chest. She’d saved Ambrose and killed her own brother. How must it feel? To kill your own brother? It was impossible for Ambrose to imagine; his own brother, Tarquin, had been the complete opposite of Boris. Though now they were both dead. And Ambrose had no idea how Catherine felt about anything. Why hadn’t she come? Was she herself ill? So many questions and no answers at all.
“Shits!” He cried out at a sharp pain as he swung his arm too fast.
He had to get out of this bed. He had to get out of this infirmary! The place was miserable. Every bed had a man in it, but few were casualties from the fighting; most had the fever that had swept through the camp. The red fever, they called it, for the color your face turned as you coughed up your guts. Several more had died in the night, their beds lying empty, though Ambrose knew it would only be a short time before another shivering body was laid in the grubby sheets. It was a miracle he hadn’t caught the fever already.
Ambrose swiveled round until both feet were planted firmly on the floor. With the help of a chair back, he could just stand, wincing and wobbling slightly as he put more weight on his left leg. It was weak, but the pain was bearable; he could walk out of here if he tried. The doctors had removed the arrow from his calf and had sewn him up neatly. Most doctors would have amputated for such an injury, but the doctors had operated carefully, given him herbal treatments, liquors, and compresses.
Ambrose had the best doctors—sent by Tzsayn.
He had the best medicine—sent by Tzsayn.
The best food—sent by Tzsayn.
The best clothes and bedding and . . . everything.
Everything except any word from or about Catherine. Was Tzsayn keeping her from him? That had to be the explanation.
“You’re looking well, Sir Ambrose.”
Ambrose had been so caught up in his thoughts that he’d missed seeing Tanya enter the room. He looked to the door, hoping Catherine would appear.
“One of the doctors asked me to give you this. For strength or something.” Tanya held out a bowl of porridge and saw the direction of his gaze. “It’s all I bring. There’s no one else with me.”
Ambrose nodded, trying to hide his disappointment. “It’s good to see you, Tanya.” He reached for the bowl but lost his balance and grabbed the back of the chair to hold himself upright. But this shocked his arm, and he grunted in surprise at the pain. He lowered himself to the side of the bed as casually as he could manage.
Tanya stifled a laugh.
Ambrose glared up at her. “Do you always laugh at the injured?”
She shook her head. “Not always, just when their hair is a strange green color.”
“Oh that. We were infiltrating Farrow’s men,” he started to explain, reaching for his unfamiliarly short locks, but Tanya was merely grinning more. “Anyway, it won’t wash out.”
“You’ll have to dye it a different color; that’s the only way.” She sat next to him on the bed and leaned toward him, her voice lower, “But which will you choose? White for the queen? Or blue for the king?”
“Blue? The old king had purple as his color. Won’t Tzsayn have to change all his blasted clothes and body paint now his father is dead?”
“No, the royal colors alternate with each king. So Tzsayn’s color will remain blue. When he has a son, that son will have purple as his color, just as Tzsayn’s father did. Anyway, I expect you’ll go with white. Or will you go with nothing at all?”
“Can we discuss something other than hair?”
“I wasn’t discussing hair, Sir Ambrose.”
Ambrose eyed Tanya closely. “Did she send you? Why hasn’t she come herself?”
“The queen knows that to be seen with you would be . . . disadvantageous to her position. But she consults with the doctors daily.”
“She sent the doctors? Not Tzsayn?”
“She sends doctors to many of her men—her white-hairs.”
“You sound like a politician.”
“Good. You have to be one round here.”
“And is my mistress a politician too?”
Tanya pursed her lips. “She is. But politics alone won’t win this war. She needs men who can show loyalty and take the fight to the Brigantines—even though they’ve lost much and may lose even more. She needs your support, Sir Ambrose.”
“She will always have it, Tanya. You know that.”
Tanya nodded but didn’t reply.
“Can you tell me more?” asked Ambrose finally. “Is she well? Last