing close to what I wished to say.
“Oui, Comtess.” His voice was so familiar, so much like home, but so distant from me that I ached to hear it.
Pempflinger led me toward the stable doors. “I still think carrying a woman as delicate as yourself no proof of strength.”
