by Jeff Wheeler
Her magic told her that she could trust this man. He was a traitor to his king, but only because he served a higher cause. He served the Fountain.
All of her thoughts and plans and schemes melted away. She walked up to the grizzled duke and dropped down onto one knee in reverent respect. She looked up at him. “You are Alensson, Duke of La Marche? Your father was duke before you, and his father duke before him. Your mother is Marie of Brythonica?”
The duke looked down at her. “Get up, get up! None of that, girl. I’m the duke of nothing.” He chuckled sardonically, his expression darkening. “La Marche has been in the hands of Ceredigion since the Battle of Azinkeep. They call it . . . they call it Westmarch! Ugh. I do not like that tongue. You speak ours well enough, girl. I’m impressed. Come on, I said get up!”
Ankarette rose, almost too amazed to speak. “The Maid . . . she told you I was coming?” Her heart skipped faster at the thought.
The duke nodded sagely, folding his arms. Then he stepped back and seated himself on the window seat once again. “She did, lass. That was nearly forty years ago. Before she was captured. Before she was killed.” His eyes turned hard as flint as he spoke the words. Even after so many years, the wound pained him. She could see it in his flesh, his cheeks.
“And I know why you’re here,” the duke said softly. “You’re looking for her sword. The one drawn from the fountain at St. Kathryn of Firebos.”
Ankarette’s heart quickened at the revelation. “Yes. I was sent by my king to find it. Or to stop Lewis from using it against him.”
The duke laughed—a brittle, gritty laugh. “Lewis doesn’t have it,” he said contemptuously. “And neither did his father. The one who betrayed her.” Anger smoldered in his eyes. “Neither do I.”
Ankarette was disappointed, but she had come too far to quit so easily. “Do you know where it is? The legends say it is King Andrew’s sword. Whoever wields it will rule all the kingdoms.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “And that is what your king desires? Even more power?” He shook his head disdainfully. “That is all men ever want. There is no slaking the thirst of ambition. Don’t I know. Don’t I know.” He hung his head sorrowfully. Then he clapped his hands on his knees. “What is your name, lass?”
“Ankarette Tryneowy,” the poisoner answered without hesitation.
“Before we speak of the sword, Ankarette, we must first speak of her. Everyone calls her the Maid. But she had a name. She was a girl, like you. A peasant child from the village Donremy. She told me you would come, aye, and she commanded me in the name of the Fountain to tell you her story before I died.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Sit down, Ankarette Tryneowy. Make yourself comfortable. It is a long story. But we have all night.” He leaned forward. “To understand her, you must understand why the Fountain chose her. You see, the Fountain stopped protecting Occitania because we were unfaithful to it. When I was a young cub, my father died during the Battle of Azinkeep. You know of it, of course. My father sent a knight, Boquette, to safeguard me and my mother away from La Marche. Boquette trained me in war. He taught me about honor and Virtus, and all the things a father should. He believed the Fountain would choose me to save our people. And so I came to believe it too.”
CHAPTER TWO
Vernay
Wars were not decided by battlefield tactics and the valor of half-drunken terrified soldiers. They were decided by trickery and deceit. It was an audacious plan. And Alensson was convinced it would work.
“There’s the city,” Boquette said under his breath, his voice husky with nerves. There was a slick feeling of fear in the air, but it was tempered by the thrill of the bet, the toss of the dice, the feeling of fortune hanging in the balance. “Have you been to Vernay, lad?”
Alensson bristled at the disparagement of his youth. He was fifteen years old, newly married to his best friend, a peer of the realm who was his own age, and he was wearing armor and riding a warhorse into battle. His mother and his wife’s uncle had persuaded the prince to sanction his match to the heiress of the duchy of Lionn after Alensson’s wardship to her uncle had proved more than amicable. Surely he wasn’t a lad any longer, yet his father’s old bodyguard still treated him like one.
“Aye, when I was a boy,” he answered brusquely, letting the defensiveness show in his tone.
“You’ve never been bloodied in battle,” Boquette said with a grunt. “You’re a whelp.”
“I’ve done nothing but train in war since my father died at Azinkeep,” Alensson said between his teeth. “You’ve seen to that. There’s not a man within a hundred leagues who can beat me with a sword—yourself included, Boquette.”
Boquette chuckled to himself before replying, “A training yard is one thing, son. A very different thing.”
“I will take back my duchy, town by town, castle by castle,” Alensson said passionately. “We start in Vernay. Then we conquer Averanche. Then drive Deford out of Tatton Hall and send him back to Kingfountain with his tail cut off!”
“I like your energy, lad. But don’t count coins until they’re in your purse. Deford is lord protector. You’re not just facing another duke, a man of your own rank. You’re facing a man who can bring the might of the army of Ceredigion down on us.”
“Let him then,” Alensson sneered. “We won’t be defeated like my father was. The Ceredigic king died of dysentery and left a newborn to inherit two crowns. Let’s wrest one of them back before the brat gets his teeth.”
Boquette chuckled sardonically again. “It wasn’t dysentery, lad. A poisoner got to him.” His scar looked white and puckered through the thicket of his unshaven whiskers.
“You think so?” Alensson hated the slight quaver in his voice.
Boquette nodded sagely. “I heard some men whispering about it over their cups. Deford is not the same man as his brother. He wasn’t even at Azinkeep. This is our chance. If this ruse works, we’ll take Vernay without a fight and have a means to support ourselves.” He sighed. “But if it fails, you may get a chance yet to show off your, ahem, skills.”
From their vantage point, disguised as guards and riding chargers, the situation looked strange and otherworldly. Their ruse was simple. Fifty men wearing the kilts and badges of Atabyrion were seated backward on their horses, their arms tied behind their backs, the customary position for defeated foes being marched as hostages after a battle. The dozen horsemen leading the prisoners wore hastily sewn uniforms bearing the badge of Deford, three white scallops on a field of black. Some peasant girls had sewn the liveries for them, and while they wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny, they were convincing from atop a city wall. The Atabyrions’ language was the closest to Ceredigion’s, and the soldiers had been handpicked to be their spokesmen.
A horn sounded in the distance from the city of Vernay, sending a prickle of gooseflesh down Alensson’s back. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. If the city guards didn’t fall for the deception, then Alensson’s troops would be hit with a hail of arrows from archers on the walls. Riders would chase down all who survived.
“I hope this works,” Boquette grumbled.
“It will,” Alensson said under his breath. “Now lift your head like you’re a proud warrior of Ceredigion.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’ve waited nine years for this,” Alensson said. He changed his posture and bearing, throwing his shoulders back. Even though he was fifteen, he was fit and had often passed for a much older man. His thoughts wandered momentarily to the tearful kiss his young wife had given him before he left her three days earlier. It was her family’s fortunes that were sustaining him, since his own lands had been settled on Deford, the new duke of Westmarch. The thought of the new title made him boil with anger. These were Alensson’s lands! This was his city! He was confident he’d take Vernay and Averanche. Then he would set up his bride, Jianne, in the castle there while he fought for the rest of his lands.
Alensson had
started in the training yard as a lad of eight. He’d been bludgeoned with wooden swords until he was ten. His nose had been broken once and his knuckles and fingers had been hammered mercilessly until he’d wept from pain. But the pain had never made him quit, for it was never as keen as the shame he’d felt over the loss of his land and title. Some even said Alensson’s relentless determination to master the arts of war was an early sign the lad was Fountain-blessed. He’d never actually heard the whispers of the Fountain, but he religiously tossed coins into the chapel fountains wherever he went and listened to the lapping of the waters, seeking a sign that he had finally been chosen. These actions did nothing to discourage the rumors. And why would he want to discourage them? He hoped it would happen to him. Besides, building a reputation took time and success. Vernay would be his first.
Be careful, my love. Be very careful.
He could see her dark hair in his mind, hair that was naturally wavy and long. Her eyes were the color of cinnamon. She was worried about him, but Alensson was confident his plan would work.
As the ‘prisoners’ arrived outside the main gates of Vernay, the horses grew restless. The bound men were all holding the loose ends of their ropes in their clenched fists. They each had weapons concealed and ready to use. Their armor and faces were deliberately smeared with mud to give the impression they’d recently been in a battle. Their countenances were angry and sullen.
“Oy!” shouted his captain of the guard to the soldiers assembled atop the battlement. His cry rang out in the air. Many of the soldiers atop the wall wore the livery of Ceredigion. These were Deford’s men. But most wore the colors of Occitania. This was a local garrison, provided by the Count of De Paul.
“Who are you?” shouted the officer atop the wall. “I don’t recognize you!”
“It’s me, Sir Sallust, you idiot!” the soldier said in a patronizing tone. They had chosen to impersonate him because of the man’s widespread reputation for cruelty. Sallust balked at the merest hint of defiance or disobedience, so they were less likely to question him. “Deford crushed these Atabyrion knaves in a battle yesterday. He ordered me to hold them here while he chases down the men who fled the field like cowards. Open the bloody gate!”
A cheer went up from the soldiers on the wall and Alensson licked his lips. He trembled with anticipation, anxious for the matter to be ended. Movement along the wall was followed by the groans of timber, and the gate began to swing open to permit the hostages to be brought inside. Giddy triumph swelled in his breast. It was working, by the Fountain!
As the gate lumbered open, Alensson kicked his steed’s flanks to get it moving and nodded for Boquette to join him as they rode forward. The garrison cheered them on as they entered, taunting the Atabyrion prisoners with contempt and rude remarks.
“When?” Boquette hissed under his breath.
“Hold,” Alensson muttered back, holding up his hand and waving to the garrison soldiers as they came in. Someone thrust a bladder of wine up at him to celebrate, but he ignored the outstretched arm. He turned in his saddle, watching the horses come in. He outnumbered the garrison considerably. The cheers of victory would melt in their throats.
He rode up to the Atabyrion man pretending to be Sir Sallust, who was turned backward in the saddle, waving in the prisoners and jeering at them as they rode past. The chain hood helped conceal his face from the bystanders. The fellow had the best accent of them all. Alensson hadn’t trusted his own abilities to mimic the brogue.
“When was battle, Sir Sallust?” the garrison captain said, walking up to the Atabyrion with a pleased look. “How many fell? We had no word there was an army even close to Averanche. Was it a surprise attack?”
“Oh, it was a surprise attack,” the Atabyrion responded with a chuckle.
As soon as the young duke saw the last of the soldiers enter the city, he swung off the saddle in a practiced, easy move, and the garrison captain looked at him askance, his brow suddenly furrowed, as if he knew he should recognize Alensson’s face but could not quite recall it.
“It was a short battle,” Alensson said. “Because it was unexpected.”
“You’re Occitanian!” the garrison captain said in shock.
“It’s the duke!” someone blurted.
“That’s not Deford!” someone else countered.
“No, it’s La Marche!”
Alensson drew his sword and bowed graciously to the garrison captain. “Good morning, Captain,” he said. “The rightful duke has returned to Vernay. This is my city. Be so good as to surrender it back to me.”
First, the sound of ropes sloughing off, then, complete pandemonium as the Atabyrion prisoners jumped off their horses with weapons in hand, ready to completely overcome the guards within the city.
The garrison captain was brave. Foolish, but brave. Alensson could have run the captain through before the man’s sword was clear of its scabbard, but his training in Virtus would not permit him to kill a defenseless man who wanted to fight him. The two men crossed blades. The garrison captain was easily double Alensson’s age, with a receding hairline and a few flecks of gray in his otherwise blond goatee. His eyes were wide with horror—he’d handed his garrison over to the enemy because of a trick, and Deford would doubtless be furious and vengeful.
Alensson parried the captain’s panic-impaired attempts to kill him, then kicked him hard in the stomach and knocked him down on his back. The fight was over in seconds, Alensson standing above him with the sword pointed at his chest.
“Yield,” Alensson said.
“I surrender,” the captain gasped, for his sword had fallen out of his hand and was well beyond his reach. His face was white with terror. “Are you even a knight yet?” the captain said as he cowered.
“Not yet,” Alensson answered brusquely. “Will someone ransom you?”
“My father will ransom me,” the captain said in a quavering voice. “Sir Giles of Beestone castle.”
“Then I accept your surrender and your ransom,” Alensson answered. He lowered his sword and then extended his hand to help the captain to his feet. The Atabyrions had overcome the Ceredigion guards and were now stripping away the badges of Westmarch they had worn on their tunics. The derision they had faced upon entering the gates was now turned back on the guardsmen. The men had gone from being oppressors to prisoners in one fell swoop.
Alensson could not help but smile in pleasure. Not a single man had fallen. He gripped his sword hilt, savoring the joy of his triumph.
“I’ll send word to my father at once,” said the garrison captain. His tone was changing now that his life was no longer in jeopardy. Then a hard edge came to it. “But you won’t be holding this city for long, boy. The duke is at Averanche with six thousand men.”
Alensson turned and scowled. His blood boiled with fury. “I am the duke!” he roared.
CHAPTER THREE
Revenge
Alensson’s heart fluttered with fear and excitement as he bounded up the steps to the battlement walls. The Atabyrion and Occitanian soldiers clustered together as they filled the rampart and shoved against one another for a view.
“Stand aside, it’s the duke!” Boquette grumbled as Alensson finished climbing the steps, his hair suddenly tumbled by the breezy height. Soldiers shuffled past each other, trying to clear a space for him to look over the wall.
Then he saw it, a glimmering centipede of soldiers bristling with spears and pennants marching toward Vernay. The colorful flag of Deford’s banner fluttered in the breeze.
“No hiding his approach,” Alensson said to Boquette. His innards were seething with anticipation and eagerness.
“No, he’s not hiding it at all,” Boquette drawled.
“How many does he have?”
“The scouts say no more than seven thousand.”
A thrill of confidence ignited inside the young duke. “We outnumber him then. We’ve drawn in nearly twenty thousand!” He laughed. “He’s a proud fool. He should have sought r
einforcements from Kingfountain. The rest of his men are stretched out across La Marche, trying to hold it. Seven thousand! I feared it would be fifteen.”
Boquette rubbed his lip. “Remember his brother’s army at Azin—”
“Don’t say it, Boquette, don’t even utter the words!” Alensson said, clenching his arm and squeezing it. “We will not be held hostage to memories of the past. We know their tactics. They’ll use archers as they did before. They’ll drive stakes into the ground to stop our horses. We know this! We’ve chosen the ground this time. We have a defensible position to fall back to.” He shook his head angrily. “No, this is nothing like before. This is my chance to avenge my father.”
Boquette did not look convinced. “Don’t underestimate these foes, lad. I know the prince trusts you enough to have given you command of this army. But listen to the advice of the sergeants. Many of them fought in the battle of Azinkeep. They’re still afraid.”
Alensson shook his head. “That’s our problem, Boquette. Fear. It saps a man’s courage worse than a disease. I will not let it infect me or these men. This is our time. I want the soldiers called out to the field. Right now. We’re going to fight them in an open battle. Let the enemy quail when they see our numbers. This is our first step in reclaiming Occitania. Prince Chatriyon is the rightful heir, not the dead king’s brat.”
Boquette grimaced. “That brat is a prince of the blood of Occitania!”
“But Deford isn’t,” Alensson said. “He may be the protector, but he holds no right on his own. He will bleed like other men do. Prepare for battle.”
Alensson sat stiffly on his war charger, heavily encumbered by armor. From his mount, he had a clear view of the field that lay ahead and the enemy soldiers arrayed opposite him. In addition to his usual sword, he was equipped with a battle axe—his father’s preferred weapon. It was the same one his father had used in the Battle of Azinkeep, and the wood was still stained with blood. He brought his horse down the line of Atabyrion warriors who formed the front ranks of the army, nearly seven thousand in all. On each flank were Occitanian knights in their silver armor, pennants flapping as they anxiously tried to calm their mounts. Beyond them were thousands of paid Occitanian men-at-arms, men who clearly feared the fight ahead of them. That’s why he’d put them in the rear. The Atabyrions were anxious for a brawl.
