The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8)

by Lina J. Potter

  The clan was not at fault; their ship had gotten into the same storm that the Ativernans had to weather on their way to Virma. It drowned, forcing them to figure out their funds. There might have been six of them, but the clans weren't rich, and the money paid for the crossbows was serious enough for them. They had no time to shell out more coins to order more weapons. They had swords, chainmail, daggers, even throwing knives, but crossbows were scarce in Virma; they had to be imported along with bolts for them.

  The Torsveg kept attacking, while the Adrag offered excuses. How much had Aliah managed to overhear?

  Enough.

  When Elg, in the heat of the argument, punched his opponent with all the force of his Virman heart, forcing him to land in blackberry bushes full of thorns, she even picked up the medallion.

  What conspirators would they be without a proper symbol? It might be silly and absurd, but they had ordered medallions from various craftsmen all over Virma and wore them. They needed a way to recognize each other, after all, and something to show to messengers.

  Aliah had eavesdropped on the conversation, realized the speaker's identity, and snatched the medallion. After the betrayal she had experienced, she didn't really like men. Even more, she was sure that they were to be used before they used her.

  That's what she did. She caught the chief of Adrag and made him an unambiguous proposal: no, not of marriage, but a business one. Gold in exchange for gold, and she would forget everything. The chief agreed, but instead of him, another man came to the meeting—an assassin.

  Alas, the girl hadn't taken the medallion with her. She had left it in Her Highness' belongings so that nobody would find it. She did, however, tell her friend whom she was going to meet.

  Ashley Lorin had turned out to be no smarter than Aliah. Deciding that she didn't mind a bigger dowry, she became the second victim. After all, killing a blackmailer was cheaper than paying for their whims—and definitely easier.

  Then Angelina found the medallion and went traveling.

  So what had provoked the attack? Olav had figured that out, too, and that news didn't bring him any joy. If the curs weren't lying, and lies were pretty damn unconvincing when you were being flayed alive, the conspirators had planned to assassinate Bran. They weren't sure about the outcome of the attempt—someone seemed to have escaped, and before that, someone had managed to warn Olav...

  That was luck. By coincidence, the jackal attacked the wolf before it wanted to. Not everybody was in place, there weren't enough weapons, and the moment wasn't perfect.

  And then, there was Tira. Richard should have woken up already; Olav knew that. Yet he didn't go into the guest house. Was that cowardice? Not a chance! He had interrogations to take care of, suspects, work to do... Conversation was Gardren's department. When he returned, he would handle it. Plus, Richard had a healer and everything...

  Later. He would attend to it later, and until then, how about questioning that fellow before he gave up the ghost?

  ***

  When Richard opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Trudy. She sat by his side, staring at nothing. What could he say to her? Only one thing.

  "I would have rather died myself."

  She lowered her hand on his palm and squeezed it tightly. Trudy was still silent, but Jamie breathed out, made the sign of Aldonai, and left the room sidewise.

  His task was finished. He was the odd one out in that place; they would figure it out themselves. Shared grief is never halved, but it still becomes easier to bear. Jamie knew that; he had seen enough. There would be tears, and there would be many more things, but Richard wouldn't kill himself, no matter how much Jamie feared that.

  Love could make a man go to great lengths. Nobody could know in advance what strings it would touch in a man's heart. Some might drown themselves in drink, some might carouse, and some might wither away. Not like this, though. Not together with someone else.

  He had no poison, Jamie knew.

  A dagger? Unlikely, he wasn't in the right mood.

  However, Jamie didn't go far. He stayed on the porch by the door, making sure he could hear everything. Just to be safe.

  At first, he could only hear Richard's voice, then Trudy joined him.

  And then came sobbing. Everything seemed fine.

  Jamie peeked into the eyehole. Richard was crying, his head nestled in Trudy Elleig's lap, and she was patting his hair. She wasn't crying herself, though.

  That wasn't good. For Richard, letting tears carry out his grief was normal. If he found a release, he wouldn't be eaten from the inside. Trudy, however... But how could you comfort a mother who had lost her only child? No words would do. Never.

  And don't you dare say that Richard, just Richard, and only Richard was the only one Jamie had to care for! A doctorus was supposed to help everyone, without separating them into rich and poor, friend and foe. Otherwise, there was no point in learning to heal people; you might just as well go herd goats.

  Yet James had no idea how to help Trudy. All he could do was to keep doing what he was good at—tending to wounded Virmans. It was easier with them, at least.

  Virma, the lands of Clan Oronsteg.

  "You're sad."

  Angelina was drawing a complex pattern on her lover's chest with her finger.

  The things that had happened became a revelation to her. Just like that, their souls entwined, and as their bodies came together, their breath was as one.

  It was a little bit painful, but not scary. It felt as if she got wings, huge and incredible, and with them, she flew to the sun, not needing anything, just two of them together and the sky, the eternal sky of two people in love. Despite her youth, Angelina was no fool. She had read books and even questioned Lilian Earton, knowing that the countess wouldn't hide anything from her, Jolie by her side. They were blushing and embarrassed, but nonetheless, they persisted.

  Whom else would they ask for advice? They didn't have a mother, and their father and brother were men who wouldn't get it—or alternatively, would get it all too well and wouldn't approve. With whom could they speak privately about such important concerns? Not with their handmaidens, obviously! They would have blabbed their secrets to the entire palace.

  Lilian had given them a detailed account. She was also right when it came to the most important thing. When you love someone, it's a force of nature. When you don't, it's only a physical act: pleasurable, inspired, but nothing more.

  Angelina wasn't going to put her words to the test. She already understood that Lilian was right. Force of nature? Yes, it could be called that, she thought. It felt as if a wave of passion carried the lovers to a secluded island with only the two of them and nobody else in the entire world.

  Not that they needed anyone else, though.

  "We've made a mistake," Bran said, caressing her hair. "I've made a mistake."

  "You presume too much." Angelina didn't want to shift the responsibility to her beloved. Bran might be twice her age, but it was she who had made the decision. No matter what the man might have thought, that it was a game for two. As often as not, it was the woman who made the decision with a man none the wiser. Not then, however.

  Bran was already blaming himself. Angelina realized one thing: he couldn't refuse her love, but neither could he accept it.

  What was that story that Lilian had told? Beauty and the beast? There was a much sadder fairy tale: about a princess and a common soldier. Maybe even a clan leader, Bran would never become a prince, anyway. That story wouldn't end with a wedding. But saddling the responsibility on Bran? No. She'd never do that.

  "You won’t be able to stay, and I won't be able to leave. I can't leave you defenseless."

  Angelina sighed. She turned around, leaning on her elbows, and looked in her lover's eyes, all serious.

  "I've known that from the beginning. Enough, Bran. Remember, I'm a princess."

  "And I'm just a Virman commoner?"

  She snorted petulantly. Out of all possible options, why di
d men always pick the most inconvenient and unsuitable response? That was a horrible trait!

  "No. You're the only one who could have married me for love, mutual and sincere."

  Bran raised his eyebrows. He might be a chief and a priest of Holosh, but her words could befuddle him on a regular basis. Once in two minutes, at least.

  "Who'd marry you to a Virman? And I'm married, anyway."

  "I know. But whoever else I marry won't marry Angelina; he'll marry the princess. Money, connections, politics...he'll gain all of that, but not me. And my virginity won't matter...oh!"

  "What? Does it hurt?"

  "No. I just hope we haven't made a child."

  Bran shook his head.

  "We haven't."

  He had enough self-control for that. How in Fleyna's name did he manage it? She probably had mercy on him.

  "Then it's fine," Angelina said, breathing out.

  Bran didn't think so, but he wasn't going to argue. Instead, he pulled her closer and touched her lips, then her cheeks, then the tip of her nose...

  "We still have time. In the morning, I'll escort you so nobody will see you. Don't get me wrong..."

  Angelina nodded. She understood it. Her reputation meant the world. Everyone might have their guesses, might even know the truth, but that wasn't the reason to make their relationship public, flaunting and parading it around. It was gross, anyway. Personal life was personal for a reason. Angelina responded to his kiss and thought that she didn't regret anything, not for a minute.

  At that moment, her choice was right, and even ten or twenty years later, she would remember that night: the crackling fireplace, the thick bear hide where they found themselves, the feel of Bran's skin under her fingers, his blue eyes glowing in the dim light, his hands, his lips...

  At least she had gotten all of that. Dying wasn't so scary anymore.

  ***

  In the morning, Bran Gardren escorted Angelina to her rooms. On his way back, he bumped into Wulf.

  The Oronsteg was leaning against the wall and giving Bran a sardonic look. Bran paused for a second and then nodded at him, inviting him to his rooms.

  They needed to talk, but not in a corridor.

  Inside, Bran sat in a chair, gestured at another, and after a moment of hesitation, reached out for a jug of wine.

  "Want some?"

  "Thank you, Lord of Gardren."

  "Wait," Bran said, raising his hand to stop the man. "I know what you're going to ask, but please, keep this secret."

  Wulf slowly nodded.

  "This is..."

  "It was the first time, although I can't promise it's the last."

  Wulf shook his head.

  "Lord of Gardren, I hope you know what you're doing."

  Bran would have liked to answer yes but didn't have the heart to say it. He didn't want to confide in Wulf, either, nor in anyone else. Even when Bran would appear before Holosh, he would stay silent. Whatever had happened that night, it was his and only his, forever.

  "I ask you and your men not to talk about it."

  "Nobody knows, only me and the maid. But Tarna was my wetnurse," Wulf replied. "She'll keep quiet."

  Bran slowly lowered his head.

  "I'll be in your debt."

  "I accept it," Wulf said without any false modesty. "How can I get you to the Hardrings?"

  "We'll wait for their reply, hopefully, and an escort home," Bran said, waving his hand. "Ten days, at least."

  Wulf narrowed his eyes.

  "And all this time..."

  "Once again, I count on your silence."

  "Talk to Her Highness, Lord of Gardren. And I'll assign Tarna to her."

  Bran cast his eyes down. He knew that he was acting dishonorably. He should leave, just turn around and leave for good, but he could not. He couldn't give up on Angelina, place her in danger, leave her in other people's care—nor resist her. They might as well punish him with death, but the chief of Gardren had already made his choice. At least he would have those days. Holosh, hadn't he earned just a small piece of human happiness?

  A familiar dark thought slipped into his mind. Priests of Holosh didn't believe in fate giving gifts. They knew: everything had its cost. What would Bran have to pay for that?

  Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.

  Olav only resolved to go to Richard after talking to Jamie. The doctorus—despite being up to his eyes in work—spared a minute for the chief and pulled no punches, explaining what was going on with Richard. Why would he mince words? All of them were in the same boat!

  "How are you?"

  No sympathy, no condolences; men were not supposed to mop tears. They were supposed to take revenge.

  "Bad," Richard responded apathetically.

  "The funeral's in the evening." Olav was calm and serious. "Will you guide her soul?"

  "Yes."

  "The execution's tomorrow morning."

  "Execution?" Richard didn't seem interested, simply repeating his words, but Olav was persistent.

  "This is our internal affair. Does it matter to you why she died?"

  "Because of whom? Yes."

  Opium had dulled his pain, and Richard didn't feel like he had a void inside of him anymore. The drug served as a railing above the abyss.

  Jamie had given him a fair warning that it wouldn't help for long, but for the time being, until the funeral was over, he was safe.

  Richard didn't know how to live on.

  Fate, you're... He didn't have any non-cuss words after that. How could it beckon him with happiness only to snatch it away? Give hope and steal it from him?

  He was a prince, and she was a Virman girl, but couldn't they really be happy together? They could have!

  They could have had children; he could have visited, and...everything that his father had had with Jessie, he could have had with Tira.

  But they never would. Never. There would be no Tira for him.

  Richard knew that he wouldn't do anything to himself. He was a prince; he had his duty, his obligations, his father, his sisters, and Ativerna. He had to keep living for their sake, at least. As for how he would live... Did it really matter? Not anymore. Not after she had died. Tira was gone, and so were his love and his future. Only duty remained. He had made his choice, and he would answer for it. If he wasn't destined for happiness... Well, he would make do. He must.

  Olav told him about the six clans that had decided to share power between them, and Richard listened.

  "What is your decision?"

  "These clans won't exist anymore."

  "You...you'll kill everyone?"

  "No," Olav said, shaking his head. "We'll banish them."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The children younger than five will stay in Virma. We'll find them foster parents. The men will be killed, and the women and older children will be sent to the continent."

  "This is murder."

  "They'll take their dowries with them. To remain here, they'll need someone's custody. If their parents or someone else accepts responsibility for them, then they'll be allowed to stay. But they will remember that others had to pay for their lives for them."

  Richard nodded.

  He didn't really care about that, but...

  "So, it was just power."

  "It was personal, too."

  "Personal?"

  "Tira arrived here together with Torsveg. No, there was nothing between them; they were just traveling the same way. Elg set his sights on her."

  "I didn't know," Richard said, shaking his head.

  Olav sighed.

  "I did, but I didn't think it was that serious. When she and you...he was furious."

  "Too bad, I didn't kill him right away."

  "Too bad," Olav agreed. "Stay with her. In the evening, go to the docks."

  Richard nodded. Olav left, relieved, even if he didn't show it.

  Richard hadn't asked about his sister, and thank the gods, as Olav had nothing to answer him.

  **
*

  The harbor was crowded that evening. Everyone who was staying with the Hardrings came. All Virmans were barefoot to say farewell. Such was their tradition: bare feet, loose hair.

  Richard was dressed in green but didn't wear any shoes in solidarity. Everybody was armed, and women were holding torches. Olav led the ceremony.

  The dead bodies were carried into a ship and lined up. Nobody was crying: no sobs and no moans. Richard remembered how they showed grief in his homeland, widows throwing themselves at the coffins, tears flowing freely.

  Nothing like that was done in Virma. If anyone cried, they did it quietly. The children were silent; the surviving men stood straight, their teeth clenched.

  Richard carried Tira to the ship by himself. For the last time, he pressed her against his chest and touched her hair with his lips. He wrapped her in his cloak, then paused and removed a diamond bracelet from his wrist to put it on hers. Let her depart to eternity as his wife. Whatever happened after death, let their souls meet at least there.

  Someone touched Richard's elbow. Trudy.

  "Here, take it."

  A heavy medallion fell in his hand. It looked like silver.

  "I—"

  "Take it and leave."

  She was holding a torch, her blonde hair flowing in the sea breeze.

  "Farewell...son."

  For a few seconds, Richard stared at her, dumbfounded. Then he figured it out.

  "But...no!"

  "Yes. This is my right, son. Goodbye and remember this: she loved you more than life itself."

  Slowly, Richard got down on one knee and kissed Trudy's hand.

  "I will remember. Always."

  Her warm palm ruffled his hair.

  "Farewell, son."

  ***

  As Richard climbed down from the ship, he noticed several people staying there. He looked at Olav, who was standing next to him.