That's why Armand himself hadn't fled. He had nowhere to go, no reason to escape, and then, he was the most significant person in the area. It was easier for him to wait.
At the moment, he was staring at Robert with an arrogant expression. No matter how you looked at it, the duke was no match for him, and it wasn't even about the title. It's just that the Estorns had never counted traitors among their family.
Alcine was the first to break the silence.
"Will you drink, Duke?"
"Thank you, but I'd rather not," Estorn refused. Taking anything from an enemy's hands was both dangerous and disgusting.
"I'll still pour a glass. If I'm not mistaken, you like Lavreinian of the '45 vintage."
Alcine produced the glasses and poured the crimson liquid into them. The fragrance of grape and distant summer filled the study. Estorn shrugged but didn't even think about touching the glass.
"Are you wondering why I invited you?"
"No. You'll tell me anyway," Estorn replied, staring through the window pensively.
"Of course I will, right now," Alcine agreed. "I need your support. In a few days, His Majesty Henry will arrive at the capital for the coronation."
"Gardwig didn't have a son called Henry," Estorn cut off.
"You weren't at the Assembly..."
"And I don't know that Albitta gave birth to a bastard of an unknown father? I do know that."
"Henry's no bastard. He's a legitimate son of His Majesty Gardwig."
"I wonder if there's anyone who believes your lies."
"It's the thing I care the least about. I don't need faith. I need support."
"Did the aldon already agree?" Estorn asked with a crooked smile.
"Yes."
"And you offer me to join you."
"Yes."
"No."
"Think again, Estorn."
"About what? I count no lowlifes in my lineage."
"I can check and also terminate your line while I'm at it."
Armand shrugged.
"Maybe. But even then, I won't change my mind."
"Even if I order your grandchildren to be tortured in front of you?"
Armand leaned forward.
"Alcine, have you ever thought that not everyone wants to live as traitors? Or as scumbags, not that it makes any difference. I'd rather die than dig into the bullshit you're pouring your actions with."
Robert grew white with rage.
"Big talk for a doomed man."
"If the truth can only be shouted, it should be done on the main square."
"Oh, you can shout as much as you like, Duke—on the rack. Guards! "
Armand had no wish to die in a torture chamber. As his glass of wine flew into Alcine's face, the duke shot back, pulling out his dagger. It didn't stop the mercenaries from bursting into the room. Two started to advance on Armand, their swords out.
Estorn looked around. He had no choice. The only thing ahead was their blades. He had no chance to reach Alcine.
What else could he do? Die. But die with honor.
The duke calculated his chances and darted forward. He managed to parry a blow from the mercenary to the left of him, but the one on the right didn't miss the opportunity. Something cold pierced the duke's body, a strike that seemed to go all the way into his guts, and a chill spread out across his very being. He had nothing to lose anymore.
Armand leaned forward, skewering himself on the man's sword, and swung his own, striking his final blow. It was successful.
That was Aldonai's last gift—to die in battle, taking an enemy with yourself. Darkness blanketed his eyes, but Armand could see his opponent fall down with his dagger in his chest. He smiled.
***
Alcine spat at the old man's corpse in anger.
"Son of a bitch! "
The mercenary didn't say anything, preferring to stay unnoticed, not risking getting a lashing.
He guessed right. After spending several more seconds kicking the still-warm body, Alcine glared.
"Cut off his head and put it on display on the market square. Declare that he was plotting against Her Majesty."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Send people to his estate. All Estorns should be brought here."
"Just brought or—"
"Whatever it takes," Alcine said, brushing the question off. "It'll make them more pliant."
"Will do, Your Excellency."
"Hurry up!" Robert snapped.
It wasn't that Estorn had disturbed his plans. Still, he managed to make the duke furious.
So he was squeamish, of all things?
Yet he had nothing to compete with it. Estorn had been a nobleman to the very end and went out saying what was on his mind.
Alcine breathed in and out, trying to reign in a fit of temper. He didn't need it, not at the moment.
Yet the sword and the table fell victim to his rage. Robert pulled out his blade and swung at the table: once, twice, the third time... He only stopped when he found a twisted piece of iron in his hands, blunt and dented. The table had gotten it bad, too.
Ah, to Maldonaya with it.
Alcine threw the remains of his sword on the floor, ordered the first servant he saw to tidy up, and left the study. Some of his captives were about to get really unlucky. The main wave of anger had subsided, but Alcine still needed to take out his frustration on someone. Why not his enemies?
So, who did he have? Ah, the Ativernans...
Wellster, on the road.
"You're risking a lot, Jess."
"I know."
Jerisson shrugged casually. He knew everything, he understood everything, but he didn't have a choice. Of all the men they had, nobody else could play that role.
Alcine could have fallen for Altres Lort, maybe Count Chantaine...that was it. The rest were too small of a prey for him. But those two were too important in the grand scheme of things.
Jerisson was the perfect man, really. The duke must have heard a lot about him already; he was sure to rise to the fly. How would it happen? What would the count have to contend with? Neither Jerisson himself nor Altres Lort could guess, but they needed to buy time—and prevent Duke Alcine from fleeing.
Risk? Madness? The last word was a great description of the situation in Wellster, and it meant they had to move.
Jerisson saw no other way out. He would do what he could, and after that... It was all in Aldonai's hands.
Onwards, friends! To victory or death!
Virma. Somewhere on the island.
Ian Gardren couldn't believe his luck.
A boat!
Generally, in Virma, people got hanged for stealing boats: by the neck, if they were lucky, by their feet if not, and nobody would condemn the judges. With fish being the main source of food for the locals, the means of obtaining it became incredibly important. Plus, making a good boat wasn't easy.
But what would a boy do? His nanny was weak and out of her mind, the baby girl kept whimpering, it was drizzling, the horses were tired... Ian realized that at this rate, he might not make it to the Hardrings.
He would simply fall down and die. His sister would die with him, too, and so would the last chance of revenge.
The boy didn't hesitate. He tied the horses, emptied the sack of grain they were carrying on the ground for them to eat, and left a few gold coins as payment for the boat.
It was a good payment, too, almost thrice its cost. One coin would have been enough, not to mention the horses that would always come in handy.
All that was left to do was to carve the emblem of Clan Gardren on a log the boat was attached to and get inside. Like any Virman boy his age, Ian knew how to sail. It would be safer for them on the water.
Sailing was easier than riding and required less effort.
Too bad they had nothing to eat, though.
Olive, could you help? You always help those who don't give up. Maybe you could spare us a look too?
For a second, the sun peeked out
from behind the heavy clouds and flashed golden light right into his eyes. The god had heard him.
Virma. The lands of Clan Oronsteg.
Angelina was sitting on a log pouring sand from one hand into the other.
Some people would have never understood her, but the princess appreciated such quiet moments without any handmaidens or people around, when she could remove all masks and be alone with herself, the sky, Virma, and her own thoughts. Especially the last, really.
She knew that she had committed the unthinkable. Still, some things couldn't be changed or altered. So, did she regret it? Alone, she could answer the question honestly: she didn't.
Later, it might happen; later, she could lament her foolhardiness and spend her whole life paying for it. Actually, that seemed pretty likely.
Angelina remembered a story told by Lilian Earton that had gotten stuck in her memory.
Once, two families feuded with each other, and their children fell madly in love. The man died, but the girl survived. She was married off, had children, laughed and was happy, but once...
Imagine that: a cheerful family, children playing around, their parents watching them with a smile on their face, no signs of trouble—and then, something vividly reminds the woman of her tragic past when she was her daughter's age.
She cries, calling for her lover, who died twenty years ago, and can't do anything. She simply dies. Angelina thought that it was the best outcome.
It was impossible to live with something like that or to forget it. Had Angelina condemned herself to such a fate? Possibly. She might not be regretting it at the moment, but could it cause her pain down the road? Maybe. Was she willing to pay the price? She was. On second thought, she realized the difference between herself and the girl in Lilian's story. The girl had wanted to live her entire life with her beloved, hoping for happiness.
Angelina's love for Bran, before it had even a chance to blossom, was already tinged with loss and doomed. They would kill that passion themselves, rip it out of their hearts.
Bran was married, and she was a princess. What was there to talk about? What arguments could they give?
Everything had been perfectly clear from the very beginning. There was no point in torturing herself anymore; she would rather give up and be happy for at least a few days and nights. She would have enough time for pain later. The voyage home, her life in Ativerna...
Richard would know the truth; she couldn't hide it from him. Her father, too. But Joliette?
Angelina considered the question. No, she wouldn't say anything to Jolie. It was too personal; it was only between her and Bran.
She didn't want to waste another minute.
Onwards, Angie! Pull it together! If destiny gave you such a gift as these minutes, use them well!
Thank you, Virman gods. Thank you for Bran. And a special thanks to you, Fleyna.
Suddenly, Angelina felt a chill, as if a breeze ran down her spine like someone laughed in the heavens.
Mortals. Naive, stupid mortals. You play with your feelings, build plans, and hold out hopes. For what?
It doesn't matter. Keep playing, and we, the gods, will watch you and judge you. And then, we'll do everything our way.
Twenty years later, you might be crying, girl, or you might be grateful. Who could know the ways of the gods? Definitely not mortals.
Wellster, Cardin.
"Halt! Who goes here? "
"It's all right! We're on the same side!"
"Password?"
"Betty! "
"Who’s this?"
"Count Earton. We caught him. The duke will surely appreciate it!"
"Ah..."
It was the fourth time Jerisson had heard that conversation, and he liked it less and less each time. From the looks of it, the duke was a right bastard.
The duke... If only Jess could remember his face! But no matter how many jogs down memory lane he made, he couldn't recall it—something blurry, something polite...nope, no luck.
And that duke must have been a smart man, too. If not for the mercenaries on the streets, Jess would have never believed Cardin to be caught in a mutiny. Everything seemed fine and dandy; nobody was demanding justice...
He wondered what had happened to the other Ativernans: Count and Countess Elont, the Roivels, Marquis Losan. They were his people, and Jess had all but forgotten about them.
But he had other things on his mind after a furious ride to the city, always pushing forward, not letting himself stop and think even for a second. Everything had worked just as planned. He was a valuable prisoner, Alcine already knew of him, and so did the patrols and the entire capital. All he needed was to hold on.
Altres Lort was following him with fifteen hundred soldiers. They wouldn't abandon him.
Still, there was a big difference between not abandoning and rescuing in due time. He would prefer to remain all in one piece without any important bits missing.
He hoped that his unsavory reputation could help with that: Jess was known in Wellster as a philanderer, troublemaker, and lady-killer whose best asset was friendship with the crown prince. Nobody would take him seriously, let alone Alcine.
And if Jess did what was expected of him—run away, get caught— the duke would eat it up.
After that, Jerisson's task was simple: draw Alcine's attention and not let him escape. Otherwise, all of their efforts were for naught.
They needed Robert Alcine, preferably alive, if not, then dead, as long as he didn't get away. He was a snake that would keep biting until it was dead. Such enemies couldn't be left alive, absolutely. They needed to crack him and then kill, slowly. All right, maybe quickly—it wouldn't matter anymore; for such plans as his, failure was worse than death.
Jess was aware that he was risking life and limb—if, say, Alcine ordered his men to throw Jess into the torture chamber right away or put him on the rack or...
Altres Lort had searched his memory and told everything he remembered about Alcine. It wasn't a lot, but it was surprisingly not little, either. The Alcines were considered untrustworthy, after all, and needed to be watched.
Too bad he hadn't watched closely enough. Or maybe he had. Why did Alcine have so few men? A thousand wasn't nearly the number for seizing power in a country.
He couldn't get more because he had to hide. It was impossible to gather a huge army in secret and follow the law, at least, in public. Altres had his spies, and they had told him about the duke—apparently, only fifty percent of their information was true, but that was better than nothing.
Alcine was stubborn, vindictive, vengeful, and never denied himself the pleasure of torturing a captive enemy. So was Jess his enemy?
That depended. Alcine was clearly hell-bent on making him one and didn't take no for an answer. That was half the battle. All Jess had to do was to pique Robert's interest for long enough; after that, it would be time for stages two and three of their plan. As for risk...well, Jess had never intended to live forever.
Impending death changes people a lot. Some understood that each moment was precious and decided to play it safe. Some, like Jerisson, decided to live the rest of their life so as not to be ashamed for those moments.
Jess could have refused. It wasn't his home, his country, or his business. He could have refused, but he could never live with himself after that. That's why he did that.
At last, the palace loomed ahead.
"What a meeting!"
It was Baron Fremont.
Oh, for cripes' sake!
Jess eyeballed his former drinking buddy but didn't say a word. He needed to bide his time before striking; at that moment, he had no chance of crushing that bastard, so he shouldn't waste his energy on petty slaps or threats, not to mention a murder attempt. That would have been squashing a bedbug when facing a viper, in a word, foolish.
The baron grinned.
"Count, I'm glad that you've decided to avail yourself of our hospitality. But where's your lovely wife? I hope she'll join us soon!"
"You should fear that rather than hope," Jess retorted. He really wanted to wipe that stupid grin off his face for even one word said about his wife, but he couldn't. What he could do was to speak, as they hadn't gagged him. "Lily was just thinking about getting herself new specimens."
"About what?"
Lily really had contemplated starting up a museum of human anatomy. Jerisson knew her plans, so he explained everything with competence and the smile of a seasoned vivisectionist.
"It's when a human body is cut into parts and put into jars. The ear, the eye, the liver, the lung, I dunno, the heart..."
The baron shuddered.
"What for?"
He even forgot to mock his defeated enemy.
"To learn what people are made of," Jerisson explained. "She'd feel sorry to use a good man, but you, Baron, would fit right in. At least you'd be of use to science if you can't be of use to people."
The mercenaries could barely restrain a chuckle.
The baron realized that he was being made fun of and punched Jerisson in his gut. As usual, Jess tensed his muscles and bent a little, decreasing the force of the blow, but still doubled up and groaned, so as not to get a second helping.
"Hitting captives is easy, huh?"
"And comfortable. So...whose squad are you on?"
"Sharden’s," one of Jerisson's escorts replied.
"Where's he?"
"He said he'll be late."
He really had said that—just before his death.
Leir Olsen had no time for niceties when hanging out the surviving soldiers over the walls of his fortress.
Question first, hang later. What else could they expect? That was the only option.
Jess considered asking the leir to hang Fremont on the same wall as Sharden as a favor to him.
"Go to the guardhouse. I'll have wine and food brought to you. I'll take this one to the duke myself."
The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8) Page 16
