A Royal Marriage

by Rachelle Mccalla

  “He kept that pouch close every moment. It made me curious. So when he went to the river to bathe and left it behind, of course I looked in the pouch. When he returned and caught me looking, he accused me of spying on him!” Hilda choked up.

  Gisela handed her a cup.

  She drank and sputtered the rest of her tale. “He said ’twas true! He never loved me, only made me think he did to gain access to Her Highness.” Hilda pouted sadly as she looked to her mistress. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I never suspected he was insincere.”

  “All is forgiven, Hilda. I’m sorry you’ve had such a horrible experience. You did well to bring us the messages. How did you ever get the notes away from him?”

  “He drew his sword as though to kill me. I had no choice but to knock him in the head with a rock and run him through with his own sword.” She sobbed into her hands.

  “You left him dead?” John confirmed, knowing the importance of being sure.

  “Certainly.”

  John and Gisela left Hilda to the comfort of her lunch and carried the messages to the privacy of the rookery to examine them further. Fledge and her new mate peered over his shoulders as though eager to help.

  “You’re not an Illyrian spy, are you?” John directed his question at the new bird with a wry smile, as though newly wary of everyone he’d ever trusted.

  The bird only cocked his head and looked at him as though he was insulted by the king’s suggestion.

  “Fine, then, you can stay.” John spread out a note where a bright sunbeam splashed against the wide ledge of the tower parapets.

  Gisela didn’t understand all the Illyrian words, so he did his best to translate for her. Unfortunately, unlike the notes between Warrick and Elisabette, the messages weren’t dated. John had some difficulty discerning whether the events portrayed therein were long past or pending.

  But one thing was perfectly clear: Urias had long been plotting against the Lydian crown, first under the rule of John’s father, King Theodoric, and for the past few years, right up to the moment Hilda had run him through. “All of Lydia owes Hilda a debt of gratitude.”

  “The poor thing.” Gisela shook her head sadly. “She’s heartbroken.”

  It wasn’t until they’d read through all the messages that John and Gisela were able to piece together the full picture.

  “It seems Garren has long coveted the Lydian coastline, and has even gone so far as to call us fools for not making better use of it. He would build docks and wharfs and create a commercial metropolis.”

  “Is that even possible given the rocky shoreline?”

  “It would be a risky endeavor, and an expensive one. I’ve never thought it desirable, given that it would expose Lydia to all manner of traffic and end our peaceful existence. I would rather rule a little-known nation in peace than a polestar of wealth where crime and greed run rampant.” He shook his head. “Garren is a fool.”

  “On many levels,” Gisela agreed. “But he is certainly cunning. When Rab arrived from the north and claimed to be his son, Garren shrewdly hatched a scheme that would procure the Lydian coastline for him, or rid him of an unwanted son, or both. By commissioning Rab to take Lydia in exchange for recognition as his own son, Garren placed himself in a most advantageous spot.”

  “Of course. If Rab failed, Garren could claim no connection to him. If Rab succeeded, Garren got what he wanted, and at little cost to himself.” John hated to think that his neighbors had been plotting against him for so long. “That’s why Illyrian soldiers have been answering to Rab. Garren sent them to do his bidding.”

  “No doubt, if questioned, he would deny the connection and claim the men were rebels banding together to give him a bad name.”

  “That is precisely what he has claimed, though he occupies Bern.” John rubbed his temples as the depth of Urias’s betrayals sank in. “Urias conspired with them at his mother’s urging. She wanted a place in Garren’s court. Urias was promised to be regent of this area once the Illyrians gained control.”

  “None of the messages give any indication that Urias or even Garren realized that Warrick was in love with your sister.”

  John relished the insight her words provided. “They may not have known. I gather from Warrick’s messages that he was no more eager to confess his love to his family than Elisabette was to confess it to me.”

  “Still—” Gisela shivered uneasily “—it doesn’t explain what their intentions were with me. I wonder...” She shuffled through the bits of parchment until she found the pieces she was looking for. “When do you suppose this message came? It suggests there is a greater plan, one more certain to unseat you from your throne.”

  “But how would they have used you to gain control of Lydia? They couldn’t have known you would land here first. Your captain was under orders to take you directly to Warrick. He’d have done so, had the Saracens not attacked you first.”

  “The Illyrians could not have predicted that. Have there ever been dealings between the Saracens and the Illyrians?”

  “The Illyrians fear the Saracens as much as we do. The pirates are far too foreign for even the Illyrians to plot with them.”

  “And yet, Warrick gave Elisabette no indication that he intended to marry anyone but her. So why did he agree to have me sent to him? What was he planning to do?” Gisela shivered.

  “Whatever it was, it can’t have been good.”

  John mulled over the question for the next two days. Even through the Sunday morning worship service he didn’t gain any clarity, though the time spent with Gisela further solidified his determination not to give her up. But how could he keep her?

  His attempts to rebuild the army were hampered by the distance between Castlehead and Millbridge. To John’s relief, on Wednesday morning the old deacon Bartholomew arrived for the midweek worship service with the news that Luke had just arrived safely in Sardis. John consulted with Gisela after the service while he made preparations to meet with his brother.

  “I regret to ask you the favor of taking charge of Castlehead in my absence, especially in these trying times.”

  Gisela only laughed at his concern. “You know I’m quite capable of leaving the castle under military command if I feel I must ride after you.” She looked at him longingly and her expression sobered. “You know I would do anything for you. I’m honored that you leave your fortress to me.”

  “You have proven yourself a most capable leader.” He gazed at her, memorizing her every feature to tide him over until he would see her again. “I esteem your judgment above all others.”

  John left her reluctantly. He rode with a band of men in hopes of hearing better news from his brother. With Urias dead, they could hope to avoid further betrayals. With any luck, the Illyrians would be disinclined to make a move without their inside man.

  Or they might have grown more desperate, and be willing to try anything. John supposed he’d know the answer all too soon.

  * * *

  Gisela divided her time between prayers for John’s safety, and overseeing the falcon tower. There Fledge’s new mate peered at her curiously, as though wondering what she’d done with the other falcon. Fledge was nowhere to be seen.

  Elisabette had taken to her room, and Hilda had taken over her post keeping track of her, which was easy enough since the girl rarely emerged, even to eat. The troops kept up steady drills in the courtyard and outlying fields. They kept busy making arrows and sharpening their swords, and patching any holes in their armor.

  Bartholomew arrived Sunday morning with a surprise in a wooden cage. “Do you recognize this creature?” He held up the falcon for her to see.

  Fledge glared at the deacon through the bars.

  “Yes, I do! Where ever did you find her?”

  “She surprised King John yesterday. Flew right up to him as he sto
od on a high open tower. The king asked me to deliver her back to you.”

  Gisela thanked the deacon for returning the bird, and carried Fledge back to her mate, who almost looked relieved, if a bird could wear such an expression.

  Worship had a somber tone, and afterward Gisela quizzed Bartholomew for news of John and Luke, since messages between them had been few and brief.

  “His Majesty longs to return to Castlehead, but Prince Luke fears for the safety of Sardis,” Bartholomew informed her with an apologetic shake of his head. “His scouts report that the Illyrians are drawing near the city pulling three catapults, each as tall as six men.”

  Gisela pinched her eyes shut as Bartholomew delivered the news. Her father had catapults and trebuchets among his war machines. She’d watched them in action in practice drills, the missiles they flung pounding the earth with a force like thunder. The memory of it rumbled through her bones ominously. If three of the deadly machines bombarded Sardis, the city’s strong stone walls would fall, crushing those they’d been built to protect.

  “King John and Prince Luke hope to mount an offensive against the Illyrians before they reach the city, but from the reports the scouts have brought, the Lydian forces are vastly outnumbered. To ride out might be suicide.”

  “To stay in the city might be the same.” Gisela wished there had been time to build an escape tunnel, so that the people of Sardis could travel safely to Castlehead. But then, the Illyrians would simply drag their war machines on down the peninsula.

  Gisela gripped the old deacon’s weathered hands. “Catapults are mighty, but they’re not unstoppable. They’re built of wood, with ropes to fling the missiles. The best defense is to shoot at them with flaming arrows, or better yet pelt them with burning coals from the small catapults mounted on the Sardis walls. If you can catch them on fire they’ll have to stop shooting long enough to get the fire out.”

  “Would they really catch on fire and burn, do you suppose?” Bartholomew questioned.

  “I’ve never seen it done, but my father always said it might be possible. The only other hope would be to get a runner behind the enemy to set them ablaze by hand. The fire would be more likely to catch, but there’s little chance that runner would return alive.”

  “Dear God, help us.” The old deacon shook his head.

  “You’re welcome to stay in Castlehead.” Gisela was reluctant to let Bartholomew leave Castlehead after the Sunday services.

  A surprisingly fierce look sprang to Bartholomew’s eyes when she suggested that he stay. “If I let the fear of the Illyrians stop me from doing the Lord’s work, they might as well kill me. I intend to ride my circuit until I die.”

  An ominous feeling rose inside her as Gisela watched him go. Would the old deacon die doing the Lord’s work? She prayed it wouldn’t come to that, and yet his words echoed through her mind, boding ill warnings. The air itself seemed ripe with expectation, and a crisp fall wind blew in from the sea, pushing distant thunderclouds toward them.

  Gisela didn’t like the look of the clouds as she studied them from Fledge’s tower, where she’d climbed to get a better look. They teemed with angry power, surging and billowing, changing constantly, now hiding, now revealing ships in their midst.

  She squinted at what appeared to be sails riding ahead of the clouds that loomed just west of them. Had the Illyrians decided to strike by sea? They weren’t known for their seafaring ways, having very little decent coastline to sail from. It was for that very reason she suspected King Garren was so intent on obtaining the lands of Lydia—he wanted ports to sail from, but had little idea just how poor a port might be off the rocky shore.

  Once Gisela was certain the shapes she saw were not just shifting clouds, but ships—three of them, in fact—she lifted her skirts and hurried to the gates.

  The watchmen there had been studying the approaching sails, as well. The brisk winds pushed the ships rapidly closer, so that in the time it took for Gisela to reach the other tower, already she could make out some detail on the sails.

  “They are my father’s ships.” She nearly cried with relief when she recognized them. It had been nearly five weeks since Boden had left with the message for her father. If he’d made good time, her father could have sent ships in response to his message, which would even now be pushing toward them ahead of the strong winds.

  Gisela ran for the wharf, reaching the end of it just as the first smattering of rain hit the wooden planks. The first ship had let down a boat, and the rowers pulled mightily to stay ahead of the sheet of wind-driven rain that pursued them.

  “Father!” Gisela called, waving happily when she recognized for certain the great man who stood at the prow.

  He grinned back at her, and leaped with a great stride for the dock as the boat slid alongside it. “Gisela!” He scooped her up into a great hug. “We’ve got to get in out of the rain.”

  “Hurry to the castle!” She ran alongside him, jealous of his longer legs that propelled him forward ahead of her, in spite of his age and stout size. As they neared the gate she darted ahead and waved the men in behind them before darting under the roofline that overhung the walls rimming the courtyard, leading them to the great hall where a fire still burned from the noon meal.

  She sent the servants to fetch food and drink, then turned to her father, who clasped her by the shoulders.

  “Gisela.” He beamed. “You look as well as I have ever seen you. And where is this King John to whom, my men tell me, I owe a debt for saving your life?”

  “Oh, Father, I hardly know where to begin.” She launched quickly into the story of all that had happened from the moment she’d arrived in Lydia up until that very day. As she spoke, the servants carried in a lunch.

  The emperor ate, but his eyes hardly left his daughter’s face. Partway through her tale, Gisela sent men to fetch the maps of Lydia she’d been studying with King John, so that her father could better understand the details of what she explained.

  “John says the Illyrians have long caused trouble, but I know my arrival was the spark that lit the fire of war. This good Christian kingdom may well pay the ultimate price for their kindness to me.”

  Charlemagne scowled. “I should have killed Rab the Raider instead of unleashing him on unsuspecting lands.”

  “You were only trying to be merciful,” Gisela consoled him.

  “He didn’t appreciate my mercy, or he wouldn’t be so intent on ending innocent lives.” Charlemagne glowered. “And what of this King John that you’ve spoken of so well and so highly with nearly every sentence from your lips?”

  Gisela felt herself blushing furiously. She’d thought she’d gotten through the story without giving away any of her feelings for the young king, but obviously her father knew her well enough to listen between the lines. “He saved my life. He’s a good king, and I fear...” She bit her hand, chastising herself for showing weakness in front of her father.

  Thankfully, Martin rushed into the great hall at that moment. “Old Bartholomew approaches through the rain, Your Highness.”

  “Bring him in, by all means. The poor dear must have turned around to escape the storm.” But even as she spoke, Gisela couldn’t help but wonder. The afternoon had turned to evening while she’d been explaining the events of the past several weeks to her father. Even traveling slowly, Bartholomew should have arrived at Sardis long before.

  She’d no more than expressed her concern to her father when the old deacon was shuffled in, dripping and coughing. She had him brought near the fire and sent a servant to fetch him a mug of hot spiced wine.

  “Please.” He coughed and sputtered, raising his hands to ward off their attempts to help him. “Listen. As I approached the city of Sardis, I saw the catapults and the Illyrian army.”

  “They approach the city?”

  “No.” A fit of coughing too
k him, and Gisela had to wait long painful seconds before he explained. “They’re fighting. They’ve got Sardis surrounded. The city is under siege.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As night fell, John remained in a tower with his brother. A storm had moved in, darkening the day, dousing all hope that their flaming arrows might catch the catapults on fire, and finally, blocking out all light from the moon and stars with thick clouds.

  Even the wind blew so fiercely that John could no longer hear the sounds of battle.

  “I believe they’ve given up the fight for the night,” Luke observed as he peered through the narrow arrowslit window.

  “I pray they have.” John felt the ache of battle in his every limb. His throat was sore from shouting, his arms weak from pulling back his bow and his legs trembled from the many times he’d rushed from one tower to another to monitor the press of battle. “If they make many more direct hits against our walls, they’ll bring them down completely.”

  “The men are trying to patch the breach on the west end, but the rain is complicating their efforts.”

  “Fortunately the cliffs beneath the city are high at that point. If the Illyrians want to make use of the hole they’ve made, they’ll have to do a great deal of climbing first.”

  “They may well do it.”

  John agreed. “They’ve come at us with their full army. This is no mere raid they can blame on rebels.”

  “They have no intention of answering to anyone afterward. I doubt they intend to leave any of our men alive.”

  John groaned at the thought. If he truly loved her, Warrick might spare Elisabette to be his bride. But what would happen to Gisela? John still hadn’t figured out why the Illyrians had requested a match in the first place, so he couldn’t begin to guess what they’d do with her now. “I suppose even Warrick himself is down there somewhere.”

  “All the better to rush in and take the crown,” Luke pronounced with disdain.

  “We can’t let it come to that.” John rose determinedly and peered through the arrowslit into the thick darkness. Nothing but wind and pounding rain greeted him, but he knew that somewhere, far too close and yet not near enough to see, lay a vast army and munitions of death.