Chapter 2

© Copyright 2004 by Elizabeth Delayne



Laughing as he came through the doors that were swept open for him on either side by waiting servants, Prince Justen looked first for his mother as he sheathed his sword. He was, she thought, the brightness of youth and passion.

Without, she thought, the hardness that came with the decisions and worries of manhood.

“You should have seen me today. I almost bested James.”

Setting aside her embroidery, Regina smiled for her son and looked toward James, the champion sword fighter of their kingdom. He had been a comrade of her husband’s, had trained Albert as well, but rarely had she ever seen him smile.

“Did he really?”

The elder man shook his head, stoic before his queen. “He is getting better.”

“Better?” Justen bellowed, “I dislodged his sword. If he didn’t know so many fancy flips and tricks I would have cornered him before he—”

But he stopped, alarmed by the look on his mother’s face. He stepped forward toward his mother’s chair and knelt before her, his hand trembled on the hilt of his sword. “What is it? What happened?”

She reached out and ran a gentle hand down his long face. “Nothing, dear son. Tis what will happen, I fear.”

“You worry too much.”

“You are my son.” She said simply. “Your father wishes to see you.”

Caught in her gaze, in her love, Justen simply found himself lost in her. Her gentleness, her beauty, were each part of his heart, part of his breath.

“I haven’t done anything ... lately.”

His impish smile punctuated the last word. He knew he was known for his mischief, tall tells that grew larger then the actual crime—and only crimes to those who advised his father. So he challenged the swordsmen, raced through the villages and visited those within, played music on his lute in the early morning hours.

It was only then that you could sit under the moon and stars and contemplate your destiny. He was the second son, expected to act like the next in line for the throne, to be trained for the duty, but knowing that most of his training would prove useless as it was Albert’s role to be king.

And because he would one day head the armies, Justen planned to make sure that Albert remained king.

The look his mother gave him showed her displeasure.

“You’re father doesn’t just speak to you when you do something that ...”

“Brings the ministers running? No, but he doesn’t ask to see me either ... officially, as if the ministers are on standby waiting for me to—” his gaze sharpened. “That’s it isn’t it? Another official meeting where Albert is praised and I’m told to mind my manners and to stay out of trouble.”

He pushed himself up in one graceful move and pace away, doing his best to deal with the irritation.

When his father wanted to speak to him only as a father, then he would seek his son out and, sometimes, elicit a little challenge on the training ground. His father still trained himself—when he was able.

The times the ministers sought Justen out....

He stopped at the wide window and stared out over the kingdom and tried to balance himself all over again. He was second son, meant to bow to the rule and authority of all.

Regina moved to stand beside him. “Justen—”

He held up his hands and mentally prepared himself for a long, boring meeting. He knew how to nod, where to nod, and hopefully, how to make a quick escape if need be.

“I know. I’ve been raised as a prince. The ministers are only here to help me remain a prince. Where’s father?” He heard the bitterness in his voice and pushed it down. “I’d like to get this over with.”



For as long as she could remember, Stephanie had enjoyed the fellowship of her father when she broke the fast. The early mornings were usually a joy for them. Her father had been open to telling wild and fanciful stories of his years before the responsibility of being a king encroached on him. He had traveled, as close as the Mountains of Lore and the Forest of Dreams and as far away as the fields of Veil and the Lake of Calm Waters.

Each place seemed significant, a bright and wonderful adventure. He told of animals with long pointed horns, with beautiful coats in wild and fanciful colors that blended into the landscape, of the call of the birds and other creatures.

But now Stephanie could only comfort herself with the memory of such tales. Her father sequestered himself each day at dawn with his ministers. He ate not, she was sure. He was withering away.

Didn’t they see? She wondered. Couldn’t her sisters and the ministers see her father’s struggle?

So she escaped often to the large stone stables, to ponder and to pray, away from her sisters and the wedding plans.

She entered through the side gate reserved for her father, she supposed. It was dark inside, and cool. The animals greeted her, nuzzling her side. She greeted each one knowing that the workers overheard her as they did every time she ventured to the stables—sheep and goats, a pony in his pen. If animals could smile, and she thought they did, then they were the only ones to give her a happy welcoming in weeks.

The servants who worked in the castle were so busy with preparations for the coming and going guests. More animals had been brought in for the feasts, more traffic invaded castle’s outer walls between the kitchen and servants quarters, throughout the keep and the stables.

In a quiet corner she considered her own, she settled on the straw and buried her face in the fur of the sheep dog that curled at her side. One of the old farmers had christened it hers. Malcolm, she called him—after her grandfather, the royal king who’d seemed so humble. Malcomb the dog stayed in the stables and kept company with the workers.

But for a lonely princess, he was her secret prize.

She ran a hand through his fur. Her grandfather had been a good king, and his death only a few years ago now had changed her father. He’d become king. He felt the weight of responsibility.

And more.

Before her grandfather’s death, he’d seemed happier, healthier. He’d talked often of her mother.

He’d talked ... he’d just talked freely, not weighted down by the time constraints as king.

Stephanie sighed. It wasn’t that she didn’t think her father made a good king. She just didn’t think it allowed him enough freedom to be the man he had been created to be.

He had never been able to take her further than the reaches of their kingdom. He would never see the sights of the kingdoms he had once visited, or reacquaint himself with the friends of long ago. He was stuck, lost in his role as king.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Stephanie looked up to find Lady Dennison standing over her. Her father’s friend, the wife if his chief minister, did not look happy. For so much of her youth she had looked to Lady Dennison as an ally—as close to a mother as she could have had. Now, her eyes seemed distant, weary, just like the king’s. She curled her fingers into the Malcomb’s fur.

“Stephanie, I know this is your private place, but we’ve talked about this. You’re getting to old to hide yourself away in the stables. It is not a place for a princess.” She stood regal and proud in her elegant dress. “Come now. I wouldn’t want to have to go to your father about this. Your poor mother never would have let him raise you to grow this fond of such a place—not when it is time to take your place as a lady.”

Despite her reluctance, Stephanie stood and brushed the straw off that clung to her clothes. Stephanie didn’t know what her mother would have thought. She’d never known her mother’s smile, or her mother’s enchanted eyes—things her father so readily remembered.

“We’re expecting your sisters’ intendeds back this morning. It is important to make an appearance for the sake of our future relationship. Certainly you remember?”

She hadn’t, wasn’t sure she’d been told, but she only nodded. She’d learned of recent not to speak, even when spoken to. It seemed the time to fall back on the age-old instruction.



What did a man think he needed with a dozen silk tunics in a trek through forest and mountains? Luther pulled the lot out of the saddlebags and tossed them into a pile. Justen would need one, possibly two, when it was time to show himself as prince. Until then the single aged outfit of a peasant should do just fine.

He handed off select items of the royal garb to one of their own, which would follow them within the week.

Going over the horses a final time, Luther looked up as Justen came from the castle, dressed in the rags of a village peasant. The filth did not hide his nobility, not yet. He was still soft, lighthearted around the edges. Luther could only hope that with a few days on the journey the trail dust would cover the rest.

It would take him awhile, he thought, to learn the breathless bitterness.

Justen glanced at the pile on the ground at Luther’s feet.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“Frivolousness.”

“Frivolousness? I can’t live in these rags forever.”

“Most do, you will.” Luther eyed the sword he wore at his waist. His father had commissioned it to be crafted for his twentieth birthday. “You won’t be needing that, either.”

“Needing what?”

“That item you call a sword.”

His hand went to the hilt, covered in jewels. “It’s the best in the kingdom.”

“It’s too expensive and too heavy for a real fight.” Luther bent and drew out a sword in its sheath and held it out to Justen. “This will do for you.”

“But—”

“Riches we will not carry. Too many would divulge on top of us to raid the goods. One word from me, before we even leave the castle grounds, and you know as well as I that the ministers will withdraw their support.”

If not his father.

Justen stifled his protest and unbuckled the belt that carried the ornate sword, handing it off to a servant who hover close by—as the servants often did. He slid the other sheath into place and buckled back the belt with a small show of temper.

"And the ring."

"You can't mean--"

"I'll keep it hidden," Luther held out his hand. The prince stared at him, his eyes heard, before he tugged off the ring and slapped it in Luther's hand. It was a fine peice of work, commissioned by Justen's grandmother. Leaves for the forest, the lion, the lamb, ships and the sea--all part of Darbenton, part of the Faith, knowledge of family and of duty.

Though not called a charm, it would have been held onto for luck--and Luther didn't discount such things. The familiar always brought with it some level of comfort.

Still, Luther frowned as Justen grumbled. His former charge hadn’t changed—still young, careless. By now he should have the wisdom of a warrior, instead he was still playing with life.

They had been friends once, or as close as a pair so different could be. Luther had been chosen as the young prince’s companion, already working the fields of his family’s plot when the queen had given birth. He’d been taken from his family, workers of the land, and brought to live at the castle.

He’d grown with the young prince—played, learned, and grown to love the Queen as his own mother. Yet, there had been a point when he’d found focus in the path of freedom. He could always stay chained to the life of a peasant. Becoming a knight, through training, through skill and dedication, would be the only way he could leave the path of penury.

And so while the prince frolicked, Luther trained. While the prince waited, Luther worked.

He watched now as Justen withdrew the sword and tested its weight. They had been trained together, so long ago. He could only pray that when the time came the young prince would handle his own in battle.

“You’re in disguise, remember? I won’t be traveling across the Mountains of Lore with the Prince of Darbenton.”

Justen said nothing and motioned for a servant who brought him still another satchel.

Luther stepped over and took it just as Justen was starting to fasten to his horse. He pulled out the set of carved shapes and an assortment of rocks. A crude and simple game they were used as a form of gambling in the village.

He held them out. “Does your mother know about these?”

“There’s nothing to know. I figured the night would give us time to —”

“There won’t be time,” Luther muttered and tossed the handful over his back.

“You can’t do that!”

“Leave them—if you pick any of those up I’m marching right back into that castle to show your mother.” Luther muttered and tossed out the second handful before tossing the pack back at Justen. “If we have free time, you’ll continue your training.”

Justen rolled his eyes and tossed the now empty pack toward the servant who held his clothes. “You haven’t been my trainer in years.”

“I can still best you.”

The light flickered in Justen’s eyes and he smirked. “We’ll see about that.”



Lady Dennison had ordered a small cart for the trip to the stables, leaving Stephanie to return alone. Clouds moved over the sun, casting the land in shadows. She hurried up the path, holding up her skirts, hoping to avoid the coming rain.

Then she heard the pounding of horses hooves and the laughter of men.

It wouldn’t have alarmed her before, but recently strangers had been entering the castle grounds. She turned as the horse’s hooves came closer, no longer heading toward the stables.

She knew them, the men from afar that would wed her sisters. Their dark capes streamed behind them.

She turned, not trusting them, and lifted a prayer as she quickened her pace.

Their horses drew closer. Still closer.

The sound of hooves beating the ground.

One road up on either side of her, crossing in the front and riding around toward the back. Their laughter was hard, not joyous or free.

“The princess balks,” one said as he circled her again.

“Leave me be!,” she ordered as they circled around her still again. She cried out as one made a move to grab her, then he circled again. Around and around, howling with sick laughter.

The sky shook with thunder and the rain began to fall. The brothers still circled, laughing, calling out things, words that did little to seep into her consciousness. She was suddenly cold.

She felt tears prickle her eyes and real fear for the first time in her life.

“Stop that this instant!”

Through the rain, Stephanie saw Lady Dennison standing in the cart, her driver just as furious.

“You are handling a princess of this kingdom, not a woman of your own land—if such ways are practiced, even there.” Her voice resounded with anger.

“We are sorry milady,” one said, his head bowed toward the Lady. But from her vantage, Stephanie saw his hidden smile, his lack of repentance.

A shiver rolled through her, dark and cold.

“Go on now. If you ever try such things again, then I will see that things change.”

Stephanie watched as her sisters’ betroths rode toward the stables, their laughter bawdy. Their long, dark capes flew behind them.

“Come now,” Lady Dennison bade.

“They knew I was a princess,” Stephanie murmured and watched as they reached the stables, dismounted.

“Nonsense, child,” Lady Dennison murmured as she stepped down from the cart to see to Stephanie. The rain thickened. “They would not have made such a move on one who will be their future sister. Come now, before you catch a chill.”

“They said it. He said it—called me a princess,” she argued, even as she began to shake. “They knew who I was.”

“You are cold, distraught,” Lady Dennison murmured, using her hands to warm Stephanie’s arms.

“They were laughing.”

The driver took off his coat, handed it to Lady Dennison. She slid it around Stephanie, quickly fastened the buttons with able fingers.

“Nervousness, I suspect. Even rogues wish not to be caught. Hush now. We’ll get you back before you catch chill.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, Stephanie.” The rain pelted off their skin, soaked their clothes. The rain streamed down Lady Dennison’s face. “You shall leave such talk here. It will have no place in the castle. None at all.”

Lady Dennison slipped a finger under Stephanie’s chin and brought her eyes up to meet hers. The lady’s eyes were dark and turbulent. It had been a long time, so long, since she’d found herself looked directly in the eye.

“Times have changed, dear one. It is not as once was.”


HEY! and don't forget to e-mail me if you have a comment!





Return to The Ruby Ring