The Princess Spy Read online

  Praise and awards for Melanie Dickerson

  The Healer’s Apprentice

  “Alternating between the two protagonists’ viewpoints, the plot unfolds at a satisfying clip with zesty supporting characters (the healer, the duke’s younger son), which add intrigue.”

  — Publisher’s Weekly

  “In her debut, Dickerson spins a magical tale . . . Laced with plenty of romance, action, faith and fantasy, it’s a perfectly romantic and well-told tale.”

  — Romantic Times

  The Merchant’s Daughter

  “A virtuous romance with characters who fall in love with each other’s inner beauty in spite of outward appearance.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

  “True, readers will peg the happy ending at the start, but the progression of Annabel’s honorable love affair will have the rapt attention of Christian-fiction fans.”

  — Booklist

  The Fairest Beauty

  “This well-crafted retelling of the Snow White story leaves out magic and potions, substituting instead human emotions, faults and strengths, and romance in the post-medieval setting.”

  — Booklist

  “Solid storytelling, cleverly woven references to the folktale, and historical detail combine in a novel that is a likely popular choice for girls in search of gentle romance.”

  — Booklist

  The Captive Maiden

  “Without magic dust or musical interludes, Dickerson delivers a wonderful spin on ‘Cinderella’ that is full of engaging, thoughtful characters amid lively medieval pageantry.”

  — School Library Journal

  “Expect high romance, melodrama, and Christian inspiration in a vivid medieval setting.”

  — Booklist

  Awards

  2014 Christian Retailing’s Best Award YA Fiction: The Fairest Beauty

  2013 National Reader’s Choice Awards (Romance Writers of America) YA Finalist: The Captive Maiden

  2012 Carol Award Winner: The Merchant’s Daughter

  2012 Christy Award Finalist: The Merchant’s Daughter

  2011 National Reader’s Choice Award (Romance Writers of America) Best First Book Winner: The Healer’s Apprentice

  HOLT Medallion Award of Excellence winner: The Healer’s Apprentice

  Other books by Melanie Dickerson

  The Healer’s Apprentice

  The Merchant’s Daughter

  The Fairest Beauty

  The Captive Maiden

  ZONDERVAN

  The Princess Spy

  Copyright © 2014 by Melanie Dickerson

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  ePub Edition © September 2014: ISBN 978-0-310-74575-4

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are paraphrased from The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, California 95409 – 5370. www.booksandsuch.com.

  Cover design and photography: Mike Heath/Magnus Creative

  Interior design and composition: Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions for the Princess Spy

  Prologue

  April 1413, forty miles southwest of Hagenheim

  Colin touched John’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Burning hot.”

  John groaned and looked at him with unfocused, heavy-lidded eyes.

  The sun was low in the sky and the air was getting colder. Colin swept off his red cape and placed it around John’s shoulders while they waited for the horses to finish drinking.

  If only he could find someone who knew about healing herbs, a healer who could help bring down John’s fever.

  After their short rest, John managed to mount his horse and they set out. They had passed Arnsberg almost a day ago, which meant they were yet at least two days from Hagenheim.

  “If we come to a village,” Colin said, “we will find lodging and a healer to tend you.”

  “No, no. I can ride. We should go on.”

  “John, you cannot. You are too ill. We shall catch up to that murderer sooner or later, but you must get well first.”

  John gave him a look but said nothing, his shoulders slumping even lower.

  Colin’s heart twisted painfully inside his chest. John would be back home in England, comfortable and enjoying a warm fire. John had tried to talk him out of his wild scheme, reasoning that it was foolish for Colin to leave his family and his country to go running after the man who had murdered Philippa. But the heinous deed had filled Colin with outraged justice. Philippa had been Colin’s sister’s closest friend and had not deserved such a fate. Nor did his sister deserve to have her own sense of safety shattered in such a way.

  John had pointed out the obvious: What could Colin do — only one man against an earl and all his knights and fighting men? Colin refused to be deterred, and loyal John had come with him. Perhaps he should have listened to John’s wise counsel.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you here.” Colin looked askance at his friend.

  “I came of my own accord.” John’s voice was weak and hoarse as he held the reins in his limp hands. “I’d hardly let you go on such a quest without me.”

  Just then, they heard horses’ hooves pounding behind them, coming closer. Colin grabbed John’s reins and guided both horses toward the side of the road. He glanced over his shoulder. Perhaps ten men were driving hard toward them. They were quite close before Colin realized —

  “Go!”

  They both spurred their horses, but it was too late. The horsemen caught up with them in a matter of seconds. One of them knocked John off his horse, then another jumped from his saddle and caught Colin around the neck. They hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash.

  John. He wouldn’t stand a chance, as sick as he was.

  “Kill the one in the red cloak!” one of the men shouted. “He’s the one we want.”

  No. Colin rolled
over onto his attacker and slammed his fist into his assailant’s nose. Then he grabbed him around the neck. Colin squeezed, pressing his thumbs into the man’s throat until he went limp.

  Colin jumped up and ran, a roar vibrating his chest as it made its way through his clenched teeth.

  Their attackers stood clustered around John, who was lying on the ground.

  John’s eyes stared straight up, glassy and unmoving. He was already dead.

  Colin cried out, drawing their attention to him. He rushed over to his horse, which had miraculously not run away, and yanked his sword from the sheath attached to his saddle bag. As he spun around, a blow connected with his head. He swung the blade in a wide arc, but he was suddenly pummeled from every side. He fought the darkness that was closing in. Then another wall of pain slammed his head and everything went black.

  Colin awoke to his own groaning. He turned to avoid the sunlight as the pain above his right eye raced to the back of his head. He remembered John’s lifeless body lying on the ground, and he fought the urge to retch.

  How many days had it been since John was murdered? Since he himself was beaten and left for dead? Two? Four? Ten? The passage of time blurred, hazy in his confused brain.

  He had to get up. Had to start walking or he would surely die. And he couldn’t die. Justice must be exacted, and if he didn’t do it, Philippa’s killer — and now John’s — would go unpunished.

  Struggling onto his hands and knees in the middle of the leaves by the roadside, he paused a moment to catch his breath. He sat back on his heels, waited for the throbbing to lessen, then managed to rise to his feet.

  His head was spinning like a bug on its back. His stomach gnawed at him in a way that signified he had not eaten for days, and the pain in his throat was nearly unbearable. When was the last time he had drunk any water? He’d started following this road, trying to reach Hagenheim to find someone who could understand him and help him. How long had he been unconscious on the side of the road? He might have been lying there a few minutes, hours, or days; he didn’t know.

  “God, how low can I sink?”

  He knew the answer to that question. Death. And it was imminent. He could feel it hounding him, pushing him to keep moving.

  “Forgive me, John.” No one was around to hear. His mouth was as dry as the dusty road, and his voice was so weak it angered him. John, dying in a foreign country where he didn’t even speak the language, while that fiend, that son of hell, was free to wreak more havoc.

  God, let it not be so.

  Colin never should have let John come with him. It was his fault John was dead.

  Forgive me, God, for not keeping him safe.

  His legs were as heavy as boulders, but he forced his feet to move forward. His temples pounded with every beat of his heart. He kept his eyes open a slit to try not to trip or veer off the road.

  He was lying facedown on the ground. He didn’t remember falling. How long had he been unconscious? He didn’t have the strength to lift his head. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. How easy it would be to simply lie here and never wake up.

  God, if you want me to live, I will live. If not . . . so be it. I surrender to you.

  Peace washed over him. He closed his eyes. Just as he was drifting into unconsciousness, he heard the creaking of a cart drawing closer, and men’s voices. But he saw nothing but darkness.

  Chapter

  1

  April, 1413, Hagenheim Castle

  Margaretha sat in the Great Hall listening to her newest suitor, Rowland Fortescue, Earl of Claybrook, who had cornered her after the midday meal.

  Perhaps it was unkind of her to use the word “cornered.” He was her suitor, after all, and she should be pleased that he wanted to talk to her. Some of her other suitors had barely said two words to her, but this man seemed to enjoy talking to her — in very fluent German for an Englishman, but his mother was from the German regions of the Holy Roman Empire.

  Everyone, especially her brothers, accused Margaretha of talking too much, but Lord Claybrook often left her speechless. Could that be a good thing?

  This morning, Lord Claybrook had been telling her of his prowess as a hunter, both with his falcons and his oh-so-remarkable hounds, a subject so boring that it wasn’t her fault if she was distracted by his hat.

  Truly, it was an astonishing hat. But then, all of his hats were astonishing. Every day since he had come to Hagenheim Castle, Margaretha had found herself staring at the man’s hat.

  Today’s hat consisted of a gray fur band as wide as her hand and padded to make it twice as fat as his head, with a large jewel inset in the front, and folds of red cloth protruding from inside, draped over his right temple like the coxcomb of a rooster. A piece of matching cloth hung from the other side of the hat, reaching to his left knee.

  While his hat’s liripipe was ridiculously long, his tunic was scandalously short. He wore only tight hose underneath, so she was careful not to let her eyes stray too low.

  But she must make allowances for him. He was a foreigner, after all. Perhaps everyone in England dressed that way.

  Lord Claybrook described his favorite hunting dog, explaining how the animal had tracked a deer for three days while he and his guests had followed close behind. As he paced the room, his tunic, trimmed in fur at the cuff s of his sleeves, shimmered, as it was embroidered all over with an elaborate design of curly leaves done in shiny gold thread. She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to agree with her brothers — the man was overdressed even for an earl. Her oldest brother, Valten, was an earl, and he never dressed so elaborately. For that matter, her father was a duke and rarely wore velvet and silk except on special occasions.

  But perhaps Lord Claybrook was only trying to make a good impression on her. After all, he had been very courteous to her, never complaining that she talked too much. Was he her perfect match?

  Margaretha was good at choosing other people’s perfect match. A few weeks ago she had noticed her maidservant, Britta, and one of the guards, Gustaf, eyeing each other. Margaretha inquired about the guard, discovering that Gustaf used his wages to help his sickly mother and two sisters. So Margaretha managed to arrange for the guard to accompany her, her sisters, and Britta on a picnic. Margaretha and her sisters went to pick flowers, leaving Britta and Gustaf alone together to guard the food. Later, she sent the two of them to pick apples. Soon her matchmaking was rewarded with seeing them smiling at each other and talking quietly.

  Lord Claybrook seemed kind, and he wouldn’t force her to go back to England with him. He had said he wanted to stay within the Holy Roman Empire, as he would inherit the nearby estate of his uncle, the Earl of Keiterhafen. If she married Lord Claybrook, she could stay close to her family.

  As a duke’s daughter, it was her duty to marry as advantageously as possible. How spoiled she would seem if she ignored her parents’ wishes by refusing to accept a suitor who would advance their family’s holdings and bring about peace and harmony to the people whose lives depended upon it.

  She had already delayed the process so long, her younger sister was now of age to marry. It didn’t seem too much to ask, however, that she be allowed enough time to get to know him. She must first believe she could love him and that he loved her. But if she could not find a good reason not to accept Lord Claybrook, he seemed her best choice.

  Lord Claybrook, she realized with a guilty feeling, had stopped talking and was staring at her with a look of frustration on his face. Oh dear. She had insulted him by not listening to his long diatribe on hunting.

  “Forgive me, Lord Claybrook. My mind wandered. What were you saying?”

  “I was telling you about my hunting dogs. I thought you were interested in learning about me, Lady Margaretha. But I shall not bore you any longer.”

  “Oh no! You mustn’t think — ” That she wasn’t interested in his hunting exploits? She couldn’t lie. “I was rude, and I hope you will forgive me. I do want to learn more about you. Most people
complain that I talk too much, and I didn’t want to annoy you with too much chatter.” She smiled, hoping to return him to a good humor.

  Lord Claybrook smiled back and reached out a hand to her. Straight white teeth shone among his good-looking features — hard-planed chin and cheekbones, a prominent brow, and dark brown eyes that were perfectly spaced. Her maids all told her he was her most handsome suitor yet.

  Margaretha allowed him to take her hand, and he raised it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “You are much too beautiful to off end, Lady Margaretha. Of course, I must not expect a gentle lady to be interested in hunting. Although many ladies do go out hunting with their men. But your delicate nature becomes you.” Still holding her hand, he bent to kiss it again.

  Perhaps she should be moved, at least a little, by his gesture, but it didn’t make her heart flutter in the least, the way Britta said hers did when Gustaf smiled at her. But perhaps it wasn’t Margaretha’s way to be moved to flutterings of the heart by a man’s smile or kiss. Her mother said love grew out of mutual respect and friendship. So far, Lord Claybrook hadn’t given her any reason to not respect him. Unless she considered his irrational choices in clothing.

  Just then her father, Duke Wilhelm, and her eldest brother, Lord Valten, came into the Great Hall wearing leather tunics, leather breeches, and shoulder capes — their usual riding attire.

  “Shall we hunt?” Lord Claybrook asked them, an eager glint in his eyes.

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” her father answered him. “I shall ask my falconer and the dogs’ handler to be ready in the morning. For now, I thought we could take a ride around the town.”

  “It would be my pleasure, your Grace. Do I have time to change my hat?”

  “Of course,” her father said, as a flicker of amusement crossed his face. Her brother Valten’s expression, on the other hand, was openly scornful.

  Lord Claybrook made an elegant bow to his host and then turned to Margaretha. “Will you join us, my lady?”

  “No, I thank you.” She knew her father was still trying to make out the man’s character, and he could do it better without her along. “Enjoy your ride. I will be here when you get back.” She smiled, trying to seem amenable and friendly.