Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

Digby nudges his horse forward, staying to my right, and clearly not going to tell me what that was all about. Looking over, I meet the eye of another guard who comes up to ride on my left. “Why were they looking at me like that?” I ask.

The guard looks at me sheepishly, a blush crawling over his pale cheeks that I can see even beneath his hood. “Well...it’s just that ladies don’t normally sit astride.”

I look down at my legs straddling the horse. “Oh.” I forgot that. I always rode this way before, but I wasn’t worried about propriety then.

Behind me, in one of the carriages holding the other saddles, I hear feminine snickers at my expense. “So she does like to spread her legs after all,” I hear one of them say—Polly. That’s Polly’s voice.

My cheeks heat. “Should I…”

But the guard shakes his head. “You’ll be more secure this way, and it’s better for long distances. Don’t worry about them,” he says, tipping his head at the carriage.

Nodding, I gently tug the right reins while pressing my left leg against Crisp to get him to turn a bit, to get him to move ahead, where I don’t have to hear the saddles’ taunts.

My horse maneuvers us with ease, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I seem to remember what the hell I’m doing. The longer I ride, the more relaxed I become, not even caring if the other saddles have anything more to say.

As we move steadily forward, I bask in the open air, glad to be out of the carriage. The rain, while light, is still cold and wet, but I’m too excited about being out in the open to care.

Crisp moves steadily beneath me, his hair helping to keep my bottom half warm. I’m glad that I’m wearing such thick stockings beneath my dress and that my boots are so well insulated.

Highbell City is pretty at night, though, and that distracts me from the dropping temperature. Most of the buildings are three stories tall, all made of the same gray rock that the mountain is made of.

The streets are cobbled and slightly uneven in places, but I like the sound of the horses’ hooves clomping over them. The street lamps create a flickering path for us along the winding road, and it’s all so picturesque that it brings a smile to my face.

People come out to view us, eyeing the royal procession with avid interest, but I’m careful to keep my hood up so that it covers most of my face and all of my golden hair. Even the saddles in the brothel pop out of the windows, waving topless at the guards and blowing kisses as we go.

The guard to my left clears his throat and snaps his head forward when one of the women purrs out a rather generous offer to him. I don’t blame them. He’s handsome, with an open, friendly face. The sort of face that probably always looks kind, even when he’s angry. He has ashy blond hair and deep sea blue eyes, a patchy line of hair across his jaw that tells me he can’t quite grow in a full beard.

“What’s your name?”

He looks over at me, and I notice how young he looks. Maybe only twenty years or so. “My name’s Sail, miss.”

“Well, Sail, you seem to be popular with the ladies,” I note, nodding to the saddles hanging out the windows who are still beckoning to him more than any other.

That pink hue on his cheeks deepens, and it’s not from the brisk air. “My mum would wallop me if I ever disrespected a woman enough to force her to sleep with me for a few coins.”

I decide I like Sail right then and there.

“You know, some could argue that it’s one of the few jobs we women can have to earn a decent wage and manage to stay independent,” I tell him.

Sail blanches, like he just realized what he’d said—just remembered who I am. “I didn’t—I...I didn’t mean to imply that being a saddle isn’t respectable. I’m sure plenty of saddles are respectable. Or, I mean, I just—”

“Relax,” I say, cutting through his stuttering. His eyes nervously look back at the royal saddles’ carriages, as if they might be listening in. “So long as you don’t look down on saddles, I have no issue.”

“Of course not,” he insists. “The saddles in this city are probably tougher than the whole of the army, for all they have to put up with.”

I eye some of the sneering people on the streets who are openly staring up at the brothel, their faces not filled with lust, but with violent, carnal hunger and bitter jealousy. I nod slowly before I can look away. “On that, we can agree.”

Chapter Seventeen

Word spread quickly about our group passing through the city. Soon, more people start lining the street until they’re five and six people deep, waving and calling to us with excitement, wondering who travels in the group, what important person they might catch a glimpse of. I keep my head down, my gloved hands on the reins, not daring to look up or let my hood fall back.

The guards in front keep the way clear, our procession going even slower as they constantly have to urge people aside to make way for our carriages.

After a while, we turn off the cobbled road, away from the gathered crowd, heading deeper into the heart of Highbell. I sigh a bit when we’re no longer being watched under the scrutiny of dozens of people, my hands relaxing on the reins, but that relief is short-lived.

The further we go, the poorer our surroundings become. Right before my eyes, Highbell goes from a beautiful and pristine city proper into a dismal, back-alley slum.

I eye the change warily, noting that even the noise seems insulated here, not carrying any of the joviality that existed on the main road. Here there’s only the sound of babies crying, men shouting, doors slamming.