A Royal Marriage

by Rachelle Mccalla

  “How are we ever going to stop them? I’ve worn myself out today making no inroads against them, and I’m still not recovered from their last attack against me.” Luke held one hand to his side, which had healed thanks to the stitches of the mysterious pale-haired woman, though Luke reported that he still felt aching pain in the spot.

  “We could mount an offensive,” John suggested.

  “’Twould be suicide.”

  “If we had a second team to come at them from behind—”

  “We don’t.”

  “If we’d built the tunnels Gisela suggested—”

  “We haven’t.” Luke’s sigh was almost a laugh. “And there isn’t time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How long do you think we have?” Luke answered his own question. “Not nearly long enough.”

  John slumped against the wall and slid down until he sat beside his brother on the floor. He thought for several long minutes before asking, “What do you suppose they’ll do with us?”

  “With you, the king, and I, the prince?” Luke made a musing face. “Assuming we survive the battle, they’ll find the most miserable way to kill us and then leave our bodies somewhere awful as a warning to their enemies.”

  John pondered a moment longer. “I’d rather ride out and meet the battle, even if it means certain death.”

  Luke fiddled with an arrow, pointing all the barbs of the feather until they spread out in perfect symmetry. Finally he asked, “At dawn?”

  “No, the rising sun would blind our eyes.”

  “At sunset, then?”

  “If we live that long.”

  Luke stood and offered John his hand. “I’ll ride out beside you,” he promised, pulling his brother to standing, “if we live that long.”

  * * *

  Torches lit the great hall as Gisela spread out the maps. Her father and his ranking men stood along one side of the long table. John’s remaining military men faced them from the other side.

  “How many fighting men came with you?” she asked her father.

  “Thirty-five on my ship, thirty-seven on each of the two others.”

  “That’s over a hundred men.” She turned to Renwick, the highest-ranking of the men John had left behind. “And we have five dozen more?”

  “Three score, Your Highness,” Renwick calculated, “sixty men and twenty horses.”

  Gisela scowled at the maps. “It’s the lack of cavalry that would hurt us most. A man can ride to Sardis in an hour at a full gallop. Walking might take him all day.”

  Emperor Charlemagne ran his fingers along the outline of the coast. “I brought three ships. What’s to stop us from coming by sea?”

  “You noted the rocks when you came in?”

  “Are they as thick all along the coast?”

  “Thicker. Only fishing boats can make it through.”

  The emperor made a thoughtful sound in his throat. He looked at Renwick. “How many fishing boats are there in the area?”

  “Oh, dozens, sire. Many along the peninsula make their living on the sea. But a man would have to knock on every door for miles to round them up.”

  Charlemagne chuckled. “If you round them up, I’ll fill them.” He turned to Gisela to explain, “The Illyrians might take notice of a ship. Fishing boats may approach with greater stealth.”

  While Renwick rushed off to dispatch men to commandeer all the fishing boats they could, Charlemagne crossed his arms over his chest and addressed Gisela. “Now, how are we going to get a message to King John to let him know when we’ll be arriving? I’d like him to mount an offensive from the city at my signal.”

  Gisela wished they had a tunnel to send a messenger through. Nor did she expect a messenger could get past the Illyrian siege to deliver a note. “We’ll just have to hope they see what we’re up to and respond.”

  “It would be more effective if we could coordinate an attack.”

  “I’m sorry, Father. The only way we could get a message to them at this point would be to fly it to them through the air.” She intended the words to express the futility of his request, but the moment she spoke them, a thought occurred to her. She snapped her fingers. “We could fly it through the air!”

  Her father eyed her skeptically, but when she explained that Fledge had found King John in Sardis once before, Charlemagne chuckled happily. “The Illyrians won’t try to stop a bird. Do you really think this creature can find your king?”

  “She’s faithful to him. I’ve had to keep her caged to prevent her from flying back home. The greater trick will be getting her to carry a message without trying to tear it off.”

  As they formulated their plans, Gisela penned the message in tiny script on a scrap of parchment, thankful that nearly all Illyrians were illiterate. Just as rare as those who could read or write were Illyrians who could speak a word of Latin. Even if the note was intercepted, no one would be able to translate it.

  Sometime after midnight the rain tapered off. Gisela sent a servant to fetch the falcon. She tied the message securely to her leg, while a guard held the animal to keep Fledge from biting. Then she told the bird to find King John, and had her set free through the window.

  “Do you suppose that will work?” Charlemagne asked, as the falcon disappeared into the dark night.

  “If it doesn’t we’re no worse off than we would be otherwise. And if it does—” she grinned up at her father and felt her hope returning “—it may tip the battle back in Lydia’s favor.”

  * * *

  John awoke to the sound of fighting. His entire body ached, but he leaped to his feet and rushed to throw open the shutters to the room where he’d spent the night. The murky glow of dawn tinted the eastern sky. Below him, past the walls of the city on the plain near the rocky coast, John could just make out the outline of the three hulking catapults waiting like giant beasts to unleash their destruction.

  Now that the rain had ended, John and his men might finally have a shot at setting one of the massive death machines ablaze. If they were quick, they might even get the job done before the catapults inflicted much more damage.

  John pulled his head in from the window just as something hurtled toward him through the air. He caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye and was about to pull the shutters closed when he recognized the falcon.

  “Fledge! Have you been stalking me?” he accused. “I am not your usual prey.”

  John slipped on a leather glove before extending his arm toward the bird. The raptor alighted on his arm but pranced somewhat uneasily.

  “Why are you fidgeting? Oh, you’ve got something on your leg.” John felt a curious smile spread across his lips. The bit of parchment had to have been intentionally tied there, and he only knew one woman cunning enough to do such a thing.

  His heart warmed at the thought of his beloved. If he lived to see her again, he would never let her go.

  * * *

  At her father’s insistence, Gisela relented to staying at the rear of the cavalry unit as they made their way down the peninsula toward Sardis. The boats had rowed out before dawn, each weighed down with as many men as the varied craft could carry. She’d told her father about the catapults, so many of the men carried kettles filled with burning coals.

  They walked to save the horses’ strength for battle, besides which many of the men had no mount, so if they intended to arrive together they all had to travel on foot. With any luck, they’d be within sight of Sardis by the time her father and his men mounted their surprise attack from the rear.

  And if John received his message in time, he’d be watching for Charlemagne’s signal, a wide swath of crimson fabric to be unfurled the moment Charlemagne wanted John’s men to charge. If John could keep the Illyrians’ attention from the “fishermen” scrambling
up the rocky shore, the buckets of coal might stand a chance of reaching the catapults.

  She could only pray John and his men were still well enough to mount the attack.

  * * *

  John braced himself against the battlements as the catapults thundered their missiles against the city walls. The men were ready. Every horse in the city was mounted to ride out. His best archers manned the walls to keep the encroaching Illyrians at bay, while a second wave of footmen prepared to follow the cavalry out the front gate and across the bridge the moment John gave the signal to have it lowered.

  The boats had been weaving through the rocky waters for almost an hour. John had watched the men, disguised by cloaks to look more like fishermen than soldiers, as they clambered up the cliffs toward the Illyrians, who were too consumed with bombarding the city to recognize the threat that crept stealthily up behind them.

  Had John not known of the plan, he might have feared the Illyrians themselves were up to mischief, if he’d paid the fishing boats any heed at all. As it was, he felt a wild hope clamoring inside him. Was the Emperor Charlemagne himself really among the figures creeping to the aid of his beleaguered city?

  As the men rose to their feet, one figure stood taller than the rest. His broad shoulders made him easy to pick out. While the others crept closer to the catapults at the rear of the Illyrian ranks, carrying buckets John doubted held fish, this lone man stood still and reached inside his cloak.

  The wind caught the red cloth, billowing it wide. It rippled in the wind three times before the figure let it go. It blew back toward the sea and the man charged forward.

  John looked to the guard at the next tower and lowered his arm, signaling him to raise the portcullis and lower the bridge.

  While the heavy counterweights ratcheted loudly in obedience to his order, John leaped down the steps and found his stallion, Moses, waiting beside his brother’s horse. He met his brother’s eyes for one silent moment, knowing they would fight to the death if necessary to protect their loved ones and their kingdom.

  Then the front horses broke free, pounding across the heavy planks, as the Illyrians surged to meet them.

  The roar of battle rose up everywhere around him. John didn’t have to nudge Moses to move. The stallion lunged forward the moment the animal in front of him led the way. John held his sword ready and prayed that God would be with them.

  * * *

  As Gisela had promised her father, she let the men take the lead as they reached Sardis. It wasn’t as though she could have gotten to battle, anyway, with the wall of clashing swords in front of her and the rocky sea on either side.

  Her horse pranced anxiously, dancing first forward and then back. Worried that the animal would waste its strength in nervous dancing, Gisela took cover in the nearest olive grove, where she could watch what was happening and determine where her sword might be most useful.

  Smoke rose from the rear of the Illyrian ranks, belching black and ugly through the morning sky. Had her father’s men caught a catapult on fire? It was the only thing she knew of that could create so much smoke, but she could see little past the ridges of rocks and the sea of fighting soldiers.

  She watched the men make their way down the drawbridge toward the Illyrian front. For several tense moments she feared the red-plumed soldiers would prevent John’s men from advancing, but a grave push from the city broke through in a wave of hooves and swords, and the men poured out of Sardis.

  Gisela searched for John among them, but the fighting was too thick. Instead she turned her attention toward her advancing men. They’d made some headway toward Sardis, even as the Illyrians who besieged the city turned to fight them off.

  Hoping to ride forward with them, she nudged her horse forward, almost reaching the men who marched at the rear when the clatter of hooves behind her caught her attention.

  A score of Illyrian riders had forded the shallows and now crept up the rocky bank toward the peninsula. For a moment, Gisela feared they were about to pounce on the Lydian soldiers from behind.

  Then, with an even more sickening fear, she saw they weren’t interested in her soldiers at all.

  They pointed their horses down the road to Castlehead at a full gallop.

  The Illyrians had obviously guessed that Lydia had spent its forces riding to the aid of Sardis. Castlehead now lay virtually unguarded, save by Elisabette, Hilda and the fresh-faced youths Gisela had deemed too inexperienced to march out with her.

  If the twenty cavalrymen ahead of her reached Castlehead, they could easily breach its defenses. Even if Sardis was saved, Castlehead might fall.

  Gisela called to the men in front of her, but saw with a sinking heart that all those on horseback were far too engaged in the battle ahead to hear her or break away. The infantrymen nearest her looked where she pointed, and though realization dawned on their faces, there was little they could do on foot, not chasing after horses.

  Gisela had no choice. She shouted to the foot soldiers to send the next available riders after her, then turned her horse and went after the Illyrians alone.

  * * *

  John recognized the royal insignia on the sword that clashed with his.

  “Prince Warrick.” He spat the man’s name back at its bearer.

  “King John.” Warrick wielded his weapon with cunning and skill.

  A question had burned inside John for days. Since he and Warrick could both die at any moment in the heat of battle, John saw no reason to put off asking it. “Why did you agree to marry Gisela, daughter of Charlemagne, if you’re in love with my sister, Elisabette?”

  Warrick snarled at him as he blocked every jab of his sword. “I never intended to marry Gisela. If Charlemagne had been paying attention, he’d have realized my father’s contract was for Gisela to marry his eldest son. And if Charlemagne assumed otherwise, why should my father feel compelled to correct him?”

  “Rab the Raider?” John’s surprise was so great that his sword faltered.

  Warrick slashed forward, pushing him past the men who raged by the city, nearer the road that led down the peninsula. “None other. If Charlemagne assumed the contract was with me, it can’t be helped.”

  “But Charlemagne would never agree to give his daughter to a landless raider. He’d destroy Rab and take Gisela back!”

  “Rab does not intend to be landless. He’ll sit on your throne and rule your kingdom and defend his right to have her with the swords of your people.”

  Fury surged through John that Gisela might be forced to marry the awful brute who’d killed his father. He spurred Moses forward and lunged at Warrick. His horse pushed Warrick’s horse back against the stone wall that rimmed the road. Warrick leaned back over the wall, holding tight to his reins with his free hand. His eyes widened when he looked down the far side, to the deep gorge that encircled the city of Sardis.

  John held his sword to Warrick’s throat. “If I push you back, your bones will be broken against the rocks and you’ll die in slow agony.”

  “The sword then.” Warrick closed his eyes. “Kill me quickly.”

  “Sire! King John!” Voices called out to him over the throng, and John turned just long enough to see footmen pointing down the road to Castlehead. Gisela made for the narrow path at high speed. And up ahead, beyond her, twenty horsemen galloped down the wide road.

  In an instant, John realized that Gisela intended to stop them—alone, if none could help her.

  John leaped away from Warrick. “I promised my sister I would not kill you.” He did not wait to see how Warrick took the news, but pushed forward through the charging horses that blocked the road. Surging forward, he used his sword to clear the way, knocking aside Illyrians, while his own men, once they saw his fierce charge forward, scrambled to clear the way for him.

  He’d nearly made it through the thick of
it when a stallion black as midnight blocked his way.

  Even past the scrap of leather mask that shielded the man’s face, John could see that his nose was broken.

  “Rab the Raider.” John raised his sword and lunged at the man who’d plotted to take Gisela from him. “You killed my father.”

  “Today you will join him in death,” Rab sneered, wielding his sword with brutish thrusts.

  John blocked his blows, but the Raider had an advantageous position high on the side of the road. Hemmed in as they were on all sides by the flashing swords of fighting men, there was little John could do but back down the road.

  He was more concerned about reaching Gisela than ending Rab’s life, at the moment. But he couldn’t escape the relentless blows, though Moses pranced farther back with every stroke of Rab’s sword. Too soon, John felt the press of cold stone against his leg, and looked down to see the very rocks upon which he’d threatened to leave Warrick dying.

  Rab raised his sword.

  John lunged desperately forward, hoping somehow to block him, when a scream turned both their heads.

  Prince Warrick charged toward him with his sword raised.

  There would be no blocking them both.

  * * *

  Gisela let her horse have its head. She had to reach the plank bridge that separated the island of Castlehead from the rest of the peninsula. If she arrived in time, she’d have a chance to knock the loose planks free, down into the steep ravine, preventing the cavalry from advancing en masse. They’d have to make their way down and back up the rocky sides of the gorge—tricky enough for a man on foot, quite nearly impossible on horseback, not without snapping the poor animals’ legs. Even if they made it up the other side, they’d be scattered and tired, and much easier to pick off one by one.

  But she had to reach the plank bridge before them for the strategy to work. They had the advantage of the wide road that led straight to the bridge. She’d be going out of her way by taking the narrow path on the far side of the peninsula, but it was the only way she’d have a shot at passing them. She could only hope their horses were tired, and slower due to their heavier riders.