Beatrice clutched her new husband`s neck. She tried to keep the weight of her gown spread evenly across her legs while Anryn carried her the length of the church. All around them, the men and women of the court parted to make room for the married couple to pass.

　　Beatrice glanced over Anryn`s shoulder and saw the King and Queen fall in line behind them. Then came Riccardo, escorted by Gruffydd and his son. Beatrice almost stuck out her tongue at Gruffydd the Younger, but she remembered that she no longer had a veil over her face. She looked ahead of them and smiled, ready to let all of Mahaut finally look upon the beauty of Beatrice of Sanchia. Carried in the arms of her gallant husband.

　　Out on the steps, Anryn paused. He shifted Beatrice in his arms and turned slowly. The crowd gathered at the base of the steps cheered and Beatrice waved to them. She wished that she had something to throw to them—a bouquet, or some small coins. All that she had were the nine coins from her belt, tucked in a leather pouch she wore around her neck. She would not part with those.

　　Beatrice glanced at Anryn`s face. He squinted against the noon sunlight streaming down onto them. "Smile! You are their prince. They are happy to see you. Be happy to see them!"

　　The prince smiled, but Beatrice could feel the tension in his arms, wrapped around her. Down the steps, their carriage waited. A magnificent coach bedecked with white and red ribbons, and bunches of purple flowers. Anryn started to descend, but before they reached the carriage, he veered off the carpet.

　　Beatrice glanced at his face. Anryn was opening his eyes very wide, searching the crowd, his eyes going a little cross with the strain.

　　"What`s wrong?" Beatrice said. She had to repeat her question, shouting over the crowd, though she was right by his ear.

　　The prince shook his head. He stepped around the waiting carriage, and headed for the crowd to one side of the street. The men and women gathered there screamed in delight as their prince and his bride came close. Hands reached out and Beatrice reached back for them, clasping a few.

　　"Hello! Congratulations! Best wishes!" they shouted. Some pressed flowers into Beatrice`s hands.

　　"Thank you!" Beatrice shouted back, gathering the garlands they handed to her. Her voice, so used to carrying across ships and over the wide open courtyards of Sanchia, reached nearly every ear near them.

　　Anryn pressed closer into the crowd, slipping past the King`s guards that were there to hold them back. Beatrice could not understand why he waded with her into the crowd, but Anryn kept a firm hold on her. She played it off as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do at a royal wedding. Diving into the crowd like leaping into a wave in the ocean.

　　The people were thrilled to have them. They shifted a little, like a current of water flowing around a fish. Anryn lifted Beatrice a little higher and she reached out to clasp more hands, accept more flowers and even a cup of beer, which spilled almost immediately. Some pulled on her a little, but her prince kept a firm grip, and they drifted along the current of well-wishers. Avoiding the street.

　　Beatrice glanced behind them. She saw Riccardo and Gruffydd the Younger struggling to get through the crowd to follow them. Riccardo waved to her, trying to motion her back. Beatrice waved, but did not tell Anryn to turn around. Something frightened her husband away from the main road.

　　Soon Anryn and Beatrice were turning down another road. The crowd undulated, pushing them down the side street in a little gush of people. The prince was getting tired. Beatrice could feel his arms shaking with the effort of holding her for so long.

　　Just when Beatrice thought that Anryn might drop her, a familiar face swam out of the crowd, only inches from them. Ciamon Caelt was smiling and laughing along with the rest. He looked handsome in a dark green festival tunic and embroidered shirt.

　　"Your Highness, congratulations—and to you, Princess Beatrice," Ciamon shouted.

　　"My prince, this is a friend!" Beatrice shouted to Anryn.

　　For a moment, Anryn`s hands tightened on Beatrice. Then he dropped to the ground, ducking. Ciamon followed them down, his hand going over Beatrice`s head to shield her.

　　A wet sound cracked somewhere nearby, like a mallet hitting steak. For a moment, the cheers died down. Into their absence, a gurgling scream flowed.

　　Beatrice twisted her head out from under Ciamon`s hand. The first thing that she saw over her head was the butt of an arrow, feathered brown and painted black. It stuck out of a man`s chest. His scream curdled to a death rattle as blood ran into his lungs.

　　Cries of terror rippled out over the crowd. Ciamon pulled on Beatrice. Anryn came along with her, like a fish caught on a hook. Ciamon yanked them off the ground before they could be trampled by the sudden surge of people pressing toward them, pressing away from them, trying to scatter while trying to come close to help.

　　Beatrice saw another arrow fly. The flicker of black in the air headed toward them. Midway through its journey, the arrow exploded in a shower of red. Ciamon slapped the scarlet blur from the air just before it could hit Beatrice in the arm. The red broke apart, fluttering to the ground in petals.

　　A rose? Beatrice thought. She glanced down at what had been the arrow, and saw the broken flower on the ground. Others saw it, too.

　　"Witchcraft," someone hissed.

　　"No, I was only trying to stop the arrow!" someone else shouted. "I meant no harm, I swear&"

　　The rose on the ground was trampled by the feet of people trying to flee. Before Ciamon could pull them away, Beatrice saw the trampled rose heave and uncoil. Vines sprouted from the scattered petals. Thorns shot out from the rigid green coils. The arrow-turned-rose swelled and crushed against the crowd.

　　"Witchcraft!" The cry went out again, louder, panicked.

　　Now everyone was surging away, trying to escape. The aberration flowered, branches and vines jutting out in all directions. Stabbing the crowd that tried to escape it. In mere seconds, it had reached them, catching in the folds of Beatrice`s dress, tearing across Ciamon`s pretty green tunic.

　　 "Let him carry me, Anryn," Beatrice yelled. She threw her arms out and Ciamon grabbed onto Beatrice. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

　　Anryn kept hold of her shoulder, and used his other hand to draw his sword and hack at the vines all around them. He cleared a path for Ciamon to press through the tangle. The thorns scratched and pulled at Beatrice`s dress, and cut long deep gashes into Ciamon and Anryn.

　　They fought their way through the vines, through the crowd. The panic outpaced them. A wall of bodies crushed together against buildings, pouring into side streets. The crush was so thick in places, Ciamon`s feet left the ground as it carried them along.

　　At last, they spilled into the main road. The red carpet was still there, and some of the guests from the wedding were still walking along it, sedate, totally unaware of the panic.

　　Ciamon shifted Beatrice to one arm, and reached to grab Anryn`s hand. "This way, Your Highness!"

　　 Ciamon started to jog, jostling Beatrice on his arm as he pulled the Prince of Ammar along behind him. They wound down one street, then another. By the third, Beatrice recognized where Ciamon led them: back to Gruffydd`s townhome she`d shared with Riccardo for the last two months.

　　Once inside, Ciamon set Beatrice down in a chair and stood panting beside Prince Anryn in the foyer. Blood streamed down both their faces. Beatrice realized that her wedding gown was stained with it. She had a few scratches on her hands, but the thick folds of the gown had kept her mostly safe.

　　 "Are you badly hurt?" Beatrice asked.

　　Both of them looked at her. With a pang, she realized she directed the question at Ciamon, when she should have been more concerned with her new husband.

　　 "I`m fine," Anryn answered after an awkward moment. He eyed Ciamon and sheathed his sword. "I suppose I should thank you—but I do not know who you are."

　　 "Ciamon Caelt." Ciamon held out his hand. After a moment, Anryn took it.

　　 "Your name sounds familiar," the prince said. He looked around Gruffydd`s foyer. "So. Am I your prisoner now&?"

　　 "No, no, Your Highness. I think we should stay here, until the panic in the streets dies down. I will send a runner to the palace to inform the King of where we are," Ciamon said. "On behalf of Lord Gruffydd, I offer you the hospitality of his lordship`s home."

　　 The Prince of Ammar leaned over and vomited all over Gruffydd`s fine wood floor. "Too much& to drink& I`m so sorry&"

　　 "Hell, it ain`t my floor," Ciamon said.

　　Beatrice glanced at him, jarred by the sudden change in his speech. Anryn wouldn`t have known Ciamon well enough to hear it.

　　 Gruffydd`s servants scurried to attend to the prince. They led him into the dining room, and fetched coffee and water. Beatrice and Ciamon were left alone in the foyer. Out in the street, she could hear the wedding crowd shouting. And, after a moment, singing. The wave of panic had broken before it could reach them, here.

　　 Ciamon knelt by her and started to examine her injuries. He turned over her hands to look at the scratches.

　　 "How did you know how to find us?" Beatrice asked. "How did you know where we`d be?"

　　 "You have to ask?" he said.

　　Ciamon pressed his thumb into a deep scratch on Beatrice`s thumb. He looked into her face and Beatrice`s heart, already primed from the terror of the street, surged into her throat. Sowly, Ciamon moved his finger over the scratch. Beatrice felt the skin there tighten and sting. She looked down and saw a thin pink seam where the scratch had been.

　　Beatrice started to shake all over. All the nerves in her body tingled. Between her legs, she felt a stab of wild want. It made her clutch Ciamon`s hand tighter and she tugged him forward until he nearly fell onto her lap.

　　 "Hell—you just got married an hour ago!" Ciamon snapped. "I`m trying to help you. Don`t get crazy."

　　 "Am I crazy?" Beatrice demanded. She would not let go of his hand when he tried to pull it back. "You came to the wedding to look for me, or for my husband? You knew someone would be hunting the prince."

　　 "I thought& somebody might try. Maybe they thought it was an easier way to stop the wedding than what I came up with," Ciamon said. "I thought I might talk you out of it."

　　Beatrice bristled. "Talk me out of it? You didn`t even ask me. You bought me some flowers and some candy. You never asked me."

　　Ciamon spread his hands. "I wasn`t going to just ask you. I followed, I listened. And& I read your letters from your mother. I knew that you were homesick."

　　Beatrice slapped him. Ciamon took both of her hands and held them fast. For the first time, she felt the real strength in them. He could have broken her wrists if he squeezed.

　　"You get one, lady," Ciamon said. "One—I deserve that. But I will not let you go on hitting me, or your husband will come up here and want to know why. And what do you want to tell him?"

　　"That you are a liar and an assassin," Beatrice hissed. Her eyes filled with tears. She felt so stupid for trusting him.

　　"I`m not an assassin. I`m a spy," Ciamon said. He lowered his head. "Beatrice, that`s all. I swear."

　　Beatrice reeled. She hated herself for the way her heart sped up when he said her name. She could not trust this man, she told herself. Ciamon may have been telling her the truth now, but why hadn`t he told her before? What else might he be hiding?

　　 "Beatrice," Ciamon said when her frantic silence stretched on too long. "It`s not too late. The ceremony today& that`s not enough for your father. He won`t send his ships until the marriage is legally binding. If you run away today, before the bedding ceremony, you could&"

　　 Beatrice couldn`t stand it. She couldn`t stand that he had this hold over her. That he was able to pretend to be her friend for weeks and she ate it up. That he tried to help her only to help himself. Reckless and furious, she surged forward and closed her mouth around his lips before he could say more.

　　Under her lips, Ciamon froze. For a moment, she felt him soften. She exalted in it—she`d surprised him! She bit his lip to drive home her advantage. He jerked back from her.

　　 "Run away. With you?" Beatrice sneered. She imitated her mother`s most withering stare, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Now who is crazy? I told you before: I am replaceable. I could have died today out there in the street and my father would have sent one of my sisters to take my place in the prince`s bed next week. Me running away won`t stop a war."

　　 Ciamon drew a halting breath. He eyed her with real caution now, as if she were a wild animal. Beatrice liked it when he looked at her that way.

　　 "Your best chance to stop a war lies with my husband," Beatrice continued. "If I were you, I would be doing my best to win his favor."

　　 After a moment, Ciamon lowered his head again. This time, it was a bow. He ran his hand along her leg, his hard strong fingers closing over her ankle. The dull ache there faded. She flexed her toes, feeling only the slightest twinge.

　　 "Enjoy the dancing at your wedding, Princess," Ciamon said.