Chapter Seven

Ten more days passed in a blur. The stranger was still too ill to speak, but he was well enough to stay awake for short periods of time, and take small amounts of nourishment in the form of hearty broths, fresh milk, and wine.

Father had decreased the amount of medication needed to keep him unconscious and had instead switched to trying to manage his pain and discomfort by smearing salves on his stitches and making sure his bandages were tended.

Father had made it clear to Charlotte there were certain aspects of the stranger’s care only he was to manage, and that meant people were bringing their sick animals to the barn outside rather than Father going to them whenever possible, so Walter could be near in order to care for their guest as needed.

Charlotte often wore her new dress, but she had not yet worn the pure white apron. That felt as if it were something that should be saved for a special occasion, and so she borrowed one of her mother’s spare workday aprons instead.

She twisted her curls into a braid that would restrain if not totally smooth them, and wound the braid into a knot at the back of her neck.

Father had just left to make a call on a cow that could not be moved, as she was about to calf and having difficulty. Therefore, it was Charlotte who discovered that their guest was not only finally fully awake, but he appeared, for the first time, to be lucid.

“You’re not wearing black.”

Charlotte spun at the sound of the first words the man spoke. His voice was deep and fine, though each word was punctuated by the intimation he was in pain, and distorted by the stitches over his lip.

“Mourning has ended,” she answered, filling a cup with water from a pitcher near the bed and moving toward him with it.

“Mourning?”

“For the King, and His Royal Highness, the Prince,” Charlotte said slowly, watching as pain of a different sort became clear upon the poor wretch’s face.

“Then it was not all a nightmare,” he said, finding the strength to raise his good arm and push the cup away from his lips as Charlotte attempted to get him to sip from it. “How I had prayed.”

“How we all prayed it was a nightmare we’d wake from,” Charlotte replied, lowering her eyes and turning away. All of a sudden that eerie feeling came over her again, and she wondered. Still, no matter the true identity of her guest, his schedule of medications and dressing changes needed to be kept on schedule.

She began to wash her hands in a bowl on a stand beside the bed, dried them, and set about preparing a fresh batch of salve to apply to his face, just as her father had taught her.

“You are in pain,” she remarked, watching as his breathing grew shallow. “I should send you back into sleeping; it would be kinder by far.”

“No, no more sleep,” the man insisted. “I must…I must… ” He attempted to rise from the pillows, but searing pain from his injured ribs stopped him short. He had moved so suddenly and with such force it surprised Charlotte, and she gasped as he was rendered unconscious again by the agony.

“I tried to warn you,” she sighed, and as she watched his body go from tense to limp on the bed before her, she set about applying the salve to his wounds.

“I will be curious to hear what story you have to tell me when you are willing and able,” she whispered, certain now there had to be truth in her suspicions. There was no way it could be coincidence. Something about him told her she had to be right.

No matter who it was they said they had buried in that grave beside the good King, it was not the royal Prince. It couldn’t be, because she was certain it was the young Heir to the Throne himself who lay unconscious and still seriously injured on the bed before her.

She considered for a moment. If it were true, her household could be in great danger if those responsible for the murder of his father were to find out he was still alive.

I will keep his secret, she thought, and so will—

“Thomas!” Charlotte startled as she realized she was no longer alone in the room. “I…I didn’t hear your footsteps. I—”

“It is him, isn’t it?” Thomas observed, quite correctly. “The missing Prince.”

“How did you know?”

“How could I not know, Charlotte? It was too much coincidence, finding him so soon after the deaths in the royal hunting party. Given his grooming, he either had to be the Prince, or one of the royal guard. Judging from your reaction, I assume my assumption is correct.”

“That is a lot of assuming.”

“Am I wrong?” Thomas folded his arms and shifted his weight to his stronger leg. “Tell me, then, that this is not the Prince?”

Charlotte hung her head low. She could not lie to her oldest and dearest friend.

“We must keep his identity a secret,” Thomas insisted. “No one can know, not even your father.”

“He must already know, Thomas. He is no fool.”

“Then we need to speak to him at the earliest possibility, so we may create a story to have in place should people begin to question what has been going on at the house in recent days. The word in the village has been that your mother is so ill that your father has needed to stay close to home; no one realizes yet that you have a guest in your house. Let alone a royal one.”

“So it must be,” Charlotte replied, grasping hold of his arm. “Promise me, Thomas, we will figure out all that is going on here. How we came to be in this position, and how in the whole of the world we are ever to get all of us out of it.”

“The ugly truth is someone wanted the Prince dead,” Thomas whispered. “So we must keep the fact he still breathes very much to ourselves, until such a time as we can ascertain what has actually taken place.”

Charlotte nodded. “Agreed.”

“They murdered him.” A hoarse voice spoke softly now, and Charlotte turned to see that the man on the bed had opened his remaining eye again. He was staring up at the ceiling, and a tear trailed down his cheek.

“What?” Charlotte rushed to his side, leaving Thomas where he stood. “What did you say?”

“They just turned on us,” the man whispered, choking as though he was trying to stifle a great, deep sob. “They turned on us, and murdered my father right before my eyes.”

“Speak no more of this now. Please rest, Your Highness,” Charlotte whispered.

“Do not dare to call him that,” Thomas warned, shutting the door and the window as well. “Someone may hear.”

“What am I to call him then?” Charlotte’s hands were again positioned on her hips as she glared at Thomas. She hissed softly, “He IS the Prince.”

“Julien,” the Prince whispered, slowly succumbing again to unconsciousness. “No one ever… calls me…”

“His third name,” Thomas said, “If I remember correctly, his name is Tristan David Julien Georges, and he is heir to the throne.”

“Our problems are multiplied,” Charlotte sighed, closing her eyes for a moment before she realized she’d never applied the salve and moved to begin doing so.

“By a number beyond comprehension,” Thomas replied, as he turned back to the door. “I had better speak to your father right away.”

“Not without me there, you don’t… THOMAS!” she called after him, but it was too late; he was gone.

She cursed beneath her breath at the thought she would have to scrub her hands again, then set the bowl of salve down and chased him outside.

“Don’t you dare tell my father this news anywhere but in the safety of that small room!”

“I wouldn’t risk your safety that way.” Thomas looked hurt. “Do you not trust me, after all these years?”

“I just want you to promise me that I will be there for the conversation,” Charlotte answered, trying to soften her tone. “I am the only one who has ever been in the same room with him before. Don’t you think I should be there when he’s identified?”

“You mean to tell me you could identify him by the way he looks now?” Thomas frowned at the tone of his own voice. He hadn’t meant to speak to her so harshly.

"We both know who he is, Thomas," she snapped, turning to go back inside. "Please, just do as I ask and leave it be."