Page 386

Curse: Rose Red Retold

Romance a Medieval Fairytale Series by Demelza Carlton

Chapter 1

When Boris laid down his sword at the end of the day, it felt so much heavier than when he'd buckled it on this morning. Was it the weight of the lives he'd taken, or the blood the blade had drunk during battle?

"I brought water for you to wash, Your Highness," Igor said, sloshing the contents of his bucket into the bowl before the squire dropped the bucket on the floor. "Do you want me to help you out of your armour, too?"

Boris was perfectly capable of taking his own clothes off, and any other day he'd have said so, but they'd been fighting since dawn, and there wasn't a bit of his body that wasn't complaining of weariness. "Please," he said instead, lifting his aching arms to give the boy better access to the buckles on his breastplate.

His previous squire wouldn't have asked – he'd have simply made himself useful, but Kyrilu had earned his knighthood a year ago, and he now served Boris's brother, Yarik, in the north. Igor still had some growing to do, as well as a lot of learning, before he'd be as good as Kyrilu.

"It'll need a good clean and polish before the morrow, for we march for home in the morning," Boris added.

Igor's thin shoulders lifted in a massive sigh. "Yes, Your Highness." He'd learned not to complain, but his sulky expression said he wanted to.

Boris hid his smile. He hadn't liked cleaning armour at Igor's age, either, but he'd known blood could eat at steel like rust, weakening what needed to be strong. Armour had saved his life more than once, and Boris appreciated the value of well-maintained gear.

"Tell the cook I'm ready for supper, too," Boris said. "After that, I won't need you until breakfast."

Igor nodded and dashed away.

Boris barely had time to finish washing and don fresh clothes before his knights began to arrive to deliver their reports of the day's battle.

"I lost six of my men today in an ambush, but we found the Bisseni camp."

Which wouldn't have had much of value in it. The food they'd stolen from the villages south of here was likely long gone,

"All our dead are buried, Your Highness. Far fewer than the enemy dead. My men are still working on the pit to bury all of them."

Boris wasn't sure the Bisseni would appreciate the good Christian burial his men gave them, but as they were dead, they weren't likely to complain about it.

"We're down two horses, but only minor wounds among the men."

Two warhorses would be costly to replace, but the knights who'd lost them could surely afford it. As they'd all head home on the morrow, it wasn't likely they'd need new warhorses until next year's campaign.

"My scouts report no more Bisseni within a day's ride."

No Bisseni they could see, anyway. The mountain dwellers could be hiding under a rock just outside camp, and they'd never know until someone decided to use the rock as a latrine.

"Your supper, Your Highness."

Igor was getting better at not spilling the stew. The pot was still more than half full.

"Two of the Bisseni got away, vanished into the mountains."

If only they'd stay in the mountains, instead of coming to raid their villages. Then Boris and his men could stay at home, polishing benches with their ever-broadening butt-cheeks as they feasted on this victory until the next enemy dared to invade their borders.

Boris suppressed a smile. He and his men were not made for polishing benches, or growing fat from feasting. Much like his father, who would have ridden out with them, had his health not prevented it.

"Where to next, Your Highness?"

Boris raised his head to find all his men watching him with an air of expectation. Good men, loyal men, who had earned a victory feast a dozen times over during this gruelling campaign.

"On the morrow, we pack up and head for the capital. God willing, we'll be feasting in Prislav before we know it!"

A ragged cheer rose up, followed by a chorus of thanks. To him, to God, to the saints and whoever else they prayed to in the heat of battle.

"Your father would be proud, Your Highness," said Sir Cyril, the oldest of his knights.

Boris acknowledged the older man's praise with a grave nod. "Indeed. As am I, to have fought with so many good men, in my father's stead."

The men trooped out, leaving Boris with his now empty supper bowl. He couldn't remember eating a bite, he'd been so busy. Probably for the best – those newly dead warhorses had likely gone into the stewpot.

The court in Prislav might not be his favourite place to be, but at least his father's kitchens served more than old horse.

Even better would be a meal at home, with his wife and daughter. Would baby Lida be walking and talking yet? She'd barely learned to smile before he left. How would she have changed in the months he'd been away? He couldn't wait to find out.

Boris blew out the candle and lay down to dream of family dinners instead of fierce fighters who wanted him dead. He was going home.