22 August, 1370. St Ivan's Palace, Havietten.
So much for departing at dawn.
The words kept echoing in Celia's mind as the final preparations for their departure moved at a glacial pace. It was already well into mid morning and she was sure their entourage wouldn't be ready to leave for at least another hour.
It wasn't anything like the small, solemn pilgrimage she'd been picturing. No, the whole thing now resembled a goddamn parade. A cavalcade of glittering tackiness and plain bad taste.
The royal couple were to be escorted by a dozen knights in polished armour, who had been left to wait quietly in the palace courtyard, all mounted on identical black stallions. Tobin insisted the knights were there to provide protection.
No point reminding him of when she'd journeyed to Islia the year before, and he'd sent her with only one nobleman and a couple of coachmen to defend her.
