by Jeff Wheeler
While Alensson rode in front of the lines, he could hear the clattering noises of the Ceredigions preparing for battle. His scouts reported that they were securing their baggage and horses behind the lines, that none of the knights were mounted. Hobbling the horses was a measure to embolden an army. It meant that none of the leaders would be able to ride away should the tide turn. It was the ultimate sign that they would conquer or perish. Well, let them perish if they so wished.
A blazing fire raged inside Alensson’s heart. Was this what the Fountain felt like? He was fifteen years old and he was leading an army into battle. He felt confident that it was the Fountain’s will that he drive the usurpers out of his ancient homeland and restore it to its former name and its former glory.
“Do not fear!” the young duke shouted to the men of his army. “We will show these dogs from Ceredigion what men we are! Think of your homes. Think of your families. Think not on the shame of the past but on the glory we will achieve this day. I doubt not your courage. You are each one stronger than those camped yonder. They will fall before our steel! Courage, my brothers! Courage and strength!”
A cheer rose up from the soldiers, and battle cries rent the air. Alensson paused, straining to sense the Fountain. He longed for its reassurance that he was doing the right thing, that it would honor his efforts with success. If it did, he would be renowned in Occitania. He was the Fountain’s willing servant, and it if it brought him victory, he would give credit where it was due. Still, he heard nothing in his mind except his own thudding heartbeat. He turned his horse around and rode down the line, repeating his speech, sending another roar across the camp. Then he raised his sword, pointed at the enemy lines, and started toward the Ceredigion forces.
The knights on horseback did not charge at once. No, Alensson would learn from the mistakes of the past. The Atabyrions marched in step with the horses, bringing the bulk of the army across the field like thunderheads. The smell of sweat and metal stung Alensson’s nose. He was ready for this fight. This was the moment the tide would finally turn in his favor.
“Archers!”
The shouted command came from the throng of enemy ahead. The archers of Ceredigion marched a few steps forward, dropped to one knee, and then loosed the first volley of arrows at them. The swarm of black shafts hurtled into the sky and Alensson and his men raised their shields. The shafts came down like deadly rain. Some soldiers cried out and dropped to the ground, but the shields protected most of them. The bulk of the army moved closer, picking up speed, dodging the remains of the wounded and fallen.
Another storm of arrows came raining down. This was the basic tactic of the Ceredigion forces. Alensson knew if they could survive the deadly hail a bit longer, the arrows would no longer be effective. Shafts rained down on him, glancing off the sturdy armor of his mount, slamming against his shield but not piercing it. His arm grew weary from holding the shield in place but he dared not move it. The Atabyrions continued to march through the haze of pain and torture, faces twisted with grimaces of rage. They were not cowed yet.
“Charge!” Alensson shouted, kicking the flanks of his steed and closing the distance faster. The soldiers were jogging now, scrambling over their fallen comrades. The knights broke free of the men-at-arms, and the horses gained speed, filling the young duke’s heart with the thrill of impending combat.
The front ranks of archers came forward and began hammering the pointed ends of sharpened stakes into the earth. The stakes were intended to impale the charging horses, preventing the knights from breaking through the ranks of lightly armed archers.
Alensson watched in surprise as the archers struggled to fix the stakes into the earth. Summer was nearly at an end, and the fields had been baked by the sun. The archers struggled to get them into position. The wall of spikes would not be ready in time!
“Onward!” he screamed, swinging his sword over his head. The euphoria of battle raged inside him as he realized the fatal flaw in their enemy’s defenses. Whooping with glee, Alensson let his charger plunge ahead. He and the other knights struck the front lines of archers like a scythe, slicing and trampling the men who stood in their way. The Ceredigions scattered like ants from a destroyed mound.
The explosion of noise and violence filled Alensson’s eyes and ears. He was in the midst of the enemy, slashing on each side of his horse. The wall of archers had crumpled, and now the men-at-arms were rushing forward to save their weaker comrades. Alensson was ready for them. He met the enemy head-on, galloping into the ranks of the soldiers as he used the edge, hilt, and flat of his blade with every stroke. The battle cries of his men filled him with confidence. Exhaustion threatened to blunt his strength, but he would not succumb to it. No, he would set the example of courage for his men.
He and his men had plunged deep into the Ceredigic army. The sounds of battle raged around him, and he lost all sense of direction in the maelstrom of violence. Blood clung to his weapon; blood splattered across his armor. He drove forward, cutting and cleaving his way until suddenly there were no more soldiers left in front of him. He blinked rapidly, trying to see through the stinging sweat. It took him a moment to realize where he’d led his men—they’d completely crushed the right flank of the enemy and were now approaching the reserves and the baggage. The baggage was where they’d find all the treasure to pay the soldiers and where the food to feed them would be stored. There were horses hobbled there as well, defended by panicking men.
“Onward! Onward!” Alensson croaked with excitement. He had no idea what was happening in the field behind him, but he’d pushed all the way through to the rear of Deford’s army. If they could encircle the army, they’d be able to attack from all sides. Alensson had hoped he’d be able to face Deford himself. Where was the false duke?
Then arrows began to fly at them from the baggage. One caught Alensson’s horse in the leg and the beast screamed and went down. The weight of Alensson’s armor started to pull at him, but he’d trained for this—he knew how to disengage from his armor before it crushed him. An arrow caught him in the breastplate, hitting him with enough force to spin him around. Where was his shield? Archers were now scuttling out of the baggage like cockroaches. The sight of them caused a shock of surprise and worry. Fear chased into him next. Where had the archers hidden? He began to jog toward the baggage, weaving in his steps to make himself a more difficult target. More arrows lanced at him. It was foolhardy for these men to shoot arrows so close to their own army’s rear, but the archers kept up the withering fire and Alensson felt another bolt strike his helmet.
He spun and collapsed onto his back, the force of the landing knocking the wind out of him. His lungs heaved and twisted, struggling for air, but he couldn’t breathe, and the terror of being strangled made him buck and twist. He rolled over onto his stomach, sweat streaking down his face. Someone hit him from behind with a bowstave.
Still unable to breathe, Alensson twisted his sword, maneuvering it up and out from his own armpit, and caught his attacker in the middle. Air began to squeeze back into his lungs and he coughed violently. The cockroach archers were now jumping away from the baggage and running toward his men, using daggers and hand axes as their weapons.
Alensson killed four of the archers, before another archer shot him at close range. This time the bolt did not simply spin him around—it actually penetrated his armor at his shoulder. The pain was white-hot and searing, and he flopped onto his back once more, groaning in agony. The crushed grass was hardly a cushion. His temples throbbed and his stomach threatened to turn loose his midday food. Cries of the dead and dying sounded all around him, but the world was spinning so fast he could not make sense of it.
“Alen!” Boquette shouted, suddenly standing over him. He knelt, his face turning white at the sight of the arrowhead embedded in his shoulder.
“Help me up!” Alensson grunted in pain.
“Lie still. You’re wounded. Over here! Get a horse over here. It’s the duke! Yes, he’s alive!”<
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An arrow caught Boquette in the back and he stiffened, his sweaty face a rictus of agony, before slumping on top of Alensson’s body, the older man’s weight grinding him down.
The young duke tried to pry the body off himself, but his injured shoulder resisted any attempt to move. A boot kicked Alensson’s head, stunning him, and then he realized the body was being lifted away.
“It’s him! It’s La Marche!”
The voices were thick with foreign accents and Alensson realized with dread that he was surrounded by his enemies.
“Is it fatal?” one of the archers asked.
“No, I shot him in the shoulder on purpose,” said a gap-toothed man. “Why waste a ransom by killing him?”
Alensson wanted to scream at them. He tried to sit up and use his sword, but he suddenly realized he was no longer holding it.
“Down you go!” one of the archer’s sneered, kicking him back down again. “There’s Sir Carter. Oy! Sir Carter! Look who we captured!”
The knight who tromped up to Alensson wore battered and dented armor, but he looked hale and cheerful. “Who’s this?”
“The Duke of La Marche!” one of the archers said proudly.
“Deford will love that,” said the knight. “He’s chasing down the rest of the army. We’ve got the Atabyrions boxed in. It’ll be a slaughter. Get to the front.”
“What about the ransom!”
“We caught him!”
The knight gave them an angry look. “You’ll get your pay, lads. Come see me to claim it after the battle is done. The nobles belong to Deford.” He looked down at Alensson grimly. “He’ll want this one to himself.”
The archers gave the knight black looks and then abandoned their prize. The knight knelt down by Alensson. “It’s a bloody battle, my lord,” he said, giving him a hard look. “You made us earn this one. Lots of dead to bury. But Deford won. Clear as day.” He crinkled his brow. “Are those tears? The arrow must hurt like hornets. Here—have some wine to dull the pain.”
But no amount of wine would ever be enough.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Duke's Ransom
A fragile silence shrouded the room, and Ankarette hardly breathed for fear she would disturb Alensson’s story. These were the memories of a young man, hardly more than a boy, but they had left their mark on the old man standing before her.
The duke’s craggy brows lowered and he turned back to face the poisoner, sitting on the small couch near the window, hands folded in her lap.
“And so I became a prisoner for the first time. By our enemies,” he said, but it was obvious the old wound still festered.
“How long before you were ransomed?” Ankarette asked softly, coaxingly. The night was still impenetrable outside, the buildings and manors lost in shadows.
The duke’s lips twitched. “Five years.” Ankarette’s eyes widened and the duke smiled at her show of emotion. “Remember, Ankarette, that I was newly married. I did not see my wife for the first five years of our marriage.” He clenched his jaw and turned back to the window.
“Why so long?” Ankarette asked in astonishment. “Most ransoms only take months to negotiate.”
“That is true,” he answered softly. “But you see, Deford was determined to break me. He was occupying my duchy. He had claimed my title. He knew that my prospects were based on his downfall, so he was determined to squeeze until I broke. He demanded two hundred thousand crowns. A king’s ransom. Not a duke’s.” He glowered at the window panes, the pain inside him throbbing visibly. “It took five years for my people to collect such a sum. Five years and all my bride’s pleading with her father, who was a still a prisoner himself after falling at Azinkeep, and anyone else who would lend a single farthing. All of my lands, all of my manors, all of my curtains, all of my spoons. Every . . . single . . . thing.” He chuckled softly. “And still it was not enough.”
“What about the prince? Did Chatriyon lend any?”
Alensson shrugged. “Some. But he had to maintain his court at Shynom. Remember that this was all before the Maid. He relied on others for his own living just as I did. As long as men were willing to risk their coin that he would become King of Occitania someday, he could eke out his days and pay for soldiers he couldn’t afford on his own. The battle of Vernay crippled Atabyrion.”
Ankarette leaned forward. “I don’t understand what happened, though. You broke through Deford’s lines. That’s usually a good thing.”
He smiled at her. “You know military tactics, eh? You’re more than a poisoner? I presume so. Yes, it is normally a good sign. We thought we were striking the main front of the army, but we had attacked on the flank where their lines were thin. The victory was a costly one for Deford’s army, but while they lost several thousand men, we lost more. When my men saw they were surrounded, many tried to flee back to Vernay for protection. Deford cut them down in their retreat. Many commanders drowned in the moat. The counts of Omaul and Chevronne both died like that. Good men, princes of the blood. Once our main army was in retreat, Deford encircled the Atabyrions and slew them almost to the man, taking few for ransom. When the battle was over, Deford marched triumphantly back to Pree, the capital of Occitania, and was met with a celebration as if he were King Andrew himself.” His lip quivered with disgust. “He took the victory as a sign that the Fountain was on the side of Ceredigion. It was a festive moment. And I was sent to Callait to rot for five years.”
Ankarette looked at him compassionately. Her heart ached for the man, but even more for his young wife. “Such a fall must have been very difficult for you.”
Alensson started pacing, stroking his chin and cheeks with a wrinkled hand. He was a such a riddle of a man, one that had fascinated her for years. Again she was struck by the enormous opportunity that was laid before her, to learn his history from his own mouth instead of a book.
“Of course it was!” he said with vehemence. “But I did not let the imprisonment shake me. Or shape me. The Fountain favors the bold. I was determined to be free, to repay every crown that had been borrowed on my behalf. I longed to see my wife. You cannot imagine what torture it was being parted from her. I thought she would hate me as the months rolled on. I could not see her, but we could write to each other. How her notes of encouragement comforted me. I grew to love her more in those years of privation than many husbands ever love their wives.” He swung his arms wildly to emphasize his point. “Troubles are the furnaces, my dear. Troubles and heat, troubles and heat. Does not a baker need fire to stiffen the dough? For every kind of pie, there is the proper time in the ovens. The Fountain has a purpose—nay a recipe!—for each of us. If we endure the flames well, then we become more than the eggs, the flour, the spices, the drabs of honey!”
Ankarette smiled at his comparison. “I’ve never heard it put that way, but you are right. Even my own king, the man that I serve, was captured and held prisoner. It was his adversity that helped him establish a strong kingdom.”
Alensson snapped his fingers and then wagged his pointer at her. “You see it, Ankarette Tryneowy. You understand it!” His eyes were big and eager. “In my five years as a prisoner in Callait, I did not rot . . . I cooked. Some men grow lazy in confinement. They grow cynical. I only grew more ambitious. I kept my body hard and firm by practicing with the guards. Through it all, I was a good-natured captive. Gall never attracts bees. You know this to be true! One year turned to two, then two turned to three. My wife, Jianne, helped bring it all together. She could have left me in the dust. Many women would have. Instead, she lived in a humble cottage. She kept a few fine gowns, of course, for when she needed to visit a countess or an earl, but she lived humbly, her only constant companion a single maid who never abandoned her, and she wrote to me, and slowly she assembled a vast fortune. Two hundred thousand crowns!” His voice throbbed with unquenched devotion. “She bought my release with sweat, and patience, and promises to repay that we dared not hope to be able to fulfill. When the sum was gathered, even Defo
rd was surprised. He’d hoped to be able to keep me captive until he’d vanquished the rest of Occitania.” A sly grin stole over his mouth. “But his ambitions had proven to be more of a challenge than he’d thought.”
Ankarette felt a blossoming admiration for this woman she’d never met. “When were you reunited with your wife?”
He folded his arms and leaned back against the window abutment. “It was the summer, nearly five years after the failure of Vernay.” He paused. “At the time, they said Vernay was a repeat of Azinkeep. But no one remembers it anymore.”
Ankarette nodded. “I’d never heard of it either, and I’ve read many histories of Ceredigion.”
“The reason is because what happened next will be remembered longer than even Azinkeep. It will be remembered for all time. You see, while I was in my cage, there was a young peasant girl growing up in the village of Donremy. She was special, Ankarette. I had always hoped that if I worked at it hard enough, the Fountain would speak to me. It did eventually. It did it through a girl—that stubborn, proud waif of a girl!” He pushed away from the wall and fetched a goblet, then took a single swill from it. “Let me tell you her story next, Ankarette Tryneowy. I knew it because I lived it. I was the poorest man in Occitania. I had nothing. Even my sword was borrowed! But when I met the Maid, she looked at me. She knew who I was even before I could announce it.”
His eyes filled with tears. “She gave me my nickname that day. She called me her gentle duke until she died.”
