Page 7 of The Heir
The princess was sitting up on the sloping ground. Dash stood beside her, barking like it was the end of the world. Mud and water soaked into her skirts, and rain fell on her bare head. Her face had turned green with nausea and blue with cold. She blinked stupidly at the dark hillock below them and then up at Jane. The familiar sharp young woman was entirely missing from her wide eyes.
“There’s a dead man,” said the princess.
Jane stared. First at the princess and then down the slope toward the hillock that seemed to command her attention. Hornsby had dismounted to catch hold of Prince’s reins. With the horses and the groom in the way, it was impossible for Jane to see anything clearly.
“He’s dead,” the princess told Jane. “I saw it.”
Dash whined and pawed at her skirt. The princess did not look at him. Jane, not knowing what else to do, scooped Dash up into her arms.
Hornsby had managed to calm Prince and was now leading him back up the slope. His mare remained where he’d left her, and looking between the horse’s legs, Jane could see a lumpish black shape. Hornsby glanced behind him—once, twice—as if he thought his mare might bolt or someone might be following.
“Is Her Highness all right?” Hornsby’s face was almost as ashen as the princess’s.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Jane and Hornsby stared at each other, both understanding that they were alone with the most important person in the world, and that if anything happened to her, it was their fault.
Hornsby broke the stalemate first. “Miss Conroy, you must get Her Highness indoors. I’ll . . . deal with things here.” He took Dash from her and set him down on the sodden grass.
“There’s a dead man,” said the princess again.
Hornsby, however, was an experienced servant. He knew there was only one possible answer when one of the higher-ups spoke in this way.
“As you say, Your Highness. Now, if I may, I think it would be best if you were not on the damp grass. Perhaps Miss Conroy . . . ?”
Jane forced herself to move. She grabbed the princess’s shoulders, and heaved her to her feet. Hornsby held Prince’s reins with one hand and the stirrup with the other. Between them, they wrestled the princess up onto his back. Prince danced and shuddered and seemed determined to have done with them all. Thankfully, the princess was able to keep her seat, even though she could not seem to tear her eyes away from the green.
Hornsby boosted Jane unceremoniously onto Smokey, then handed up her reins and the princess’s reins.
“Hurry, Miss Conroy,” he said. “But for God’s sake, be careful.”
Jane gritted her teeth and urged Smokey forward. Dash followed, issuing the occasional bark, which the horses ignored. Thankfully, now that the horses realized they were heading back for their dry, warm stables, they were more than ready to comply with her awkward commands. In fact, it was difficult to hold them to a walk.
If Prince begins to canter, the princess will fall again. What will I do then? She’ll break her neck this time!
The rain was increasing. Jane had forgotten to put the princess’s bonnet back on. Rain trickled down her gray face, and she huddled in her saddle, her eyes still staring straight ahead. She didn’t even look down at poor little Dash loping dutifully beside her, stopping every so often to shake the rain from his ears.
Can someone go blind from hitting their head? No. Don’t think it.
There were days when Jane hated the princess. She hated her acid tongue and her determined rebellions, hated the way she constantly needled Father and the duchess. She hated the arguments and disorder, and most of all, she hated the gleam that came into the princess’s eyes when she invented some fresh defiance.
But this dead, dazed look terrified her.
“Say something, ma’am,” Jane begged. “Please, just . . . say something.”
The princess blinked. “I . . . I’m cold.”
Now Jane could hear her teeth chattering. Panic cracked open that much farther. The Duke of Kent had died from cold. Jane knew that. Everybody knew that. If the princess took ill, if the princessdied—even if they didn’t lock her in the Tower, Jane would be thrown out of the palace, out of her home, and left in the street to starve. Father wouldn’t even look back. Mother wouldn’t stop him. Her sister, Liza, might not even bother to watch it happening. Her brother, Ned, definitely would not.
“If we can go a little faster,” Jane tried.
Prince snorted and tossed his head. Jane’s words might not reach the princess, but the horse’s unease did. The princess blinked and shook her head, and some semblance of her normal self seemed to seep back into her demeanor.
The princess reached for her reins but saw that Jane held them, and frowned with annoyance.
“Give me my reins,” the princess ordered.
Jane thought she might dissolve from sheer relief.
