A Royal Marriage

by Rachelle Mccalla

  The waves of men parted and John made his way back to her side. “A tournament would provide needed incentive for the men to train. Would the emperor’s daughter agree to crown the winner?”

  Gisela beamed. “I would be honored.”

  * * *

  The plans came together with surprising speed. By that evening the word had spread among John’s men, not just at Castlehead, but as far as the walled city of Sardis. Nearly everyone was enthusiastic about entering the contest and lent their support making preparations. They carved out five sparring pistes in the main courtyard and another two in each of the side yards, for a total of nine. Given the number of entrants, it would take several rounds just to work through the first level of elimination, but once the less-skilled swordsmen had been eliminated, they’d move through the leaderboard quickly.

  For that reason, Gisela felt no compunction scheduling the first rounds for Friday at sunrise. Even if they fought straight through with no breaks between rounds, the tournament might last until sundown. Torches had been prepared to light the center piste, if necessary, so that the champion fight could be held even if the sun set first. And though some claimed they’d watch only as long as their favored combatant remained in the running, Gisela fully expected they’d find themselves caught up in the action, and doubted many would leave before the final victor was crowned.

  Indeed, she’d prepared to host a crowd. Bleachers were built and the castle cooks prepared a menu of stick-speared foods the fans could eat while watching the games. She’d had some trouble convincing King John’s naysaying courtiers, Eliab and Urias, to dispatch men to dig latrines alongside the field where the spectators would be allowed to camp. Though the gentlemen had scoffed at her concerns, she’d finally won the argument when she’d told them to choose between preparing beforehand or cleaning up afterward.

  They’d put a crew on the job within the hour.

  Eliab’s and Urias’s protests aside, the majority of King John’s household hastened to fulfill her every request. As the project progressed, Gisela felt a rising sense of belonging, which only intensified when they hung a board to keep records on the large wall of the castle keep and she placed her personal insignia among those of the other men on the long row of participants. She stood back and smiled as she absorbed the sight, pleased with the appearance of her personal crest among the others.

  Princess Elisabette sidled up beside her as she stood looking over the row of crests that lined the board. “Who will you be cheering for?” the younger woman asked.

  “Myself.”

  “You’re fighting?”

  “You’re not?”

  Bette emitted a shocked laugh. “Isn’t the entire point of the tournament to watch the men parry?” The girl had already expressed disappointment that they weren’t planning to invite neighboring kingdoms. Gisela couldn’t imagine why the girl would want such a thing, given the threat of war looming over them.

  “The point is to develop skills among the men, so that they’ll be able to defend themselves when need arises,” Gisela explained, and was relieved to see King John approaching. His appearance provided her with an excuse to change the subject.

  “King John,” she greeted him. “I don’t see your coat of arms among the others.”

  He shook his head regretfully. “I must leave tomorrow to visit my brother at the border. Prince Luke is expecting me.”

  “Tomorrow is only Thursday. Surely you’ll be back in time for the tournament on Friday. It begins at dawn, but it will take hours to work through the first level of eliminations. If you arrive by midmorning—”

  “I will do my best.” John cut her off. “It will depend on what I learn from Prince Luke.”

  His words silenced her. In spite of his protests otherwise, she still felt responsible for the situation with the Illyrians. She knew John was desperately worried, not just about the possibility of war, but about his brother’s safety, as well. As she understood it, John had two brothers, but the youngest, Mark, had left for a journey by ship and was long overdue to return—a poor sign given the known activity of Saracens at sea.

  As long as John refused to remarry, Luke’s safety was imperative. Luke was next in line to the throne. Gisela longed to speak with John about the situation, but it wasn’t her place. He still mourned the loss of his wife. And she was going to marry Warrick.

  There was no point discussing such a painful subject especially when there wasn’t anything she could do to ease his sorrow.

  * * *

  John decided to leave Wednesday evening immediately after supper. It would give him a greater chance of finishing his business with Luke and making it back in time for the tournament. It would also keep him from seeking out Gisela’s company again.

  He arrived at the borderland outpost feeling like a coward who’d turned and run at the first sign of danger. His brother, Prince Luke, wanted to launch an attack and take back the village of Bern. And all John could think about was the way he’d fled from Gisela as though the woman posed some sort of threat.

  Technically, he figured, she did pose a threat—to his heart, and his convictions. The woman was betrothed in a politically sensitive engagement. His growing feelings for her were absolutely unacceptable, which was why it was doubly alarming that, even with the threat of war looming over him, he had to tear his thoughts from her to listen to Luke.

  “The population of Bern is largely unchanged from what it was four years ago. They’re Christians like us. They would be loyal Lydian citizens if they could stop paying Illyrian taxes and following Illyrian laws.”

  John rubbed his temples and tried to follow his brother’s arguments as he sat at the low wooden table of the small woodland cottage that served as an outpost for Luke and his men. “The regiment of Illyrian soldiers stationed there might feel differently.”

  “They’ll be easy enough to rout.”

  John kneaded his forehead with both hands. “I told you about the messenger the princess sent to her father.”

  “Charlemagne is in Rome, a world away. Assuming the messenger arrives, what does Charlemagne care what happens on the edges of his kingdom? We aren’t his vassals, and neither are the Illyrians.”

  “Nonetheless the Illyrians must answer to him. Charlemagne has imperial agreements with Empress Irene of Constantinople.”

  “Which is precisely why Charlemagne is unlikely to act directly in our defense.” Luke pounded his fist on the table. “Would he not first bring up the matter with the empress herself?”

  “That seems unlikely. Irene has granted Charlemagne leave to enforce peace along their borders. Princess Gisela seemed to think—”

  “She’s not Lydian,” Luke snapped. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. She’s the one who got us into this mess. You know that Illyrian died—the one we shot while you were in the river? If we don’t strike first, there won’t be time to wait for Charlemagne, if he cares to intervene, which I doubt.”

  “What are you proposing, brother?” John gave up trying to argue. His brother seemed to be working up to a point, and John wished Luke would stop arguing and express what he was waiting to say. “If we take Bern back, then what? Do you believe the Illyrians will be content to limp away, licking their wounds?”

  “I don’t believe the Illyrians will be content to sit back, no matter what we do.” Luke flexed his fingers, setting off a ripple of cracking knuckles.

  John looked up and watched his brother carefully. Cracked knuckles had always been a decisive signal for Luke that something weighed heavily on his mind. John held his breath and waited for his brother’s pronouncement.

  “He’s back.”

  “Who?” John asked but sensed the answer. What other name were his men so loath to speak? What other answer could Luke possibly be so hesitant to express?

  What other rogue had lef
t in his wake prayers that he might never return?

  “Rab the Raider.”

  John let out a long breath, then stood. If Rab was back, they didn’t have the luxury of waiting for Charlemagne. The Raider was violent, unpredictable...cruel. He’d led their father to believe he was willing to negotiate, then killed Theodoric in cold blood the moment the king had lowered his sword.

  They couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  John plucked up the drab hunting cloak he’d slung over the back of a chair, which effectively hid any symbols of his identity. “I’ll leave at once for Sardis and arrange for couriers to carry updates between us twice daily. I want full reports of any and all activity. Where precisely is the Raider? What is he up to?”

  “He arrived last night and is staying at a house in the village. I can only assume he was called in because of the fatality. One of the villagers has informed me that the Illyrian who died was a favorite of Rab’s, possibly a relative.”

  “Blood for blood,” John muttered, hating the rules of vengeance, which never ended anything, but only cried out for more. He shook his head. “After I’ve made arrangements in Sardis I’ll continue on to Castlehead and recruit volunteers. I will not ask any man to fight who is not willing to risk his life.”

  “I understand. When do you plan to return?”

  “That will depend on the messages you send me. If we can, I would above all prefer to wait until Charlemagne has responded to the message from his daughter.”

  “I don’t believe that will be possible.”

  “You may be right,” John admitted reluctantly. “Still, you know my policy.”

  “You refuse to shed blood unless it is the only way to prevent greater bloodshed.”

  John granted his brother a wry smile, grateful Luke had been willing to learn the words, even if he spoke them derisively. “I’ll have to make haste if I’m going to reach Sardis before they close the city gates for the night.”

  “Godspeed to you, brother.”

  “Luke?” John waited until his brother looked up from the map of the valley he’d been studying. “Be careful. And keep an eye out for my falcon.”

  * * *

  With the circuit of messengers established, John left Sardis to return to Castlehead as soon as the sun rose Friday morning. Moses seemed eager to run, so John let the stallion have his head. Why not? The horse seemed eager to stretch his legs.

  And John was eager to get home and learn how the Frankish princess was fairing. He told himself there was no reason why he shouldn’t feel he ought to check on her. After all, she was his guest, and he’d soon need to remove the stitches above her eye. He had a duty to make sure she enjoyed her stay.

  For political reasons, of course.

  It wasn’t as though he intended to spend any time in her company, not with the fencing tournament set to begin that morning. If he arrived in time, he’d be busy sparring in the pistes. Princess Gisela could watch the tournament from the comfort of the balcony windows, far above the noise and bustle of the crowds. If he got the chance, he’d be certain to greet her and make sure she lacked no comfort.

  And then he would do his best to forget she was even there.

  Moses balked at the plank bridge that spanned the salty stream which divided the Castlehead peninsula from the mainland. “It’s perfectly safe,” he assured the horse, urging him across. As he’d predicted, they made it to the other side without incident. It was clear the ocean waves were cutting through the ravine, washing it ever wider, and might someday make an island of his home. But that wasn’t likely to occur for several more centuries, or at least not in his lifetime.

  Urging Moses on, John’s ears prickled at the sounds that carried on the breeze. It sounded as though the tournament was well under way. As he neared the fortress, John saw milling crowds, and men practiced sparring with wooden swords around and between a village of tents that had popped up since he’d left.

  John met his guards at the gate, and was relieved to see Renwick on duty. Handing off his horse, he took Renwick to the side and quizzed him rapidly.

  “Am I too late to enter?”

  “Your Majesty still has time. We haven’t yet worked through the first level of the contestants. The men would be honored if you would fight among them. And your skills with the sword are without peer among your men—perhaps Princess Gisela will crown you with the wreath of laurels at the tournament’s end?”

  John felt happiness ripple through him at the thought. As Renwick had implied, John had received, as heir to the throne, unparalleled training with the sword. Few in Lydia could equal him, save for his own brothers, and they were both away.

  Perhaps, if Gisela saw him fighting, her respect for him would grow. She might even pass on word of his prowess to her father. At the very least, his men would recognize his skills. He’d need their trust if he was to lead them into battle. Everything Luke had told him at the border indicated a battle was inevitable.

  “Hurry, then.” John nodded to Renwick. “Help me with my gear.”

  They paused while Renwick passed on the order to enter King John in the tournament. Then Renwick laced up the king’s leather and chain mail armor. They arrived just in time for his round to start.

  John lowered his mask over his face and took his stance facing his opponent. Though he scorned war and violence, there was, as the Bible said, a time for war and a time for peace.

  King John was a man of peace. But if war was inevitable, he wanted his men to know that he was fully prepared to handle it. And though he didn’t see her on any of the balconies or in the courtyard-facing windows, John felt confident that Princess Gisela was watching from somewhere and would see that he was a capable swordsman and a worthy leader.

  * * *

  Princess Gisela was grateful to finally have an off round in which to catch her breath, refresh herself and monitor how her tournament was going. If the loud cheering that echoed through the courtyard was any indication, it was a rousing success. Still, she felt a sense of duty to stay informed of all that was happening. In spite of rules to insure safety, there was always the risk of someone being accidentally decapitated.

  After passing by the board listing the winners and noting her rising arms, she found Renwick, one of King John’s favored messengers, watching a match on the east wing.

  “How goes it, Ren?” She addressed him familiarly, having worked beside him for the past two days to prepare for the tournament.

  “Splendid.” The guard fairly beamed. “King John returned in time to enter.”

  Gisela tried to ignore the way her stomach swooped at the mention of the king’s name, but it was all she could do to school her features into an impassive expression. “Which arms are his? Are they the same as the banner that hangs behind his throne?”

  “A modified smaller version. The proportions are off.” Renwick dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. “I don’t recognize any of the men by their arms. It doesn’t matter much to me. What matters is that the king is doing quite well.” He pointed toward the figures battling in the piste. “He’s all but won this round, and it’s only just begun.”

  Gisela turned her attention to the masked men. She didn’t have to ask which one was the king. His stature and bearing gave him away, as did his skill with the sword, which was, as Renwick had suggested, far superior to that of his opponent.

  She found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, and as the milling crowd blocked her view, she clambered up higher on the bleachers to watch the king parry. In the time he’d been gone, she’d told herself over and over again that she felt for him only respect, admiration and gratitude for all he’d done for her.

  And yet, watching him, her heart pounded with emotions that felt far more like affection, attraction and awe. The man moved with grace and fought with zeal, his fierce m
asculinity holding her attention, making it impossible for her to look away. Every time his opponent’s sword flashed near him, Gisela felt herself cringing in fear that he could be injured. Yet the skillful king didn’t let the other swordsman get a point on him.

  King John had skill and strength, but most thrilling of all was his ability to anticipate the way his opponent was about to strike. When Renwick had first suggested that the king would quickly dispatch his opponent, she’d wondered how an opponent who could be so easily beaten had remained in the competition so long.

  But watching them spar, she realized the man who fought the king was handy enough with the sword—better than many she’d fought that day, and she’d been impressed with the overall skill of the Lydians.

  No, the king’s superior hand was due to his talent for staying just ahead of his opponent, blocking jabs before they came, whipping his blade with a dexterity that took her breath away.

  “I told you he’s good.” Renwick followed her.

  “Very. I think I could learn from studying him. At the very least, I’d like to get an idea of how he moves in case I end up fighting him.” She didn’t take her eyes off the king as she spoke, but analyzed his patterns, looking for any weakness she might be able to use against him. Of all the men she’d watched or fought that day, he showed the most potential to be able to best her.

  “Are you still in the tournament, then?”

  “I have a break this round, and I’m glad for it. I’m afraid I’m still weaker than I thought after fighting that fever and the infection above my eye. Without a chance to catch my breath, I might have wilted in the piste. But I’ll stay in the tournament until I’m defeated.”

  “I’m impressed, Your Highness.”

  Gisela couldn’t tear her gaze from King John and his sword, recalling with a pleasant shiver how it had felt to have his arms around her. “So am I, Renwick. So am I.”

  * * *

  Gisela gulped a long drink and propped herself up with her sword to keep from fainting with exhaustion. Fighting so soon after her injury had been taxing.