matter what language the natives spoke, the two young men could make understood the words “tavern” and “beer.”
Now they stood to attention on each side of the inn’s door while Damien ducked inside. Sasha followed, then the two footmen brought up the rear.
Damien found a typical English tavern, low-ceilingedwith a smoking fireplace, settles along the walls, and tables bowed from years of use. On this warm afternoon, the room was mostly empty, as farmers were still in their fields and villagers worked at their trade.
The benches were half-filled with older men, grizzledhaired grandfathers taking refuge in a pint of ale and banter with friends. As Damien entered, every man lifted his head and stared.
Damien had been in English country taverns before. But on those journeys he’d been alone. The locals had looked him over, then stoically accepted him as another traveler. He’d never before entered a tavern with his entourage.
The patrons studied Rufus and Miles and Sasha and Damien. The silence grew hostile.
Sasha looked back at them, aghast. “On your feet,” he cried, “for the most Imperial Prince Damien Augustus Frederic Michel of Nvengaria.”
The landlord, who’d come forward at their entrance, stopped in his tracks. Someone snorted. Dark mutters began.
“Why do they not stand?” Sasha hissed to Damien in Nvengarian. “Why do these peasants not bow?”
Sasha liked people to bow. In palaces across Europe, Prince Damien was greeted with bows and curtsies and, at times, downright groveling. But then, Damien was handsome and rich and well liked. He was known for his generosity; plus, he was a crack shot, an athletic rider, and reputed to be one of the best lovers in Europe.
He was admired for his handsome body, his intelligence, his energy, and his interest in everything from new inventions to pretty tavern wenches. Good times were never far behind whenever Damien of Nvengaria visited.
But this time, once they’d reached England, Damien had traveled incognito, or as incognito as Sasha would lethim. Sasha loved pageantry and was dismayed whenever people did not recognize Damien.
But then, poor Sasha had been locked in a dungeon for fifteen years. He’d dared to defend Damien once upon a time, and Damien’s father hadn’t liked that. Damien, who’d likewise been locked in a dungeon and knew how it felt, indulged Sasha whenever he could.
“They are not peasants,” he told Sasha now. “If you call an English farmer a peasant, he will skewer your balls on his pitchfork.”
The smaller man whitened. “Truly?”
Damien looked back at the hostile faces. He smiled. “Rufus, remind me of that magic phrase, will you?”
Rufus grinned. He drew himself up and said in his thickly accented English, “Drinks for everyone.”
Men shifted. The air thawed. Damien announced to the landlord, “Your best ale for every man in the room.”
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pouch that clinked. The landlord and patrons suddenly grinned.
An hour later, the place had been transformed. Rufus and Miles played a loud game of dice in the corner with three of the locals. Damien’s coachman stood in the doorway, one eye on the carriage, one on the comely barmaid who brought him ale.
Sasha was immersed in a crowd of half-drunk listeners while he tried to explain in his accented English the entire history of Nvengaria.
Damien drew the largest group with his warm smile and store of off-color stories. The men of Little Marching laughed and slapped each other on their backs. The ale kept coming.
The commotion attracted the attention of the other villagers. The butcher and the blacksmith shed aprons and shut up shop to join the throng. A few farmers drifted in from their fields. Boys came to ogle Damien’s coach and riding horse, and women peered into the tavern to ogleDamien. The landlord’s daughter gave him sly looks from under her lashes.
But Damien had not come for a dalliance. He had a task to
Now they stood to attention on each side of the inn’s door while Damien ducked inside. Sasha followed, then the two footmen brought up the rear.
Damien found a typical English tavern, low-ceilingedwith a smoking fireplace, settles along the walls, and tables bowed from years of use. On this warm afternoon, the room was mostly empty, as farmers were still in their fields and villagers worked at their trade.
The benches were half-filled with older men, grizzledhaired grandfathers taking refuge in a pint of ale and banter with friends. As Damien entered, every man lifted his head and stared.
Damien had been in English country taverns before. But on those journeys he’d been alone. The locals had looked him over, then stoically accepted him as another traveler. He’d never before entered a tavern with his entourage.
The patrons studied Rufus and Miles and Sasha and Damien. The silence grew hostile.
Sasha looked back at them, aghast. “On your feet,” he cried, “for the most Imperial Prince Damien Augustus Frederic Michel of Nvengaria.”
The landlord, who’d come forward at their entrance, stopped in his tracks. Someone snorted. Dark mutters began.
“Why do they not stand?” Sasha hissed to Damien in Nvengarian. “Why do these peasants not bow?”
Sasha liked people to bow. In palaces across Europe, Prince Damien was greeted with bows and curtsies and, at times, downright groveling. But then, Damien was handsome and rich and well liked. He was known for his generosity; plus, he was a crack shot, an athletic rider, and reputed to be one of the best lovers in Europe.
He was admired for his handsome body, his intelligence, his energy, and his interest in everything from new inventions to pretty tavern wenches. Good times were never far behind whenever Damien of Nvengaria visited.
But this time, once they’d reached England, Damien had traveled incognito, or as incognito as Sasha would lethim. Sasha loved pageantry and was dismayed whenever people did not recognize Damien.
But then, poor Sasha had been locked in a dungeon for fifteen years. He’d dared to defend Damien once upon a time, and Damien’s father hadn’t liked that. Damien, who’d likewise been locked in a dungeon and knew how it felt, indulged Sasha whenever he could.
“They are not peasants,” he told Sasha now. “If you call an English farmer a peasant, he will skewer your balls on his pitchfork.”
The smaller man whitened. “Truly?”
Damien looked back at the hostile faces. He smiled. “Rufus, remind me of that magic phrase, will you?”
Rufus grinned. He drew himself up and said in his thickly accented English, “Drinks for everyone.”
Men shifted. The air thawed. Damien announced to the landlord, “Your best ale for every man in the room.”
He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pouch that clinked. The landlord and patrons suddenly grinned.
An hour later, the place had been transformed. Rufus and Miles played a loud game of dice in the corner with three of the locals. Damien’s coachman stood in the doorway, one eye on the carriage, one on the comely barmaid who brought him ale.
Sasha was immersed in a crowd of half-drunk listeners while he tried to explain in his accented English the entire history of Nvengaria.
Damien drew the largest group with his warm smile and store of off-color stories. The men of Little Marching laughed and slapped each other on their backs. The ale kept coming.
The commotion attracted the attention of the other villagers. The butcher and the blacksmith shed aprons and shut up shop to join the throng. A few farmers drifted in from their fields. Boys came to ogle Damien’s coach and riding horse, and women peered into the tavern to ogleDamien. The landlord’s daughter gave him sly looks from under her lashes.
But Damien had not come for a dalliance. He had a task to
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