The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

  “For you, my lord,” the girl stammered, walking in. “Where would you like the tray?”

  “I don’t recognize you,” Alensson said. “Where is Katalina?”

  “She’s . . . sick,” the girl apologized. Ankarette could hear the lie. The girl’s face was pale. Her eyes were lowered, but she kept starting to turn and then stopping. Ankarette deduced that she hadn’t come alone and the person who had come with her was skilled at moving quietly.

  “Right over there, if you please,” Alensson said, motioning to the small table where the remains of his dinner still sat. “Take the other tray with you, girl.”

  “Yes, my lord. Anything else, my lord?” The girl was absolutely frantic to leave. She hastily went to the table, then set down the new tray and began cleaning up the other one.

  “Yes, one thing.”

  The girl paused, her shoulders quivering. “Yes?”

  “Tell the man who poisoned my food that I’m not very hungry.”

  Ankarette closed her fingers over the pillow. Her heart was pounding, but her nerves were taut. She saw someone move in the shadows of the doorway. The man took one step forward and threw a dagger at Alensson.

  Ankarette had expected it after hearing Alensson’s pronouncement about the meal. She flung the pillow at exactly the right moment, and it blocked the dagger from meeting its mark. The old duke was quick and was already leaning to one side. The blade would have sailed past him and crashed into the window if Ankarette hadn’t changed its course. The serving girl shrieked and cowered, gibbering with fear as Ankarette rushed after the murderer.

  He was already fleeing back down the steps when she reached the doorway. Her aim with a dagger was better than his.

  She had poisoned the tip, naturally, and its venom worked quickly. By the time she reached his trembling body, his eyes had rolled back in his head and his lips had turned blue. She found the poisoner’s supplies and quickly confiscated them. His fall may have been heard lower down the stairs, so she needed to act quickly. She pulled his body back up into the room.

  “Garderobe?” she asked, panting with the exertion. All the muck from the privies in castles was sent down garderobe holes, which dumped into the moat around the yard. This palace was built alongside a river, which would make it even easier to hide the body.

  Alensson was kneeling next to the girl, comforting her, but he pointed toward the closet.

  With a heave, Ankarette tilted the body of the poisoner into the garderobe shaft and listened to the sickening scraping noise it made it as it slid and then plummeted into the abyss.

  She was sweating from the work, but she’d dragged bodies before.

  By the time she finished, Alensson had gotten the serving girl talking. The poisoner had killed her friend, who’d refused to assist in the murder attempt, and he’d grabbed her next. She was so grateful to be alive, she’d do anything they asked of her.

  Alensson patted the serving girl’s shoulder. “Now, you tell the butler, Geoffre, what happened. Do you understand me, lass? Tell him that a man tried to kill me tonight. But you tell him that the old duke won’t be beaten so easily. Don’t tell him about her,” he said, pointing to Ankarette. “Would you do that for me?”

  She was sniffling and wiped her nose. “I swear it, my lord. I swear it.”

  “Good girl. Now be on your way.” He gave her a kindly smile, and she took the dirty tray and the poisoned tray away.

  After she left, Alensson turned to Ankarette. “We worked well together, Ankarette. Would I could persuade you to rescue me from this dungeon. That’s the third time Chatriyon’s son has tried to murder me.”

  Ankarette felt bile rise in her throat. “The third time?”

  Alensson nodded. “I’m a popular choice for executioners. Yes, I’ve committed treason. Who wouldn’t when you have such a black king.” He enunciated the last two words slowly and deliberately and quite differently, his eyes watching Ankarette’s for a reaction, but he saw only befuddlement. He seemed disappointed.

  “King Lewis has an inordinate number of poisoners working for him,” Ankarette said. “They call him the Spider King in the poisoner school in Pisan.”

  Alensson chuckled. “A fitting name for a cunning king. His father, my king, had a different title. Chatriyon Le Victorieux. Chatriyon the Victorious.” His face crumpled with resentment.

  “I take it you do not agree with the nickname,” Ankarette mused.

  Alensson’s frown was fierce. “He never fought in a single battle,” he said tightly, his voice throbbing with anger. “He was a coward, though he justified his cowardice through the claim that his son was too young. If Chatriyon died, it would have been easy for his enemies to fetch and destroy his heir. The Ceredigics are butchers, you know. For them, defeating a man isn’t enough—they also try to wipe out his heirs. They want to end the game, you see,” he added darkly in a half whisper.

  “You’ve mentioned that several times,” Ankarette said curiously. “What game?”

  He smirked, but Ankarette could see he regretted his choice of words. “The game of war, of course,” he said, covering for himself poorly. “It’s always been played.” That was not what he had meant, and she knew it. There was something more, something deeper that she was beginning to gain awareness of.

  “Why did you rebel against your king?” she asked him pointedly.

  He folded his arms imperiously. “Let me tell you the rest of her story. We don’t have much time before the guards arrive. You need to be gone unless I can persuade you to take me with you.”

  “Tell me the story before I decide,” Ankarette said. It would be difficult smuggling Alensson out of the palace. But she was fascinated by his story and wanted to know more. She knew what had happened to the Maid. That story was famous. But what about Alensson’s wife, Jianne? Had they had any children? Was she still alive?

  “I will be brief then,” he said, taking his seat again at the window. “When Lionn fell, my wife came immediately with the court. The Maid had prophesied that she herself would lift the siege and she had. It was absolutely evident that she was truly Fountain-blessed. Word of the victory spread and the Maid insisted that she fulfill the Fountain’s will by bringing Chatriyon to the sanctuary at Ranz and crowning him king. Well, Ranz was inside enemy territory. There were several garrisons of Ceredigic forces occupying defensive positions along the route. The Maid insisted that the army march and clear the way for the prince to attend his coronation. All our enemies would fall.” He laughed and shook his head. “The audacity! She was a spirited girl, Ankarette. I admired her and respected her. And yes, I was envious as well. Why hadn’t the Fountain chosen me to save our people? Why had it entrusted its will to a slip of a girl who should have been carding wool in Donremy? Instead of shearing sheep, she’d shorn her hair, donned a suit of armor, and carried a banner into war. She was extraordinary!” He sighed at the memory. “But my wife was worried about the danger after seeing the battlefield. She grew fearful that something was going to happen to me. She was so worried that I would die.”

  His voice became tender as he said the words. “I miss her so.”

  “What happened?” Ankarette asked. “Obviously you did survive.”

  He grinned at her. “I nearly did not.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A New Heart

  Alensson was in a war council with Aspen Hext, Earl Doone, and Genette when word arrived that the prince’s court had been spotted approaching Lionn and would soon arrive. They hovered around the bulky parchment map spread across the circular table where they had been poring over the rivers, cities, and towns of Occitania. Their attention was narrowed on the road from Lionn to Ranz—and its proximity to where Deford’s army from Westmarch was gathering in Pree.

  Lord Hext jabbed his finger on the map. “Chatriyon is almost here and we still haven’t agreed on a course of action. Why not attack Pree?”

  “Because the Fountain wills that the prince be crowned at Ranz,” Gene
tte insisted. “We will take Pree in proper order, my lord. But first he must be crowned. It is imperative.”

  “But I don’t understand why,” Hext argued. “Look here. The road to Pree is the most direct road to Ranz.”

  “We could go this way, through Troye,” Doone suggested, tapping another city midway between them but farther south.

  “Yes,” Genette said. “That is the way.”

  “Once a boulder starts tumbling down a hill, it gains speed and power,” Hext said. “The men are feeling triumphant after our victory here. Let’s test them against the gates of Pree!”

  “And we will,” Genette said, looking up at him. “But first, we must crown the king. Our safety depends on it.”

  Alensson felt there was some deeper meaning beneath his words, but he couldn’t comprehend it. “And you feel it is the Fountain’s will, Genette?”

  “I don’t feel it, Gentle Duke, I know it.”

  Alensson looked at Hext. “Why are we arguing against her idea?”

  “Because it goes against the principles of military strategy,” Hext said, exasperated. “Don’t give your enemy time to recover. Hit them again, while they are off balance. They are more likely to topple as word of our victories spread through the kingdom. You don’t think that the people are happy having a usurper as king?”

  Alensson folded his arms. “The usurper is a child, Lord Hext. His father defeated us at Azinkeep. Deford is merely doing his duty. I agree that we must reclaim our land. But if we lost Azinkeep because we ceased heeding the Fountain in the past, this is our opportunity to mend things. We must present a united front to Chatriyon. No doubt the gossips and double dealers at Shynom have been whispering in his ear, persuading him this is folly. If Genette says our destination is Ranz, then we go there.” He glanced at her and saw the grateful smile on her mouth.

  “We must go to Ranz, my lords,” she said. “The prince will not argue about the route we take.”

  Hext sniffed in through his nose. Alensson could tell it galled him that they were taking advice from an inexperienced girl. It went against his feelings, against his nature, against his better judgment. Lord Hext had hailed her victory as a miracle after the siege of Lionn had broken. But now that the deed was done, its magnificence and wonder were beginning to fade. One feat could not make him forget the habits and beliefs of a lifetime.

  “So be it,” Hext said, sniffing again. He looked at Doone, who nodded to him in agreement, and then they dispersed from the war council to wait in the courtyard for the entourage to arrive.

  It was a long wait.

  When Chatriyon Vertus finally arrived at Lionn, the city took up a cheer that was impressive in its volume and clamor. Alensson rocked impatiently on his heels, his hand gripping his wrist behind his back. Jianne had sent word that she was coming with the entourage, just as Genette had foreseen, and he was anxious for her to arrive.

  “Patience, Gentle Duke,” the Maid advised him with a wry smile.

  “So says the doctor who does not have to endure the medicine himself,” he quipped back. Her smile broadened. “Did you leave a beau back in Donremy, Genette?” he asked, suddenly curious. “Is there some young shepherd pining for your return?”

  That easy smile quickly vanished and a strange, almost guilty look crept into her eyes. “No one, my lord,” she stammered. Her cheeks began to flush.

  “I’m surprised. Or maybe I shouldn’t be,” he said jokingly. “You are rather outspoken.”

  The flushing deepened to a rosy blush. She had feelings for someone, that much was clear. But her reticence implied her affections were not returned. “Ahh, I see.” He leaned closer. “Your secret is safe with me, Genette. I’ll tease you no further.”

  All her self-confidence and bravado had vanished, and she looked very much like a young woman in that moment, even encased in polished armor—a bit dented, although the gash had been repaired by the blacksmith—and holding her war-ravaged banner. She might look like a soldier, like some knight-errant—but she was still a young woman with a woman’s tender feelings. She gave him a grateful look, a short nod, and then stared fixedly at the gates.

  Chatriyon arrived in splendor, wearing the crimson jeweled tunic that he had doffed several months ago to impersonate someone else. Off came his hat, its sweeping plumes fluttering in the breeze as he swung it low as a token of respect to the Maid, who had won her first battle.

  Genette quickly fell to one knee. “My lord,” she said with a hint of anxiety in her voice. “Welcome to Lionn. Your city greets you.”

  “Thanks to you,” Chatriyon said in a pleasant, respectful tone. His horse was restless, and several royal grooms rushed forward to help him dismount, an act which made Alensson sneer inwardly. A pampered man who ate the best foods, wore the best clothing, supported by the richest nobles.

  As well as the poorest one, he thought blackly to himself.

  And then he saw Jianne amongst the crowd, his eye drawn to her like an arrow to its mark. He bowed to the king respectfully and then hurried to her side. She had a fearful look in her eyes, as if uncertain of how to dismount amidst such a crowd. She had no servants to look after her or tend to her needs. Alensson was only too grateful to oblige.

  “Let me help you, my lady,” he offered, seizing the reins. He whistled softly, soothing the mare.

  “Alensson!” Jianne gasped with emotion, her eyes suddenly swimming with tears. He reached up, fixing his hands around her waist, and helped bring her down gracefully. Her hair was windswept, her hood hiding the mane that he longed to see. Her cheeks were a pleasant pink despite her dusky skin. He enveloped her in his arms in front of everyone and kissed her soundly on the mouth, the act bringing a chorus of cheers from a group of soldiers who happened to be nearby.

  She returned the kiss in an almost greedy way, not caring if the world saw them. Then she pulled back and stroked his cheek. “You need to shave, my lord husband,” she said, running her fingers through his shaggy hair.

  “I’m too poor to afford a barber,” he said with a smile, “but if you’d do the honors?”

  She nodded eagerly and then hugged him close, pressing her cheek against his chest and squeezing him so hard he felt little tremors in her arms. He held her like that for a long while, stroking her hair.

  “Now I can kiss you properly,” Jianne said, wiping the last bit of lather away with a towel. With all the commotion going on in the castle, they had been interrupted at least a dozen times by knocks and servants asking when the duke would be able to join his lord down in the war room. He was hungry to see her again, hungry to be alone with her again, anxious for the noise to fade and the night to fall and for the blissful silence that would eventually come.

  He kissed her again, feeling his heart burning with unquenchable love. Soon he would leave again. Too soon. After a lingering kiss, he pulled away. “I must go.”

  “Before you do,” she said, catching his sleeve.

  He looked at her curiously. They were sitting side by side on a small sofa. He took her hands and gave her a probing look. “What is it?”

  She looked down nervously before looking back up to meet his eyes. “Alensson, I think I’m with child.” The words were spoken almost fearfully, as if she wasn’t sure how he would react.

  He was unprepared for the news, which made him feel as if a lance had struck his shield in the perfect spot, hurling him from the saddle and down on his backside in the dust. He was speechless, shocked, and then his insides roiled with delight and feelings he had never experienced before, feelings so pure and tender and bright it was like staring too long at the sun.

  “Are you, dearest?” he asked breathlessly, cupping her cheek. Was it a dream? Would he suddenly awaken back in his tent amidst a war camp? “I could not imagine . . . I dared not hope so soon!” He felt a fiery intensity inside his chest and he pulled her close to him, kissing her neck, kissing her cheek.

  “I’m not . . . absolutely certain,” she said with worry in her voice.
“I could be wrong.”

  “But you think it’s true,” he said, shaking his head, smoothing hair from her brow. “I’ll not second-guess you. A woman should know these things better than a man! My love, I cannot tell you how happy I am. My heart is fit to burst!”

  She winced at his words. “But you are going away,” she said, taking his hands into her lap and squeezing them hard. “You must go. I’m not trying to stop you. But I know so little about childbirth. There is no midwife we know or trust. There may be troubles. And I’ll worry about you.” Her eyes filled with tears and several streaked down from her lashes. “I’m grateful, so very grateful to have you.”

  And it was at that exact moment a knock sounded on the door. Alensson gritted his teeth, preparing to curse at whoever was disturbing this moment. If it was the prince himself, he’d earn a scolding that would blister his ears.

  “Be patient, they don’t know,” Jianne said worriedly, seeing the frustration in his eyes.

  Alensson marched over to the door and yanked it hard by the handle, ready to spew out oaths that would make the intruder shrink and cringe.

  Genette was standing at the doorway, no longer in her full armor, but wearing a chain hauberk beneath a royal tunic the prince had brought for her.

  His mouth was open, the words ready to tumble out, but he slowly shut his jaw.

  “Gentle duke,” the Maid chided softly. “The prince commands you to attend to him.” Then she looked at Jianne and a tender, sympathetic look rippled across her face. “Greetings, sweet duchess. I congratulate you on the news.”

  Jianne looked momentarily surprised, but she had been an ardent believer in the Maid from the beginning and her look shifted to gratitude. “Thank you, Genette,” his wife said, rising from the couch. She reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand. “You have a duty to the prince,” she said.