“It will,” Boris answered. “Father won’t let anything stop it.”
This was true, and Catherine’s complete obedience to every detail of the plan was required, and that was why she was here. She had made the mistake a week earlier of saying to her maid, Diana, that Diana could perhaps look forward to a marriage based on love. Diana had asked Catherine whom she would marry if she could choose, and Catherine had joked, “Someone I’ve spoken with at least once,” adding, “Someone intelligent and thoughtful and considerate.” As she said it, she had thought of her last conversation with Ambrose as he escorted her on her ride. He had joked about the quality of food in the barracks, then had grown serious as he described the poverty in the backstreets of Brigane. Diana seemed to know her thoughts and had said, “You spoke with Sir Ambrose at length this morning.”
The day after the conversation with Diana, Catherine was summoned to Boris, and that was when she’d realized her maid was less her maid and more Noyes’s spy. Catherine suffered lengthy lecturing and questioning from Boris, but it was Noyes who listened most closely to her answers, though he made a show of leaning against the wall and yawning occasionally. Noyes was not even a lord, hardly a gentleman, but the way his lips curled in a half-smile made Catherine’s skin crawl and she feared him twice as much as her brother. Noyes was her father’s presence, his spy, his eyes and ears. Boris was that too of course, but Boris was always bludgeoningly obvious.
At the interview, Boris had repeated the usual lines about unquestioning loyalty and obedience and Catherine had been pleased with how cool she’d remained.
“I am merely nervous, as any bride-to-be is before their wedding. I have never even met Prince Tzsayn. Just as I try to be the best daughter I can be to Father, I hope to be a good wife to Tzsayn, and to be that, I look forward to talking to him, getting to know him, finding out about his interests.”
“His interests are of no concern to you. What is of interest and concern to me is that you do not express an opinion that counters that of the king.”
“I’ve never expressed any opinion that doesn’t agree with Father’s.”
“You implied to your maid that your marriage could be improved upon and that you don’t wish to marry Prince Tzsayn.”
“No, I merely said that Diana’s marriage could be successful in a different way.”
“To disagree with the king’s plans for you is unacceptable.”
“I’m disagreeing with you, not with the king’s plans for me.”
“I often wonder,” Noyes interrupted, “at what point a traitor is made. When precisely the line is crossed between loyalty and betrayal.”
Catherine straightened her back. “I have crossed no line.”
And she hadn’t: she had done nothing, except think of Ambrose.
“In my experience . . . and, Princess Catherine, I do consider my experience in this area to be considerable,” murmured Noyes. “In my experience, a traitor in the heart and mind is soon a traitor in deed.”
And the way he looked at her, it felt as if he truly could see inside Catherine’s head. But she stared back at him, saying, “I am no traitor. I will marry Prince Tzsayn.” Catherine knew this to be true. She would soon be married to a man she’d never even met, but she couldn’t help her mind and her heart belonging elsewhere. Couldn’t help that she thought of Ambrose constantly, loved her conversations with him, contrived to be close to him, and, yes, had once touched his arm. Of course, if Ambrose touched her, he’d be executed, but she didn’t see why she couldn’t touch him. But were these thoughts and one touch really traitorous deeds?
“It’s best to be clear where the line is, Princess Catherine,” Noyes said quietly.
“I’m clear, thank you, Noyes.”
“And also to be clear on the consequences.” He waved his hand casually, almost dismissively. “And to that end you are required to attend the execution of the Norwend traitor, and witness what happens to those who betray the king.”
“A punishment, a warning, and a lesson, all rolled neatly into one.” Catherine mimicked Noyes’s hand wave.
Noyes’s face was blank as he replied, “It’s the king’s command, Your Highness.”
Sadly Diana had had a nasty trip down some stone stairs the day after Catherine’s interview and had been unable to resume her duties because of a broken arm. Catherine’s other maids, Sarah and Tanya, had been with Diana at the time but somehow had been unable to prevent the accident. “We agree with Noyes, Your Highness,” Tanya had said with a smile. “Traitors should be punished . . .”
Catherine was brought back to the present by shouts from the crowd: “Bradwell! Bradwell!”
Two men had come up the steps onto the scaffold, both dressed in black. The older man held up his hand to the people. His young and surprisingly cherubic assistant carried the tools of their trade, a sword and simple black hood.
“It’s Bradwell,” Harold said unnecessarily, leaning over Boris to Catherine. “He’s carried out over a hundred executions. A hundred and forty-one, I think it is. And he never takes more than one strike.”
“A hundred and forty-one,” Catherine echoed. She wondered how many of them Harold had witnessed.
Bradwell was walking across the scaffold, swinging his sword arm as if warming up his shoulder muscles, and flexing his head from side to side and then around. Harold rolled his eyes. “Shits, he looks ridiculous. Gateacre should have been given the job.”
“I believe the Marquess of Norwend requested Bradwell and the king obliged,” Boris said. “Norwend wanted it done cleanly and seemed to think Bradwell was best. But there are no guarantees on that score.”
“Gateacre has a clean cut too,” Harold said.
“I agree. He would have been my choice. Bradwell is looking rather past it. Still, it might add another level of interest if he botches the job.”
At the mention of the Marquess of Norwend, Catherine’s gaze had moved to the opposite side of the scaffold to the other raised viewing platform. She had felt it too risky to discuss the people there unprompted, but now that Boris had brought the subject up she felt she could ask, “Is that the Marquess of Norwend on the other platform, in the green jacket?”
“Indeed. And all the Norwend clan with him,” Boris replied. Though Catherine noted it was only the male members of the family. “The traitor’s kin must witness the execution; indeed, they must call for the traitor’s death, or they will lose their titles and all their lands.”
Catherine knew the law well enough. “And what of their honor?”
Boris snorted. “They’re trying to cling on to that, but if they can’t even control one of their own they’ll struggle to maintain their position at court.”
“Honor and position at court being one and the same,” Catherine replied.
Boris looked at Catherine. “As I said, they’re barely clinging on to either.” He turned back to the opposite platform, adding, “I see your guard is with them, though thankfully he’s not in uniform.”
Catherine didn’t dare comment. Was Ambrose not wearing the Royal Guard’s uniform as a mark of respect for royalty or disrespect for them? She knew he had his own views on honor. He talked of doing the right thing, of wanting to defend Brigant, and of helping make the country great again, not for self-gain but to help all in the country who were suffering in poverty.
She had noticed Ambrose when she’d taken her seat and had forced herself to turn away, but now Boris had mentioned him she could allow herself a slightly longer look. His hair, golden white in the sunlight, was loose and falling in soft waves around his face and shoulders. He was wearing a black jacket with leather straps and silver buckles, black trousers, and boots. His face was solemn and pale. He was staring at the executioner and hadn’t shifted his gaze toward Catherine since her arrival.