Please Die, Your Highness - Chapter 9

Has it been a week since they set out?

In any case, they were still deep in the mountains.

“My shoes! Where are my shoes!”

Craig’s angry shout came from the direction of the carriage. As usual, he had been talking with the Prince inside before coming out.

Maeve silently wrung the water out of her damp clothes and glanced toward Rory, who let out a conspicuous whistle.

“I said, where the hell are my shoes, you bastards!”

Being the Prince’s attendant—and surely of a noble family fitting that role—Craig was beginning to show the limits of his patience. The constant meager meals—by his standards, at least—and sleeping outdoors had steadily worn him down. On top of that, he had to serve the Prince closely, which made him seem like a man perpetually on the verge of snapping.

And Rory, for fun, liked to provoke that temper just to amuse himself.

Craig now hurled insults openly at the group, and at times, unable to control his anger, he would single out some unlucky soul, accuse them of something ridiculous, and bark at them to fix it immediately.

Of course, the hired servants didn’t meekly comply with his unreasonable demands. Each time, Craig’s face would flush nearly purple as he screamed that they were all ill-mannered wretches.

“Where did you hide my shoes?”

Maeve, watching Craig grab the hapless coachman Colm like he was wringing out a rat, turned to Rory and asked.

Rory, walking beside her with an unbothered look, calmly pulled a pair of leather shoes from inside his coat.

“Pretty good leather. How much do you think we’d get if we sold them?”

Colm, still caught by the collar and nearly in tears, stammered weakly, insisting on his innocence.

The road was a muddy mess after last night’s rain. Craig, following Colm into the muck, slipped and fell face-first.

“You damned bastards! Once we’re back—! I’ll make sure every last one of you pays for this!”

Covered in mud like a living cake, Craig shouted in a venomous voice, while Rory, walking beside Maeve, burst into laughter, clearly finding it delightful. Maeve, expressionless, turned away to look for a spot to hang the laundry.

And then, she met the Prince’s gaze.

Prince Declan had lowered the carriage window and was resting his chin on his hand, watching them intently.

“I’m glad everyone’s getting along, but this is going too far. Return his shoes and apologize, Sir Rory.”

Hearing the Prince’s words, Craig rushed over and tried to grab Rory by the collar. Rory clicked his tongue in annoyance, sidestepped him easily, and pulled the shoes from his coat, tossing them over.

“You think this ends here? Apologize to me!”

“I’m sorry.”

Rory muttered the words with an utterly insincere face, as if forced. Maeve was beginning to feel secondhand embarrassment from the childish, uncomfortable scene and wanted to step away.

“You’ve got your apology, Craig. Now keep your shoes in your bag next time.”

“But, Your Highness…!”

“That’s enough. Don’t waste more energy on this, all right?”

When Craig persisted, the Prince frowned, his tone sharp as he cut the matter short.

It was quite unexpected. Maeve had thought the Prince would seize the chance to tease both Craig and Rory for fun—just as he had the day before.

When Craig let out a strained groan and finally closed his mouth, the Prince withdrew his head, which had been leaning out the window.

Maeve kept her gaze fixed on the window, now covered by a lowered curtain.

Only when Rory began grumbling and talking to her did she finally turn away to go back to what she had been doing.

They could still replenish their drinking water now and then, but food was another matter. The wheat bread, dried meat, and the terribly sweet fruitcake they had brought from the castle had at last run out.

Around that time, the group arrived at a small village. In truth, it was hardly enough to be called a village—more like a tiny settlement. There were only three farmhouses in total, and two of them were empty.

An elderly couple were the only residents of that little village. After listening to Fionechta’s explanation, they gladly offered them a place to sleep and a warm dinner. Having camped outdoors ever since crossing the border, the kindness was a welcome relief. Even Craig, for once unable to hide his joy, accepted their hospitality with a face pretending reluctance.

Prince Declan, with the same graceful smile he had worn on the first day, shook the couple’s hands and thanked them for their generosity. Only then did the couple realize that their guests were far more distinguished than they had imagined, leaving them at a loss for how to behave.

Of course, the Prince did not reveal his rank or origin. But his attire, his refined stride and posture, and his eloquent manner of speech—all unmistakably attested to his noble status.

Perhaps because of that, dinner was almost overly abundant. Even considering it was harvest season, it was clear the couple had gone to great effort. A hearty stew with meat, a large loaf of rye bread, and even a tart grape wine made for quite a luxurious spread.

The satisfying meal instantly softened the uneasy mood that had lingered among the group in the past few days. Craig sipped his wine with a contented expression, and when Rory threw a cheeky remark his way, he merely shot him a glance instead of scolding him. Colm was eating as if he meant to bury his face in the bowl of stew. Fionechta was speaking to the husband, offering to share the remaining venison he had caught.

“Surely, my lord must be someone of great stature—no doubt a prince of some country, at the very least,” the old woman said, chatting amiably with the Prince, unable to take her eyes off his face.

At her words, Declan lifted his shoulders lightly, as though accepting a grand compliment.