GUILLAME
Guillame hung to the back of the battle, as he always did. Some might mock him as being cowardly, but he intended to survive this war if he could.
For most of Remy’s campaigns, Guillame had stayed back at the castle, essentially ruling Dumonte in Remy’s place, a job that suited Guillame just fine, and one that he found he was good at. But with most of the fiefs of the kingdom off fighting with Remy, it wasn’t a difficult task, anyway. The country mostly ran itself with the fiefs occupied.
This last campaign, however, had not gone nearly as easily as the others. It had stretched on now for two and a half years, and Remy had finally summoned Guillame to the battlefield, hoping that Guillame would have some sort of genius for battle strategy, since he was so good at strategizing otherwise.
But Guillame’s strengths lay with manipulating people’s emotional weaknesses, by knowing their secrets and exploiting them. They didn’t much extend to how to move armies around.
They were fighting against a country called Fonte. The country had not always existed. It was a cobbled-together army of remnants from Lareiss and Allemande, both of which Remy had already conquered. But the king of Lareiss had refused to surrender, and he had staked out a claim here, naming the new country Fonte.
Remy had anchored his entire strategy on the idea that countries would surrender rather than watch their entire countries burn. For the most part, it had worked, but Guillame had never foreseen the existence of another firestarter, one just like Remy, who had walked through living flame and come out on the other side changed.
This man was called Cyrille, and they were not sure where he had come from. It was possible that he had simply survived one of the battles and been mutated by Remy’s flame. But Guillame was not sure that Remy’s power could mutate others. He thought that it must be the flame of Islaigne, either through the royal line or from the explosions in the ground. He knew that there were those that had been changed in Islaigne, not many, but if Remy’s power could mutate, then a larger percentage of those who were burned should survive.
He also said this because he feared that Remy might start burning his men wholesale as an experiment, thinking that killing one hundred men would be worth it if he got one firestarter out of it. Guillame didn’t think this would ingratiate him to the people of Dumonte. Some of them were not pleased with the fact that it had been endless war for the past four years. Many had died, and the pressure for young men to join the musqueteers was stronger than ever. Some people wanted peace. They were weary. Remy didn’t need to do anything to anger the people, and killing his own men? Well, that was a very bad call.
The fight between Dumonte and Fonte was a stalemate, neither of them making any progress. Both armies were surrounded by walls of fire to protect themselves, impeding any chance of surprise attacks. Battles were rare and only happened when one side or the other decided to break camp and try to move past the other army. Then there would be a fire fight and half of each of the armies would burn to death.
Inevitably, it happened this way.
Sometimes, it would seem as if Remy and Cyrille had somehow reached a mutual unspoken agreement that the living flame was only hurting everyone, and the battle would be begun with only musquets and cannons, but whenever one side seemed to be winning, the losing side would pull out a wall of flame, and then it would be mass death.
This battle had just now descended into flames. Guillame was watching as Dumonte soldiers screamed as a wave of fire washed over them.
Was he far enough back that he wouldn’t be burned?
Blazes.
He turned and began to run.
He ran and ran and ran, looking over his shoulder until he was sure that the fire had halted, that it wouldn’t come closer.
He wasn’t the only one who had run. The other half of the army had taken off as well, running from the battle.
Guillame could see Remy coming through the flame, fist raised above his head. Though he was too far away to hear, he knew Remy was cursing his men for retreating without an order to do so, but the damage was done now.
In the distance, Guillame could see that the Fonte troops had run from Remy’s flame as well. They were scattered, running for their lives, just the same as these men.
Guillame sighed.
This couldn’t go on.
He was going to have to speak to Remy and make him see reason. Guillame hadn’t attempted it thus far, because he didn’t relish the idea of trying to make the other man change his mind about something he was so focused on as to be obsessed.
In all likelihood, he wouldn’t succeed in convincing him.
There were limits to Guillame’s skills. He might have been able to convince Remy to put Guillame’s son in the line of succession, but to convince Remy to retreat? How he could he possibly do that?
He mused over it as the battle waned and the men set up a new camp, more or less in the same spot as the old camp, which was typical. No land was ever gained. They had been more or less here for the past two and a half years.
Remy put up the protective circle of flame around the camp and then stalked back toward his tent.
Guillame used this opportunity to approach him. He fell into step next to the king, who only acknowledged him with a grunt.
“I wonder, Your Highness, if I might have a word?” said Guillame.
“Have you had any ideas?” said Remy.
“Perhaps,” said Guillame.
“It’s about time,” said Remy. “I summoned you here a month ago, and you’ve done nothing but watch.” He pointed to his tent. “Let’s go in and have a drink. You need to tell me how to win this war.”
Oh, wonderful. No pressure, then.
Remy’s tent was large, with an outer area set up with a map on a table and little pieces meant to represent soldiers in the army. There was a separate area for sleeping. It was obvious which tent was the king’s, but then Remy didn’t care about that because he was always inside a protective circle of flame. He did not think anyone could get in and attack him.
Guillame had pointed out the Cyrille could penetrate their defenses, but Remy had scoffed at that, saying that Cyrille would not come on his own.
And it was true that Cyrille lived a cushy lifestyle, fawned over by the king of Fonte—once the king of Lareiss—and that he had grown rather fat in the past two years. He would likely not waddle into the encampment.
Remy set out two glasses on the table where the map was spread out and poured whiskey into both himself.
Guillame should have been flattered that the king was serving him, but he was not impressed with such things.
Remy handed him the glass. “Well?”
Guillame took a sip of whiskey. “Have you heard what they say about the definition of madness, my king?”
“Let’s just cut to it, shall we? What’s your strategy?”
“That it’s doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results,” said Guillame.
“Yes, well, that is why I asked you here. So that I could do something different. What should I do?”
“Retreat,” said Guillame.
Remy blinked at him.
“Hear me out,” said Guillame. “It seems to me that your problem is Cyrille. If he were eliminated, then you could sail in and defeat Fonte in days.”
“But Cyrille is well guarded, and he is powerful. He would burn alive anyone who came for him.”
“Yes, but that is because we are fighting. If you retreat, and you go back home, and you leave Fonte alone, eventually, Cyrille will no longer be useful to the king here. He will not guard him as closely, and Cyrille will let down his own guard, lured into a sense of security. At that point, we send in assassins.”
Remy took a drink of whiskey. “This strategy you’re talking of, this would likely take years.”
“Perhaps a year,” said Guillame. “It could be that quickly.”
“A year is not quick.”
“We have be
en fighting in this exact spot for nearly three years.”
Remy sighed.
“I know it’s not what you want to hear,” said Guillame. “But it would be good for the people too. Dumonte needs a break in the fighting. It’s been constant practically since you took the throne. You rule everything in the known world except this spot.”
“And Islaigne,” said Remy darkly.
“Well, no one thinks of Islaigne,” said Guillame.
Remy pursed his lips.
“I am only saying that you have accomplished a great deal, and you should be proud of what you have done. You could take a bit of time to celebrate and rest on your laurels. Enjoy the fruits of your labor. Then, when we return to the fight, you and your army will be refreshed, and Cyrille will be gone. The victory may be delayed, but you can be patient, can you not?”
“Oh, shut up, Guillame, I don’t need to listen to your silver tongue trying to convince me.”
Guillame drank some of his whiskey.
“I don’t like it,” said Remy. “But then, you knew I wouldn’t.”
Guillame shrugged.
“What I don’t understand is why he still has men,” said Remy. “I control all the musqueteers. I thought that eventually I would burn through his army and there would be nothing left, and I would win that way. But more men appear. Where are they coming from?”
Guillame didn’t say anything.
“It’s because people want to oppose me,” said Remy. “They see me as a tyrant. It’s Patriarch Mantua all over again, just as I said. I shall be executed. Likely by you, so that you can put your brat on the throne and rule as regent.”
“Remy—”
“I’ll have you know than in the event of my untimely death, I will not sanction either you or Coralie to rule, so don’t think to knock me out of the way early.”
“I have had many chances to kill you,” said Guillame. “Believe me, if I was going to do it, I would have done it already.”
“Yes, well that excuse of your little crush on me is not remotely reassuring anymore,” said Remy.
“I don’t have a crush on you.” Guillame’s voice was ice.
“Yes, exactly,” said Remy. “And so you will kill me. This plan of yours, the retreat, it’s all part of it. I’ll get back home, and you’ll have me poisoned.”
“You have four tasters,” said Guillame. “Your paranoia—”
But he broke off because Remy suddenly closed the distance between them and snatched Guillame by the chin. He pressed his mouth against the other man’s, and Guillame felt it go through him like a jolt.
Remy pulled away.
Guillame was having trouble catching his breath.
“Pity,” muttered Remy.
“Your Majesty?” Guillame managed.
“I could probably secure your loyalty that way if I had even an iota of attraction towards men, but alas, I do not.”
Guillame couldn’t pull himself together enough to utter a response.
Remy gulped the rest of his whiskey. “Well, whatever we’re doing now isn’t working.”
“I want you to know that I’m not trying to kill you. I would never try to kill you.” Guillame’s voice was quiet, his fingers at his lips. Had that really just happened?
“I’ll think about your strategy, all right?” said Remy. “Maybe retreat is our only path to victory after all.”
Guillame swallowed.
“You’re dismissed, Dubois,” said Remy boredly. He turned his back on the other man.
Guillame finished his whiskey before he left the tent. His hands were shaking.
* * *
The following morning, the army was packing up their tents, and Guillame wondered if there was going to be another attack, even though it seemed awfully premature.
No, Remy must have decided to retreat, taking his advice.
But in typical form, the king had not informed Guillame of this.
Guillame decided not to seek him out. He didn’t want to look at him. The kiss… well, Guillame was not so stupid as to think it meant anything, but it had affected him far more than he liked. Probably because he’d been celibate for years. He had decided it was the best course of action. He was the king’s counselor, and anyone that he was intimate with would likely flap their lips. Guillame didn’t need those sorts of rumors spreading through the kingdom, especially since he typically preferred men.
He told himself that if a woman caught his fancy, he’d indulge. Blazes, if she was a noblewoman, daughter of some fief, maybe he’d marry her.
But none did. He had a tendency to compare women to Fleur for whatever reason, and no one compared to her. He thought of her sometimes. He wondered how she was getting on, if everything in Islaigne was as she’d dreamed. She’d gotten everything she’d ever wanted in the end, hadn’t she?
His anger toward Fleur had faded in the ensuing years. That was the way of anger, he supposed. But even so, he couldn’t regret any of his choices. If he’d stayed with her, Coralie might have actually drowned herself, and he’d never have had the chance to know his son.
Yes, in the end, he was happy with where he’d ended up. Overall, things were good.
But he might have to revisit his policy of celibacy. That ridiculous kiss, it had ruffled him far too much.
Guillame had no real designs on Remy. Now that he had been close to the man for years on end, he couldn’t imagine truly being in any sort of relationship with him. Having physical contact would not make Remy any less frustrating. Guillame’s primary emotion towards Remy was annoyance more often than not.
So, it was just fine that the king wasn’t interested in men, and Guillame didn’t feel any pang at the thought of being with Remy.
No, it was a sort of backhanded effect, reaching back to the man he’d once been, the attraction he’d had in the past, the strange connection that had once been there between him and Fleur and Remy.
It was all very uncomfortable.
He didn’t wish to think of it.
So, he avoided Remy for the entire journey back to Dumonte, which took nearly a month. It might have gone more quickly with a smaller group of people, but transporting an entire army was slow going.
Remy didn’t seek Guillame out either.
They never spoke of his capitulation to Guillame’s plans. It was obvious they were retreating, however. What more was there to say?
Guillame had a dream one night that the Fonte army was pursuing them and he woke gasping, his heart pounding out of his rib cage. As he calmed his breathing, he reminded himself that the Fonte contingent was likely in worse shape than Remy.
Dumonte was the country that provided most of the crops for everyone. The interior countries had little access to water to grow crops. They relied on trade with Dumonte to eat.
So, from what Guillame understood, Fonte was relying on a diet almost entirely of meat. They were trying to domesticate wild oxen herds that roamed the interior with varying amounts of success. They were surviving, but they must be craving vegetables and fruits and all the produce that Dumonte could give them.
Maybe they’d surrender just for food?
No, if that was the case, they would have done it already.
Anyway, they weren’t going to attack. They didn’t want to take from Remy, but only to defend what they had.
Finally, the army returned home.
Guillame had only been gone for four months, but Remy hadn’t returned to his castle in years, spending all his time on the battlefield. He had met Beau, Guillame’s son, Remy’s heir, once, when Beau was only two years old. Of course the boy didn’t remember it.
When Coralie and Beau met Remy and Guillame at gates to the castle, Guillame could see the way his son’s eyes followed Remy, the interest there, the worship.
And Remy didn’t even acknowledge him.
He barely acknowledged Coralie, only speaking to her to say there was no need for this sort of welcome. “We are failures, after all. We come home in disgrace.
” Then he swept past the welcoming contingent without a backwards glance.
Guillame saw Beau’s face fall.
He felt the boy’s pain as if it was his own.
Why hadn’t he thought of this when he’d set this whole debacle up? He’d been stupid back then, stupid in certain ways. Now, if he were going to make the same choice, he wouldn’t necessarily want to make his son the doffine.
It was a burden as much as a blessing. It put Beau in danger, and it made him isolated. There were many things he would have been spared if he hadn’t been thrust into this position.
But there was no taking it back now.
Beau had been raised the doffine. Losing that position would be devastating as well.
Guillame approached his small son. He reached down to ruffle the boy’s hair. “You haven’t forgotten me, then, have you?”
Beau beamed up at him, his expression answer enough.
Guillame winked at him. What he wanted to do was to catch the little boy up in his arms, tickle him until he screamed with laughter, cover his cheeks in kisses.
But people were watching, and such things could not be done in public. He could not be overly familiar with the doffine, though he had created legitimate reasons for his spending time with Beau, taking on the role of a teacher to the doffine. He was to give Beau lessons in running a kingdom, even though the boy was only four years old. In this way, he managed to have hours with the little boy every day.
Some teaching occurred. But the rest of it was just companionship, being with Beau, who was his favorite person in the world.
Later, before dinner, he contrived to get himself to Beau’s quarters before the little boy went to bed. He didn’t do this often. It was too familiar of him, of course. But sometimes he couldn’t help himself.
Beau was already in his nightclothes, and he brightened when Guillame appeared.
Guillame sat down and pulled Beau onto his lap. “So, what have you been doing while I have been gone, hmm? Tell me everything.”
“Nothing,” said Beau.
“What? A whole four months and nothing has occurred? Nothing at all?”
“I did catch some lizards in the courtyard,” said Beau. “I wanted to have them live in jars in my room, but Nursey said that they would die if I did that, and I’d best leave them to live outside where they belong.”
Throne Shaker (The Clash and the Heat Book 3) Page 14
