Too Many Princes by Deby Fredericks Page A

them down. That was its good morning to them.
    The days quickly settled into a rhythm: riding, resting the horses, riding, stopping for luncheon, riding, resting the horses, riding, stopping for the night, rubbing down the horses. The king's highway was well made and cared for, with a surface of clay that had gravel beaten into it. It was broad enough for two carts to pass abreast, as they frequently did. Since it was a main thoroughfare, the horsemen frequently passed rows of neatly kept houses, shops and inns. The abundance of taverns made stops far more refreshing.
    For the most part, the falcon circled high above them. Sometimes it vanished for hours at a time, but it always returned. Brastigan thought it must find the horses' land bound pace unbearably slow, but it didn't descend to say so. Where it roosted at night, he had no idea and little desire to know. All in all, he was content to know the falcon hadn't drawn them out of Harburg and left them.
    The weather held fair as a handful of days went by. Brastigan passed some of the time on the road with idle speculations. Such as Therula and Pikarus, for one thing. He couldn't help wondering if that situation was as it seemed.Pikarus was wearing a fancy glove, all of a sudden—one with Therula's initial on it. Brastigan hadn't seen it before, but he would have bet it was Therula's own handiwork. Pikarus wasn't talking about the relationship, and no wonder. It would be a real coup if a lowly man-at-arms could win the hand of a royal princess. That wasn't likely to happen, in Brastigan's opinion. If it did... Queen Alustra as a mother-in-law? What a nightmare!
    As a military convoy, they took lodging at whatever fortress they came across. That occurred every two or three days. There was always room, for Crutham was at peace. Other nights, they chose among whatever inns presented themselves. Brastigan let Pikarus choose, so they had modest accommodations and simple meals.
    That was as well. The kind of inn Brastigan favored wasn't to be found along the king's highway. Nor would he bring Lottres into the back alleys. Moreover, Brastigan wasn't interested in carousing. He only sought rough company when he was bored. In Harburg, that had been a daily occurrence. Now it wasn't.
    Even on the royal road, the innkeepers seldom saw real royalty. Brastigan and Lottres had seldom been the center of so much attention. They had too many older brothers. The fawning had its charm, but Brastigan found it soon began to pall on him. As did the flirtation of the alewives. These women were of a better class than his accustomed lot but Brastigan enjoyed them only with his eyes. He wanted no brats brought to his door, as had befallen his father and a number of his brothers. Most nights, he retreated to the sanctuary of a room he shared with Lottres.
    Curiously, it was the younger prince of Crutham who stayed up late drinking as they traveled on. Perhaps Lottres took advantage of the maidservants, though his stammering when Brastigan ribbed him suggested otherwise. Most days he seemed to ride in a stupor, contemplating his horse's pale mane. The reversal was amusing, when Brastigan thought about it.
    It wasn't so funny when he woke by himself one night. Through the floor he could hear muffled sounds as the last patrons were ushered from the common room below. The alewives bade the innkeeper good-evening and the bar fell to shut out the night. After a few brief words to someone else, the proprietor shuffled upstairs. Brastigan heard the door across from his own open, then close softly.
    He rolled over but couldn't get comfortable, so he got up to use the chamber pot. As he turned back, the wan moonlight showed him Lottres's empty bed. The sheets lay smooth, the blanket still folded at the foot of the bed. Brastigan frowned, scratched his head, tried to marshal a sleep-heavy brain. The last he saw, Lottres had been in a deep consultation with some scruffy minstrel. Hearing more tall tales, no