The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

  “My first duty is to you,” he reminded her, pinching her chin. She nodded, her eyes filling again with tears, and she hugged him, though not as fiercely as she had before. This embrace was full of resignation.

  Genette stared at them awkwardly, waiting.

  “I’ll return later tonight,” Alensson promised.

  “I know,” Jianne answered, stepping aside.

  Genette stared at them. Then she approached Jianne and took her hand, giving her a tender look. “I promise you, sweet duchess, that he will return safely to you. Take courage. He will be there when the child comes.”

  Jianne’s eyes widened with surprise at the words. The worry and fretting melted away from her in an instant. It melted from them both. Alensson knew she had visions of the future. It gave him solace to hear the promise. He believed it.

  “Thank you,” Jianne said, taking the Maid’s hand and kissing her knuckles. She started weeping with joy.

  There was a knowing look in the Maid’s eyes. She smiled at Jianne, patting her hands, and then turned to leave, glancing at Alensson to see if he would follow her.

  After kissing his wife once more, this time in relief, Alensson followed Genette back down the corridor full of servants rushing to and fro to meet the various needs of their noble guests.

  “You truly love her,” Genette said to him as they walked through the frenzied hallway.

  “She waited for me faithfully,” he answered, not looking at her for fear of running into someone. “Indeed, I love her well.”

  “That is noble, Alen. Not all husbands are so devoted. Especially not at Shynom.”

  The anger simmering in her voice was unmistakable, and he could only wonder what she had seen. Genette was driven by unflinching principles. She even had shamed soldiers away from cursing. Her sense of right and wrong was like the checkered design of a Wizr board.

  They reached the main hall, which was bursting with noise, music, and a raucous crowd that had only grown as the day progressed. It was common gossip at court that the prince’s political marriage was a loveless one. They had sired an heir and no other children had followed. Chatriyon and his wife were rarely seen side by side, and it was common for him to be found talking amidst the men while his wife socialized with the women.

  The court thrived on such gossip, so it should have come as no surprise that he and Genette were greeted by plenty of raised eyebrows when they walked in together. No matter. Alensson cared little for gossip and intrigue. He was going to be a father. His wife would give him a child. A boy? A girl? He didn’t know and didn’t care. He would love either. Since hearing the news, he felt as if he’d grown a new heart.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Maid's Vow

  There were similarities between the battlefield and court. Both required strategy, quick wits, and an unflagging constitution. But Alensson despised politics. He much preferred the disarray and mayhem of a siege. The Occitanian army had followed Genette’s plan, and now they were facing the last enemy bastion on the road to Ranz: the city of Foucaulx. Shouts from the warriors attempting to breach the city walls mixed with the grunts and groans of men squirming in their death throes. Arrows and crossbow bolts whizzed down from the ramparts, and every few minutes the catapults inside the city sent boulders flinging over the wall, smashing anyone in the way. It was a grim death, and many had died already. Those closest to the walls were the least affected by the threat, but there were horrors to face still.

  With smoke stinging his eyes, Alensson stood in the shadow of the wall, shield up, watching Genette as she waved her stained banner, shouting for the men to advance, to breach the walls that penned in their enemies. She had demanded, once again, that the city surrender and open its gates, but they had remained defiant, expecting support from Deford’s army, which was still hunkered down in Pree. It was said the Duke of Westmarch had summoned an enormous force from Ceredigion and it was marching at breakneck speed. The canny duke would not be tricked into committing his Occitanian legions without reinforcements. A mighty host was on its way to punish the Maid. And so Foucaulx held firm and Chatriyon’s army hammered relentlessly at its walls.

  An arrow struck Alensson’s upraised shield, the blow battering his arm and making him stagger back. There were arrows sticking in the dried earth all around Genette. Her voice rang out amidst the cries and blasts of horns.

  “Onward! Courage! Let’s drive these foes back to the ice caves! Take heart! We will win!”

  Alensson admired her courage and tenacity. She had shown equal strength when dealing with the politics of court. Many nobles had gathered around the prince, whispering in his ears to distrust her counsel, warning him that she was leading his forces to their deaths. But the prince had hearkened to Alensson. Lionn had been the test, and had she not passed it? Was not the Fountain truly blessing them with victory?

  Chatriyon and his inner council had ridden with them, but the prince was staying in a town less than a league away, surrounded by knights who could carry him away if needed. His army was cutting their way to the sanctuary of Ranz—and he was following a few steps behind it. Alensson felt his heart blacken with thoughts of the man’s cowardice. But perhaps he and the Occitanian prince were both fighting the battles to which they were best suited. Alensson would have sent the schemers away bleeding.

  It was a pivotal moment. After Foucaulx fell, there would be a clear path to Ranz. Even if Deford decamped from Pree to face them, he would not reach the sanctuary in time. If the fortress held for weeks, the momentum would be lost. But there was victory in the air. The men were energized, and they flung themselves into danger without cowering. He watched the battering rams slam against the gates, his mind focused on the path ahead.

  “Alen!”

  He turned his head sharply. It was the Maid, looking back at him, her face pale. He realized she’d been calling to him for a while—he had been too lost in his thoughts, too distracted by the melee to notice until she shouted his name.

  “What?” he asked, glancing around to see if there was some imminent danger.

  “Move. Over there!” She pointed with her finger.

  “What?” he repeated.

  “I said move! Over there!” She gestured impatiently, shaking her head at him as if he was being a fool.

  Alensson took several steps backward, gesturing with his sword to the spot. She nodded and then turned her gaze back to the siege.

  “Climb the ladders! Get up there! Climb!” she called to the soldiers nearby.

  Every attempt at fixing the scaling ladders had ended in disappointment; the defenders were quick to repulse them and send them crashing back down. Arrows felled the soldiers who attempted to bring them back up. Alensson frowned and scowled. If they didn’t succeed in breaching the gate or climbing the wall, it would drag on forever! How many men had they lost that day? He felt another arrow slam into his shield.

  “My lord duke,” said a squire, rushing to his side. “Earl Doone is suggesting we fall back and regroup. We’re losing too many men.”

  Alensson glanced at the squire over his shoulder. “She will say no. And I agree. We must keep at it. No one said it would be easy.”

  “My lord, he swore he would send a courier to the prince seeking orders to retreat. How many have died already?”

  “You tell the earl,” Alensson said angrily, baring his teeth, “that if he’s so worried, he should leave the safety of his tent and help! It’ll be dark soon and the night will help cover our movements.”

  “A blind archer could hit one of us easily enough,” the squire said disdainfully.

  “You tell the earl we’ll not have it,” Alensson snapped back. “If the Maid says it will fall, it will fall! How can he lose faith so quickly?” He raised his voice. “Genette! Doone wants to retreat.”

  The Maid turned her head and gave him an annoyed look. “No, we fight on!”

  “I will tell him, but he won’t like it,” the squire said with a shrug.

 
There was the sound of machinery, followed by the ominous thump of the taut timbers jerking down, and then a huge segment of castle stone came vaulting over the wall directly at them. Alensson stared at the hulking mass, saw it looming in the sky like a moon and then plummeting right for him. He tried to move, tried to get away, but his legs felt as if they were running through water. The huge projectile slammed into the ground next to him, shaking the earth. Alensson’s teeth rattled with shock as he fell to his knees. The squire had vanished beneath the enormous boulder. Alensson gaped and then turned to face Genette with an open mouth.

  It had landed right where he had been standing moments before she’d warned him.

  A small, tight smile appeared on her mouth and she nodded to him. “I promised your wife, Gentle Duke,” she said. “I promised her you’d make it through.”

  He was still too startled and shaken to speak. His life could have been snuffed out. It would have been if she hadn’t warned him. The poor squire! Was it a trade then? A life for a life? Had the Fountain claimed its due?

  “Up the walls!” Genette shouted again. She muttered something under her breath and ran toward the earth-filled part of the moat, where the soldiers were struggling with the siege ladders. She jammed her battle standard into the ground, then grabbed one of the ladders and helped the men lift it back up. Did she intend to attack the fortress herself? Alensson raced after her.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, grabbing her arm.

  “I’m going up,” she replied angrily. Drawing her sword with one arm, she gripped the first rung of the ladder with the other. Before he could say another word, she was scampering up the ladder like a sailor on the rigging.

  “Hold it steady!” Alensson barked at the two men who were watching her dumbfounded. They grabbed the ladder and pressed their full body weight against it. Alensson’s heart hammered fearfully in his chest as he watched her scale the wall toward the ramparts. She was nimble, even in the armor, but despite his belief in her—in the Fountain—he was worried she’d fall and injure herself. Worried she would make it to the top and get captured by the enemy. He stared at her, amazed at her courage and self-confidence.

  The defenders were ready. They used hooked poles to shove the ladder away from the walls. Alensson and the two men struggled to keep the ladder upright, but Genette’s body weight and armor sent it careening backward. Horror-stricken, Alensson saw her dangle from the ladder by one arm as it toppled and then fell.

  He let go of the ladder and tried to get under her, but she landed on her back right in front of him, a look of surprise on her face that quickly transformed into one of pain.

  “Genette!” he gasped, sinking to his knees, shielding her limp body with his own bulk. Any moment he expected an arrow to strike his back. She had fallen from a considerable height, and it was likely she had broken her back, perhaps her legs and arms too.

  “Don’t stand there gaping like a fish,” she scolded him. “Help me up!”

  He suddenly became aware of the soldiers who had crowded around them, providing an extra wall of armor to protect the fallen girl. And when he looked up, he saw the rage in their eyes, the determination for revenge. The Maid was their sister in arms. There was a howl, a shout, and suddenly men were scrabbling toward the walls as if they planned to scale them without ladders. More ladders started to be thrust upward and multiple men began to climb simultaneously. The greater weight helped hold the ladders steady, and the men on the ground used spears to help counter the use of the hooked poles.

  “Help me,” Genette said, reaching out and gripping Alensson’s arm. She started to pull herself up, her face wincing with pain. Her back should have been broken, and from the look in her face, she was in agony.

  “Lie still,” he urged her. “I think your back is broken.”

  “It is broken,” she said through a mask of pain. “But it will not be for long. Help me up!”

  He was amazed at her words, but even if she managed another miraculous recovery—he knew after Lionn that she could do it, though he did not know how—surely she would need time to recover. “Let me carry you back to a tent to rest,” he said, sheathing his sword and then reaching under her legs to lift her.

  “No,” she said emphatically. There was something in her voice, some tone of command that stopped him. He had one arm around her shoulder already, the other in the crook behind her knees, but he hadn’t lifted yet. “Please, Gentle Duke,” she whispered. “Just help me stand. Trust me.”

  He had trusted her so far. He let her legs drop back and then rose up himself, hoisting her up with him. He heard the groan of pain, saw the whiteness of her face, and then she was on her feet.

  “Bring my flag,” she whispered, planting her hand on his chest to steady herself. Her face was full of pain and determination. He didn’t want to leave her side for a moment, afraid she’d crumple to the earth, but somehow she fought the pain long enough to remain on her feet until he returned with her battle flag.

  Her eyes brightened when she took it. Leaning heavily on the pole, she sucked in her breath to endure the agony of her injury.

  “We are so near the top of the ramparts,” Alensson said with frustration. “If we could but distract the enemy a moment, more ladders could be fixed.” He looked at her. “You are not going to climb up another ladder. Not like this. There must be another way!”

  “Distract them?” Genette said, looking at him. She cocked her head, as if listening to something he couldn’t hear.

  “What is it?” he pressed.

  She smiled despite her obvious pain. “I know how now. It makes sense. Thank you.” She bowed her head and then whispered something under her breath. He could not hear the word, but he felt it ripple and shudder, as if a heavy stone had been hurled into a pond. Her banner began to flutter as a breeze tousled it. Then the stitching on the fabric began to glow.

  Alensson blinked in surprise and amazement as the images she had crafted by thread suddenly leaped off the banner, still aglow, and hovered in the air before their eyes. The fleur-de-lis patterns, fluttering like butterflies, expanded and multiplied as they rose higher and higher. She gripped the pole, her leg twitching from the pain in her back, gritting her teeth as she held fast. The glowing shapes blossomed in the sky, rising up to the top of the wall, painting the air with color and movement. It was dazzling to watch, mesmerizing to see.

  There was a shout of victory as the first men reached the ramparts. The clatter of steel striking steel followed, and the battle began to shift, the momentum changing as it had done in Lionn. Now that the first wave of warriors had successfully scaled the walls, the ladders were thick with men trying to find their way up.

  The colorful strands from her banner fell apart and Genette drooped. She nearly collapsed, but he caught her shoulders.

  “I’ll be all right, Alen,” Genette said, wincing as she put a foot forward to steady herself. A cheer and a cry came up from the army. The defenders began to flee from their positions. There were no more catapults flinging giant stones after that.

  Genette used her banner like a crutch as she hobbled toward the walls, gazing up at the fighting in the ramparts. A sad smile came to her mouth. Her other hand gripped the sword pommel. The look of pain was starting to leave her, and her breathing was becoming easier.

  “The Fountain blesses you,” Alensson said, glancing at her as they stood together beneath the walls of Foucaulx.

  “It does indeed,” she said.

  “You saved my life.” The swell of gratitude in his heart made him feel like weeping.

  She turned her head and gave him a peculiar stare, one that seemed to penetrate to the deepest part of his soul. “The Fountain has great plans for you, Gentle Duke. You will survive this war.” She shook her head subtly. “I will not.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Raven Scabbard

  Foucaulx, the final major obstacle on the road to Ranz, had fallen. There was celebrating in the camp, and the Earl of
Doone made arrangements for a garrison to defend the city while the army marched on to the sanctuary to crown the king. Alensson was battle weary, but he was also concerned about Genette and what she had whispered to him before the fall of the city. There had been a sadness in her voice, along with a certainty that disturbed him deeply. She had forewarned him to move before that piece of rubble could squash him. Had she seen a fate in store for herself? Was something preventing her from moving out of the way?

  Word came that Chatriyon and his entourage were drawing near to the city. Outriders had been sent ahead to keep the army apprised of Deford’s movements. Genette was sure to be summoned when the prince arrived, so Alensson made his way to her tent. She had limped there in great pain, refusing his offer to carry her, and a surgeon had been seeing to her injuries for the last several hours.

  As he approached, he remembered his previous intrusion and called out to her squire.

  The lad swept open the flap. “Yes, my lord?”

  “How fares she?” he asked. “Is the surgeon still here?”

  “I’m here,” called the man. “Is that the Duke of La Marche?”

  “Aye,” said the squire.

  “He can come in,” Genette said.

  When Alensson ducked through the opening, he saw her sitting on a camp stool. Her battered armor was hanging from the spokes of its iron stand, and it was clear the young squire had been in the middle of cleaning it. The doctor stood behind her, one hand on her bare shoulder, the other on her ribs. She had covered her front with a sheet, and when she saw Alensson looking at her, he could have sworn she started to blush.

  “Is her back broken?” Alensson asked the doctor, a bearded middle-aged man who was balding at the top.

  “It was earlier,” he answered, shaking his head. “Sit straighter, my dear. Pull your shoulders back.”

  She complied, looking a bit exasperated at his instructions. Alensson felt a throb of emotion akin to possessiveness—as if she belonged to him and no one else. The doctor frowned, then shook his head.