CHAPTER 3
Right before lunch, they had to endure 'exercise time' when the ladies of the class were forced to stroll the gardens to get fresh air. Outside, Rown noticed one pleasantly familiar face. Cara of Aramilt was well liked among everyone, male and female, noble and common, rule breaker and straight arrow. Her reddish brown hair was pulled up in a bun to expose the perfectly cream-colored skin of her neck and shoulders.
Rown walked behind her for awhile before deciding to catch up. "Hello," was her soft greeting.
Cara's head turned, and warm brown eyes flecked with gold lit up in a friendly manner. "Hi, how are you?" was her gentle reply. Known for her exceptional singing ability, her voice had a musical tone with a moderate rhythm. They strolled along with other classmates, making pleasant conversation about silly court gossip and a large mathematics assignment that was due the next day. Cara was the closest thing Rown had to a girl-friend. The pair parted at lunch, Rown heading to the food line alone. When she was younger, the young noble girls had always flocked to her, trying to get an 'in' with a princess. Rown could be sociable when necessary, but she did not take kindly to these flatterers, and they got the point quickly. The adopted princess was best left alone.
Once she had filled her tray, the orphan stepped over to her favorite lunch table only to see that a group of unfamiliar people were standing near it. Rown went ahead and sat down, wrestling a book out of a hidden pocket in her skirts. Opening it to where a ribbon marked her place and munching on a roll, she felt someone staring at her.
Rown looked up, meeting the gaze of a girl staring straight at her with eyes as cold as her face. The girl shook her head, causing obviously dyed, shoulder-length blonde hair to twitch. Loudly to her friends, she announced, "We'll have to find somewhere else to sit." She stared expectantly at Rown.
The princess' arm begged to smack that look off of her face. Her tight mouth pleaded to scream 'I am a princess—how dare you speak to me like that?' Rown's hand trembled, wishing to turn a bowl of stew over the girl's head. But instead, Rown said curtly, "I'll move."
She stood, cradling her book in her arm and steadily carrying her tray of food back to the counter. From there she fled, not wanting a confrontation to ruin the rest of her day. The orphan instead headed to the practice courts, hoping to find a friendly face or, at the very least, some entertainment.
The midsummer sun felt good on her face and warmed the skin hidden under blue silk. Rown strolled purposefully down the gravel path to the main court where she heard a large crowd before she could even see it. A duel of some sort seemed to be going on and the princess was anxious to glimpse the combatants.
Pushing her way to the front of the gathered soldiers and stablehands, who all courteously made room for her as soon as they saw it was a lady shoving them aside, Rown identified Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan fighting a man the girl did not know. She looked at the Lady Knight wistfully—she was a heroine at twenty-five and still unmarried, and no one seemed to care. She had earned respect by spilling blood, her own and that of many enemies, for Tortall. The orphan felt a pang of regret; she should have become a warrior—a knight or Rider. A true fighter would have been able to revive Cantre and bring glory back to its name.
But Rown was too late for that. Years of more interest in books than swords left her much too soft for weapons training—not to mention that the orphan of war was slightly skittish of fighting in the first place. Besides, her old, conservative babysitter Sir Cole would never let her risk her neck anyway.
Lost in her thoughts, the girl did not see the fight end, only learning of the victor by the cheers of "Lady Knight!" and "Kel!" that erupted. She smiled to herself, pleased with such a result and strolled down the path to observe the other fights taking place in the smaller arenas nearby. As the pages were in their afternoon classes, all of the courts were full of knights and squires, soldiers and guardsmen, all eager to hone their skills with sword, spear, hand, and even bow in the archery court. Rown paused at the end of the tiltyard where a few men hung over a rail to watch a knight and a squire face off; she could tell their ranks mostly because the squire already had a dusting of arena sand on the back of his practice armor but had remounted and now listened as his knight master gave his critique and further instructions.
A few of the gathered knights glanced at her curiously as she walked up, lifting her skirts up to her ankles so she could step over a mud puddle to get to the railing a few yards away from them. Two young men who wore the blue uniform of the King's Own mumbled to each other for a few moments, and then one called out with a rakish grin, "Fair Lady, shall I escort you to the next ball? We are already dressed to match." Rown looked at him, slightly startled; her dress was indeed the rich blue of the Own, with silver working on the bodice, but it had never drawn such attention before.
Before she could reply, however, one of the knights sharply whispered, "Princess Rown!" The soldier's eyes widened a little and he gave a small bow in her direction, mumbling something along the lines of "excuse me, princess," and ducked away.
Rown sighed sadly. She hated when people knew who she was and supposed things about her. The orphan just wished she had a clean slate: no one she knew, no one with preconceived judgments about her, no one who had known her in these difficult years of trying to fit in as a princess. Her gloomy eyes, along with those of the lingering knights, wandered back to the tilting pair who were lining up to charge.
The horses started off at the wave of a flag, and they thundered down upon each other on opposite sides of a long fence. The riders lowered their practice lances, holding them steadily at their sides and aiming for each other's shield. The squire's lance glanced off of his opponent while the knight's splintered on impact. The squire was thrown against the high back of his tilting saddle but was not unhorsed; the knights near Rown gave an approving rumble while an assembled party of squires on the other side of the yard cheered for their friend.
The tilters had slowed their mounts and trotted back to each other, the knight beaming down at his squire. With a hearty congratulatory pat on the squire's shoulder, the pair walked their horses to the entrance of the barn and dismounted, the squire taking both horses' reins and leading them inside. The knight marched over to the group of knights near Rown, and as he approached, she recognized Sir Rafe of Vernon's Hills. That meant the squire was Connor of Fieldings
With this realization, Rown's day had brightened considerably.
She had met Squire Conner in the palace library about four months ago. She had been looking for a book on foreign policy under the reign of Charles I four-hundred odd years ago when Connor walked into this back corner of the history section and found her unsteadily climbing up old wooden shelves to reach the book above. With a laugh, he offered to retrieve the book for her. She thanked him and scurried off with her new treasure without bothering to exchange names.
She next saw him at a ball in the spring, one that Thayet had specifically asked her to attend. The adopted princess had tried to spend her night discussing theology with Jasson but was thwarted when the Queen had pointedly said, "Jasson, you haven't mingled all night. You shouldn't spend all of your conversation on your cousin." The prince obligingly left to talk with some other intellectual university types while Rown was left to fend for herself. She stood awkwardly alone in the great hall full of people, gazing about as if she were dazed by the splendor, until she saw the squire in his pale green and cream tunic again. With a quick glance at Thayet, who was watching the princess from the corner of her eye even as she talked to Sir Raoul and his short wife Buri, Rown strode across the room.
The girl caught herself halfway and changed her stride to a glide instead; she was capable of acting the part of a perfect lady or otherwise as she desired. Using the feminine charms she had learned in her princess-years of etiquette training, she demurely approached the small party of squires and fresh-from-the-convent ladies being entertained by them. Rown met the eyes of the boy she sought with a cool blue gaze, and he was instantly compelled to bow and introduce himself as Connor of Fieldings. She curtsied in return, knowing that all the eyes of this group were on her as they judged her boldness. "I am Rown of Cantre. Squire Connor, if you are not previously occupied, could I have this next dance?" The princess could have embellished it more, made it more courtly and flowery, but the sentence managed to serve her purpose well enough.
Connor looked stunned at this invitation, and the convent girls and squires behind him were whispering and giggling amongst themselves in wicked delight—what a scandalous scene they were witnessing! A princess asking a mere squire to dance with her! The poor squire could do nothing but accept and offer his arm to her. Rown took it and was led to the dance floor for a quick three-step. She really did enjoy dancing, though with a new person it was always strange to adjust to their movement. Luckily, the squire proved to be an excellent partner, so the princess had only to let him lead the way.
