did hurt rather a lot.”
They waited for the girl to return with wine and food. When she did, Vindomata asked for more water, a needle, and flesh thread. And a lantern. Hotspur pulled the cork on the wine and drank straight from the bottle. She did not fear stitches, but the prospect of holding still for prolonged pain always reminded her how much better she preferred the harsh, sudden pains of battle.
The girl brought Vindomata her requests, and Hotspur leaned over her knees, hugging them. She dug her nails into her shins and gritted her teeth.
“What did you say to Briginos?” Vindomata asked as she pinched skin together and sewed. The lantern aimed at Hotspur’s shoulder cast her shadow black before her.
“Nothing he didn’t deserve,” Hotspur said through her teeth. “He was— Ah, worms do I have to talk through this?”
“Yes.”
“He was disrespectful and idiotic. He deserved none of my time or my soldiers’ time.”
“How like Celeda these days to send such a person to represent her.”
Surprise stuttered Hotspur’s response. “I … well, yes, I suppose, though the queen was once … vicious … on the battlefield.”
“How well I remember,” Vindomata murmured softly. And her aunt stabbed through the flesh of Hotspur’s upper back again, quick and methodical.
Hotspur groaned and tried not to seethe. She needed to keep her breaths as even as she could, to speed her aunt’s progress along. Her upper back and neck had become one long snake of burning pain, and Hotspur needed distraction.
Unfortunately, she thought immediately of Hal. After the Battle of Strong Water, after the king was dead, Hotspur had stitched up a wound in Hal’s side. That had been the very first time they’d had a real conversation.
Hal had been shaking, eyes pressed closed, and Hotspur willing to pretend for the new prince that her tremors were from pain. But she’d known it was trauma. Is stealing a crown a thing worth dying for? Hal had whispered.
Hotspur had found Hal’s question endearing—a question for a poet, not a soldier. She had replied, musing, Prince Hal. It has a good ring to it.
If only the title hadn’t turned Hal’s heart to seashells and her blood to cheap red wine.
It had been eight months since Hotspur left Lionis, and all she’d heard of Hal was that the prince had fallen into the wastes of the city and into the arms of other women who did not try to be worthy of anything. Once, Hal had wanted to be a prince for the people, uniting Aremoria with stories and revelry and charm, but apparently her plan now was nothing more than irresponsibility and decay. Or Hotspur had never known her at all.
Hotspur had stopped trying to understand. She woke at night, sometimes, wondering if Hal would be better if Hotspur had stayed, if they still called her the Lion Prince, and if Hal could even still play to that stage. But Hotspur told herself again and again that if Hal couldn’t do this alone, she shouldn’t be doing it at all.
Better everyone see their prince for what she was now than when it was too late.
“There,” Vindomata said, using one of Hotspur’s knives to slice the needle free of the stitched wound. Her aunt jabbed the needle into a pillow to keep from losing it, then slathered on a tingling salve that smelled of yarrow and honey.
Gently stretching, Hotspur went to the small trunk at the head of her pallet to pull out a clean shift. She put it on, wincing as the newly sewn wound pulled, but glad she had this much range of motion. The linen fell to her knees, and Hotspur tied the front closed. She sat again in a low chair and reached for the tray of food. A handful of olives and nuts filled her mouth, so she could not answer when Vindomata said, “Now tell me your plans for Douglass, and why you would not give him to Briginos.”
Flames from nearby soldiers’ fires flickered outside, and the dull orange light diffused shadows throughout the tent. Hotspur closed her eyes and swallowed. “I told you I did not like Briginos. He was an imbecile and demanding, and moreover didn’t understand anything about the process of war. He didn’t even know negotiating for burial of the Burgun soldiers was part of his purpose!”
“Be calm, Hotspur.” Vindomata shifted, lying down on the pallet again. She reached for a chunk of cheese. “I trust your judgment. I only wish to know the depth of