Please Die, Your Highness - Chapter 8

Fionechta’s case was better than Rory’s — at least he made an effort to act like a proper knight.

“I come from the far east, from a land called Hon. There, we have no king — instead, the chieftains of each tribe take turns leading.”

“Wait, I think I’ve heard of it before. I must’ve read about it in a book. Isn’t that the place where people mainly eat raw fish?”

“That’s right. At times, we even fight bears over fish.”

It was impossible to tell whether that reply was truthful, sarcastic, or simply a jest. Regardless, Prince Declan burst into cheerful laughter, pleased all the same.

While he alternated between conversing with those two “foreigners,” whom he had mentally classified as a potential risk, Maeve was lying comfortably in the back of the supply wagon, idly watching the scenery outside.

The Prince rarely spoke to her.

A country bumpkin who knows no manners.

That single, shallow definition seemed enough for him to judge her.

Thanks to that, Maeve — unlike Fionechta or Rory — was spared the Prince’s incessant questioning and could enjoy the journey in peace.

Above her stretched a clear autumn sky. A cool autumn breeze occasionally blew by, yet the warm sunlight made the weather pleasant.

The group had left Lutea behind and was now traveling through low mountains — more of a wooded hill with gentle slopes than steep terrain. Before long, they stopped at a suitable spot to have a simple meal before dinner.

Maeve’s sweet moment of rest quickly came to an end. Since the meal was a light one, there was no need to build a fire.

From the food compartment in the supply wagon, Maeve took out the remaining bread pieces, slices of dried fruit cake, and strips of dried jerky, distributing them to everyone.

Soft white bread, dried fruit cake, and jerky were handed to the Prince and Craig. The rest shared a few pieces of jerky and coarse rye bread among themselves.

“Sir Fionechta, come now. Sing us that song from your homeland. It will make this humble meal far more delightful. Go on!”

Even while eating, the Prince maintained his cheerful mood, coaxing Fionechta to sing a verse.

Rory, chewing on a piece of rye bread beside him, caught Maeve’s eyes and curled his lips in a subtle grin, as if to say, This is our little secret.

Maeve ignored him, fetched a water pouch, and distributed drinking water to everyone.

“Thank you, as always. You’re so diligent, Maeve.”

The Prince acknowledged her as he received the pouch from her hands.

Maeve simply bowed her head once, then walked straight over to Colm, who was eating bread beside the horses.

Prince Declan watched her back — that of a maid so quiet he wondered if she even spoke ten words in a day.

The knot of her apron was tied haphazardly, with the ends sticking out in all directions, and the long strings dangled almost down to her shins.

Her unruly red curls, tied up now and then, always came loose within two hours, drooping wearily over her shoulders once more.

“Does the meal suit your taste?”

Craig, seated beside him, struck up a conversation.

Prince Declan replied half-heartedly as he watched the red-haired maid hand a bucket of water to the gaunt coachman and then tear her share of bread into small pieces to feed the donkey.

“It’s the same as always. But really, when will that cake finally run out? I think I’ve eaten a lifetime’s worth of fruitcake since coming here.”

As soon as the others’ attention drifted away, Craig, well-accustomed to the Prince’s complaints about food, soothed him calmly.

“It will be gone soon enough. When that happens, even if you wish to have more, there won’t be any left.”

“Oh, really? So I’m being childish again, am I?”

“Not at all, Your Highness.”

“Craig, you’re terrible at lying. Almost as bad as I am.”

Declan scoffed lightly as he spoke. The Prince might have been innocent, but he was far from dull.

He stared at the donkey as it playfully tugged on the maid’s apron with its teeth.

“…She said she’d keep me company in conversation, didn’t she?”

Craig glanced nervously toward Maeve, following the Prince’s gaze.

“Ah, it seems she’s just a little shy. But the animals seem to take quite a liking to her.”

“Yes, she’s exactly like some country girl. Was she raised on a ranch or something?”

Craig, scrambling now to mend the falsehood he had spun earlier, hastily replied,

“Of course not. She served the rural nobility.”

Rather than pointing out Craig’s endless lying, Declan picked up a piece of white bread and tore it apart. The soft loaf came apart neatly along its grain.

It was the last piece of white bread left.