by E. D. Walker
Chapter Six
Aliénor held hard to Violette with one hand as the girl thrashed and tried to fight free. The roiling waves of the river trapped them, but the rope around Aliénor’s waist still drew them toward the bank. If only I can get my skirt free of this blasted— Aliénor kicked and kicked again, her eyes stinging, her chest on fire with the need for air. She tugged on her skirt and felt the fabric give. Suddenly their rate of motion increased, and she kicked toward the surface, gripping Violette desperately tight in her arms as King Thomas dragged them back.
When the other shore came into sight, Aliénor made a feeble kick toward safety, but her arms and legs were tired, her body chilled. She and Violette scraped against the other shore, mud sliding down the neck of Aliénor’s gown.
“My lady.” King Thomas splashed toward her, more men following behind, and they dragged her and poor crying Violette higher onto land. Aliénor found she could barely move. Her frozen limbs might as well have been stone for all that they obeyed her. Men brought blankets and threw them around her, even though the rain still beat down upon everyone. The king’s arms slid beneath her knees and shoulders, and she bounced a little as he lifted her high into his arms.
He was as cold as her, his skin clammy and wet, but she leaned against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat pounded fast and steady beneath her ear. “Brave girl,” he muttered as he ran with her up the hill from the riverbank. “Brave, foolish girl.”
“But I am a good swimmer, am I not?”
He sent an incredulous glance down at her face but then burst out laughing the next moment. “You are at that, my lady.” He ducked inside a tent and deposited her into one of the small camp chairs.
“Bed,” she protested, feeling light-headed, her joints aching with cold.
“Your women have to get you out of your wet things first, my lady.”
“Hmm.”
His hands traced her face, smoothing the water away from her cheek, and she was tired enough that she leaned into the touch with a hum of pleasure. His hand was calloused and rough against her skin but gentle for all that.
“Violette? Is she all right?” she murmured.
“She’s been taken to her husband’s tent. She’ll be tended well.”
“Noémi?”
“Here, my lady.” Her handmaiden’s round, kind face swam into focus over Aliénor’s, a heavy bandage wrapped around Noémi’s brow. “We must get you out of these wet things. Thank you, King Thomas.” It was a dismissal, and a rather curt one at that.
Aliénor forced her weary eyes open and caught his hand when he would have left. He turned toward her, but stiff formality had replaced the warmth on his face. Yet when she glanced down he was still barefoot. He had wiry black hairs on his toes. She bit her lip to restrain a giggle and met his gaze again. “Thank you for your help tonight, King Thomas.”
His expression softened, just a little, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
So handsome. Her cheeks warmed, the only part of her body that felt so at that moment, and she dropped his hand.
Noémi stepped forward and blocked Aliénor’s vision so she did not see the king leave. With brisk efficiency, her handmaiden stripped Aliénor’s wet clothes off and bundled her into several warm and wonderfully dry blankets.
“I’ve sent for a healer. You’re scratched and bruised all over.” Noémi began smoothing the discarded garments and straightening the linens on the bed. Her mouth was pinched, her jaw working. “You should not have gone charging off like that, Your Highness.”
Aliénor felt her head drooping with sleep. She tried to nod, to pay attention, but she was so tired…
Noémi’s voice seemed distant and far away as she continued, “Your husband will be very angry when he hears of this.”
Aliénor could only manage a small, sleepy sound of inquiry before her head slumped to her chest with exhaustion, and she fell asleep in the awkward camp chair.
***
“Aliénor.” A male voice, impatient, angry.
She frowned in her sleep and rolled away.
“Aliénor.” Fingers dug into the flesh of her arm, yanking her onto her back.
She startled awake, gasping, heart racing. Philippe’s face swam into view above her. She swallowed, but her frantic heart slowed only a little. “Husband.” She sat up and knuckled sleep from her tired eyes. Someone must have moved her from the chair to the bed last night. The blankets slipped from her chest as she moved, revealing her shift to the chill morning air.
Philippe averted his eyes, a flush staining his cheeks. They’d been married nearly five years, and the sight of her half dressed still flustered him. Offended him. How she wished sometimes that his father had let Philippe become one of the chaste Oracles of Fate as he’d always wanted. Aliénor gathered her blankets around her shoulders as she tucked her feet beneath her to sit upright on the mattress.
“Good morning, Your Highness.” Mistress Helen chirruped from one of the camp chairs.
Aliénor’s hand twitched with fear, and she gathered the blankets more tightly around herself. “Good morning, Mistress Helen. Husband, what brings you here so early?” For he clearly had no wish to exercise his marital rights upon Aliénor’s person.
Philippe paced the tent, back and forth, but he whipped around now, and his eyes blazed with wrath. “How dared you, Aliénor? Throwing yourself in the river, flaunting your legs like a common whore.”
She recoiled, and inadvertently her glance caught on Mistress Helen, who sat smiling and twirling her little knife in the corner. Aliénor wet her lips and weighed her words carefully. “All was in chaos last night, my prince. One of my own ladies fell in. I knew I could help, so I did.”
Philippe gripped his hands into fists of frustration before his face. “That is not your place.” He dropped his hands and raked his gaze over her with disgust. “And to help in such a brazen, unwomanly manner. Better you had died than expose yourself so.”
The breath puffed out of Aliénor in a small, pained gasp. “If that is how you feel, then perhaps we should discuss an annulment again.”
“Never. You are my wife. You belong to me—”
“I do not please you. You tell me I bring shame upon you with every move I make. Why do you want to stay married to me if you believe these things about me?”
“I only want you to behave yourself. I want you to be a wife I can be proud of.”
A wild, tearing flurry of emotions battered away inside Aliénor’s breast—desperation, a frantic fear that tightened her throat with tears. “I will not break myself in half just so I can fit in your shadow, Philippe.”
“You do not even try.” Tears glittered in his eyes and his lips trembled, flecked with spit. His eyelids lowered, and his gaze flicked sideways toward Mistress Helen. “You must try, Aliénor.”
Against her will, Aliénor felt her own gaze drawn to Mistress Helen as if she had a leash around her neck already. The witch met her gaze unflinching and flashed her teeth at Aliénor in a predatory smile. Helen tightened her grip on her knife.
Aliénor scuttled sideways on the bed, ready to scream, to run. But what good would that do? This was Philippe’s army, his camp. She was his wife. Even if she got safely out of the tent, she would not get much farther.
She reached out with shaking hands to clasp Philippe’s sleeve. She kept all her focus on him, bent her will toward him. “Philippe, I will do better. I will. I promise. Send Mistress Helen away. You don’t need her.”
Mistress Helen quirked an eyebrow in patent disbelief.
Aliénor tamped down her own revulsion, swallowed her anger though her stomach clenched and roiled with the effort of it. Meek. Mild. Docile. She softened her voice, her features, leached the steel out of her spine until she felt exactly like the crawling worm Philippe wanted her to be. “I will do as you wish, husband. You don’t need her magic. Philippe,” her voice broke. “Please don’t do this.”
His features were still hard, his eyes cold. Co
ld enough that she shivered. “This is your last chance, wife. You will behave yourself or I will let Mistress Helen have the keeping of you.” He jerked his arm free of Aliénor’s grip and swept out of the tent, the flaps waving a little from the force of his passing.
Mistress Helen followed behind him, a smug smile curling on her lips.
Aliénor waited a moment for them to go, then hurled a pillow at the floor with a choked scream of fury. Her breath was coming so fast that her vision swam. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe more slowly.
How dare he? How dare he threaten her with blood magic and mind control? She threaded her fingers into her hair and pulled, trying to force her mind to work.
I must get free of him. Proper Jerdic women did not leave their husbands, and yet…I had rather be the common strumpet he accused me of being than stay married to one such as him. The thought was chilling, terrifying—
Exhilarating. A life free of Philippe. Free of his expectations, his disappointment, his cloying, adoring love that sought to control her instead of know her.
She was still Duchess of Catarlia in her own right, the title passed down to her from her father. If only she could get herself free of Philippe’s physical hold and back to her island, then she would have allies enough to break free of her marriage too. Enough men would be eager to marry her themselves that they would help her get free. Anyway, once free of her husband, she would never need to marry again.
But how to get free of Philippe?
No way to do it in this wilderness. The noblemen who were loyal to her might help, but what then? A civil war in the army? Jerdic soldiers fighting each other over her?
His men would likely catch her first, and Philippe would immediately put her under Mistress Helen’s control. And if not caught, Aliénor would only lose her way to starve in the desert.
But soon enough they would reach Anutitum, a city controlled by Aliénor’s own cousin, Guillaume. She hadn’t seen him in years, but he had been a charming boy and fond of her when they were children. He was prince in his own city. If she sought her cousin’s protection, Philippe would not be able to reclaim her. She only had to bend herself to Philippe’s will for the next week or so. Just until she could reach her cousin’s city.
Soon. She wrapped the thought tight around herself like a blanket to ward off the chill. Soon.
Chapter Seven
Thomas had been awake all night, helping with the cleanup of the camp, chasing down horses, chasing down bodies of those men who had been washed away. It was dirty, exhausting, disheartening work. He’d finally stolen back to his own tent to clean off some of the clinging muck and to break his fast before he returned to the work. The column would not move again today, and not for some days yet if this disarray continued. He was the closest thing to a leader at the chaos down by the river. Princess Aliénor’s man, Lord Ysen, had been injured when the river was flooding. Still, the man was working through his head injury to salvage what supplies they could from the wreck of the baggage train. The Jerdic prince had yet to show his face.
He probably slept through the whole thing. Or perhaps Philippe felt too much shame that he had allowed his men to camp so close to the river. Many men and horses had drowned last night, and many valuable supplies and tents had been washed away. If only the pompous little fool had listened. Of course, the rain had come on so soon after dinner, there might not have been time anyway to get everyone clear. Nevertheless, if the Jerdic prince had bestirred himself, they might have saved more men.
Thomas shook his head and ducked inside his borrowed tent. No good going over what ifs.
Thomas’s page, Ned, waited for him in his tent, sleeping heavily on the mattress. The room smelled of mildew and damp, and the rugs still squished with water as Thomas strode across them. Yet another reason not to bring all this finery on campaign. Young Ned snored, one hand cupped under his ruddy cheek. Thomas hated to disturb the lad, for he’d been up all night too, running errands about camp. But Llewellyn was off somewhere tending to the wounded, and Thomas needed to speak with his second. He shook the page awake and sent him off to find Llewellyn.
Before Thomas had done more than splash his face with the icy water in his basin, a heavily freckled page dressed in the Jerdic colors entered his tent. “My Lord the Prince begs conference with you, King Thomas.”
Thomas eyed the piled mattresses with longing. “All right. I come.”
***
Prince Philippe was dressed in a simple surcoat and chain mail, just as Thomas was, but the prince’s outfit was spotless, fresh. Only his boots were muddied, and those but little.
Thomas fought not to show his outrage. Had the prince even gone to look at the scene by the riverside? At the deaths that his arrogance and ignorance had wrought? No. Apparently not.
Philippe sat on a simple camp chair, but the effect was spoiled by the billowing silk awning around him, and the small table laden with fruit and drink at his elbow. One of his barons stood to his left, hand on the hilt of his sword. That damned witch stood to the prince’s right, her hand lightly cupped around her dagger’s hilt.
Thomas gave a small nod of greeting. “You wished to see me, Prince Philippe?”
“I did. Please sit, King Thomas.”
The baron leapt to set a second camp chair in the shade under the awning. Thomas sat, leaning back to survey the prince—and to keep that damned witch well in his sight. Thomas had thought this an informal meeting to discuss the fallout from the flooding. If he had known that he came to a formal audience, he would have waited at least for Llewellyn. Thomas might also have paused to change his garb to something fresher. Llewellyn would probably scold him for this oversight later.
Philippe leaned forward, his voice low and confiding. “First, I wanted to apologize for the behavior of my wife. I hope you were not overly offended.”
Thomas frowned. “I am not sure what you mean. She has been nothing but courtesy and kindness. Her bravery last night was remarkable. She’s a credit to you, lad—your lordship.” Thomas bit hard on his tongue and cursed himself. This arrogant pup couldn’t be more than twenty, half Thomas’s age. Nevertheless, Philippe clearly expected Thomas to treat with him as if they were equal in knowledge and experience. Thomas had to play along and swallow that insolence or let Philippe turn the Lyondi knights out to starve. Or worse. Philippe, after all, still had an army at his beck and call.
Philippe’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed Thomas, but he seemed content to let the matter of the princess drop. He pressed his palms together, resting the points of his fingers under his chin in a pose of grave thought. “I asked you here because I want to offer you a formal alliance. You have lost the better part of your army. I will pledge my men to your cause if you will pledge yours to mine.”
Hell. Thomas worked his mouth, his mind furiously turning over. Dammit, I should have waited for Llewellyn. Thomas was a soldier. He had no head for diplomacy.
At last, when inspiration did not strike, Thomas spread his empty hands. “I cannot, Prince Philippe.” He wet his lips, knowing he should say no more, but the heavy guilt in his gut made his tongue unwise. “In fact, I advise you to turn back before the mountains. Or go the long way round the mountains and head home at the next port.”
Philippe blinked for a moment in shock. “What can you mean, King Thomas?”
“I lost many men because I was too arrogant to admit I was out of my depth. The Tiochene raiders have more spell-casters than you can imagine and better knowledge of this terrain.” Thomas fisted one hand against his thigh, remembered screams echoing hollowly in his ears. “We did not know what we were doing when we came here. What we would face. We are not prepared.”
Philippe’s lip curled with a contempt he did not even try to hide. “Perhaps you were not prepared. You'll notice I still have my army.”
Thomas tensed his hands on his thighs to keep from throttling the arrogant little whelp. “Have you met any of the local Tiochene raiders in battle y
et?”
“Not…as yet.”
“Then we do not know how your army may fare, do we? As yet.”
A great clatter sounded behind, and Thomas half glanced over his shoulder to see Llewellyn dash up, huffing and puffing, his sunburned cheeks even more flushed with exertion. Llewellyn tossed an exasperated glare at Thomas and came to stand behind his shoulder.
Philippe waved his hand as if to wipe away Thomas’s warnings and raised his chin. “You will not join with me then, King Thomas?”
Llewellyn made a small sound of shock. Thomas did not glance back, and he did not bother to soften his answer or prevaricate. “No, I will not commit my men to any further military campaigns in this thrice-damned wilderness.”
A tart sneer twisted the young prince’s lips. “But you will travel with us. Use our medical supplies. Eat our food. Leer at our women.”
Thomas pushed to his feet, towering so that the prince had to crane his head back. “Have I given offense, Prince? It was not my intent.”
Philippe belatedly clattered to his feet too. The camp chair fell over behind him as he stood toe-to-toe with Thomas. Thomas was rather pettily pleased to see that he stood a full head higher than Prince Philippe.
Philippe’s eyelids flickered, assessing his chances, glancing behind to Llewellyn, who stood now at the king’s shoulder, hand oh-so-casually resting on his sword hilt. Philippe retreated and lifted his hands with a small tossing gesture. “No. All is peace between us.” His lips twisted with distaste, and he half turned his shoulder, apparently ready for this interview to be at an end.
Thomas was happy to oblige and yet—he stepped close to the prince one last time and lowered his voice. “Your wife is a fine woman. Beyond reproach. You do wrong even to think such things about her.”
“Perhaps less is expected of women in Lyond,” Philippe scoffed.
“Or perhaps Jerdic men should learn to trust their women better.”
“My king?” Llewellyn stepped forward, all but thrusting his body between Thomas and the prince. “You wanted to meet with the baron before the sun was too high.”
