The Golden Princess: A Novel of the Change (Change Series) by S. M. Stirling Read Free Book Online

brief ceremony always made her feel better, more focused and determined and
sharp
somehow.
    Today it also helped with the odd dislocation of grief, that flux between moments of normalcy and the sudden realization
he’s gone
hitting you over and over, fresh each time.
    Though of course her patroness understood if circumstances forbade; there were advantages to being a follower of a
rational
deity. Some of the other Olympians . . . Ares, for example . . . she shuddered.
    It still got her odd looks up north in the Protectorate, the Association territories, though things were much better there than they’d been in the old days when the first Lord Protector had his tame antipope running an Inquisition, complete with Auto-da-fé.
    Her mother Lady Delia had had to be a Church pagan—pretending to be a Catholic—all of her childhood and much of her young adult years. The Great Charter didn’t actually say all the realms of Montival had to practice religious toleration, though it
did
say anyone who wanted to could move, but the High King had certainly encouraged it even when he didn’t have the power to command. By his own example not least.
    Damn, there it goes again,
she thought, as a stab struck her.
He’s gone. But you built well, my King.
    She dressed quickly in traveling garb, knit cotton drawers and sports bra, snug doeskin breeks and turned-down thigh boots with gilt spurs, and a loose persimmon-colored linen shirt fastened by ties at throat and wrists. Her armor was on a stand beside her cot, as Órlaith’s was beside her camp-bed. That was standard procedure in any camp; getting into it in an emergency was hard enough without having to rummage through a trunk, and it was the reason why surprise attack was the great weakness of men-at-arms. She certainly wasn’t going to wear the full suit of plate today, with no danger within miles that anyone could tell; nobody did that unless they had to, for training or combat or on occasions ofceremony. Just for starters, you needed skilled assistance to put it on
and
to get it off. She considered wearing half-armor instead, just the vambraces and back-and-breast, but . . .
    But we’re all reacting irrationally. The horse has already left the stable, alas. Anyway, the High King was wearing full armor, everything except his bevoir and helm, when that prisoner got him with the throwing knife . . . and the bastard was aiming at Orrey, at that. Her father threw her back, I’ve never seen anyone move another full-grown person in plate so fast, I swear he started moving
before
we saw the knife. And I got my shield in front of her and then he jerked
his
shield-arm up and wasn’t quite quick enough to protect himself. That old shoulder wound . . .
    She forced herself not to play the scene over again in her mind imagining a better outcome; the past was done and had to be accepted, and her immediate responsibility had been to her liege-lady.
    Instead she shrugged into a supple, sleeveless thigh-length black jerkin of kidskin that had a layer of light meshmail between the leather and its silk lining, held together by patterns of flat rivets made of gilded brass. It being a warmish spring day she decided against a houppelande coat and instead pulled on a short-sleeved divided T-tunic of fine thin cinnamon-colored merino wool that came nearly to her knees, embroidered with silver thread at throat, deep V-neck and cuffs and with her arms—Sable, a delta Or on a V Argent, with a crescent of cadency—in a heraldic shield over her heart.
    A habitual quick glance at the mirror showed the effect was quite striking, given her height and build, and went well with her mahogany hair and amber eyes. The look was not in the least masculine, despite the fact that it was decidedly male dress by the standards of the northern nobility.
    Elegant, but ever so slightly threatening,
she thought. Dashing
, that’s the word I was looking for.
    She had a reputation as a bit of a fop about dress