The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

There was a jeering sound from one of the Ceredigic soldiers above. “Shall they not, bloody tart?”

  He saw two crossbowmen rear up from the wall suddenly, aim at Genette, and fire the bolts at her. He was close enough to see their movement, but too far and too encumbered by his armor to reach her in time.

  Genette cried out in pain as one of the bolts sliced through her thigh. The blow made her stagger and nearly drop her standard. Her squire, the lad Brendin, seized it with both hands to steady it and the second bolt struck the boy’s foot, pinning it to the ground. The boy yelled with pain, wrenching on his leg, but he was trapped painfully. Alensson started running toward them, trying to reach them to offer them the protection of his shield.

  There was an angry red gash on the Maid’s leg—her armor had been slit clean through by the broadhead bolt. But it was not bleeding, and Alensson knew it was because of the scabbard she wore.

  Still struggling to free himself, the squire lifted his visor higher so he could see his foot. It was a painful wound—the lad wouldn’t walk for months after this. But just as Alensson reached them, a third crossbow bolt struck the lad’s chest. He toppled to the ground, dead before he fell.

  “No!” the Maid screeched. “No!” She rushed to the boy’s side, her face filled with horror and anguish. Her standard lay in the grass, still gripped in the boy’s hands.

  Horns began to blat from the command tents. The signal—retreat.

  Genette looked up at Alensson, who had positioned himself between her and the wall, his shield lifted high to protect her. He took the impact of a shuddering bolt on his arm, feeling the power of it bruise him. The Maid knelt there, cradling the lad in her arms, staring into his unblinking eyes with distress and grief.

  “He’s dead,” Alensson said softly. “There’s nothing you can do.” He had compassion for her loss, but he needed to get her out of there. They were too vulnerable where they were and the king had ordered the retreat. Even if it was the wrong decision, it was his to make—unless they managed to convince him otherwise.

  “Brendin, poor Brendin!” the Maid moaned. She looked up at the sky, tears streaking down her lashes. She turned her ravaged face toward Alensson. “Why are we retreating? We are so close to victory!”

  Alensson looked at her in disbelief. “The king orders it, Genette. Come with me. We must persuade him to continue the attack.”

  Soldiers were already peeling away from the walls, carrying their siege ladders as the defenders’ cheers of triumph rained down on them.

  Genette set the boy down and wrenched the standard from his dead fingers. “Attack!” she yelled at the fleeing soldiers. “Come on! This is our chance! This is the Fountain’s will! The city will fall to us!”

  “Never!” cried the defenders from the wall. “Kill the strumpet! Bring her down!”

  Alensson saw the situation start to spiral out of control. Some of the troops were hesitating. The horns had sounded the retreat. It was an order from the king. But the Maid, who had guided them to victory so many times before, was telling them to keep fighting. Who should they obey? Alensson saw the confusion it was causing. Men would be killed if they hesitated too long.

  The long, loud blat of the horn sounded the retreat signal again. Farther down the wall, the Occitanian soldiers were falling back, oblivious to the tension at the heart of the scene. Soldiers were dropping, hit by arrows sent raining down on them. The Maid stared helplessly at the melee, tears mixing with the dust and dirt on her face.

  “Fight on!” she pleaded. “The Fountain is stronger than these walls! It will aid us! Believe in me!”

  Alensson believed. But he knew the nature and disposition of men. Their brothers in arms had been slain before their eyes, and now their comrades were fleeing to safety. They saw the gash in the Maid’s leg, her own squire lying dead at her feet. And their faith in her began to crumble. Men will follow if someone leads, but they are more inclined to listen to other men. Besides, the king was leading them out of harm’s way while the Maid wished to lead them into more danger. One by one, they turned their gazes away from her and began running back to the camp. Some glanced at her, but most lacked the courage to look her in the eye. Genette pleaded with them to resist, to have courage. But no one listened to her.

  Alensson watched her shoulders sag, watched the defeat register in her eyes. He knew in that moment how he must have looked after the battle of Vernay.

  “Come, Genette,” Alensson said, gripping her arm. “The king commands it. We will not back down without a fight. We must persuade him to continue the attack tomorrow. You and I. Come with me.”

  “He won’t listen to us,” she said through her hot tears. “And we would fail if we tried,” she added bitterly, her teeth clenched to stifle her sobs. She stared up at the walls, her brow wrinkling, her lip quivering. “With this sword, I could destroy those walls,” she whispered to him. “The Fountain would have brought them tumbling down. If only he’d believed. If only.”

  She turned and started to kneel by the body of her squire. “I must bring him.”

  “You’re wounded,” Alensson said. “I’ll carry the lad.”

  “Thank you, Gentle Duke,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. She swayed slightly. “I’ll need my strength for what lies ahead.”

  “And what’s that?” he asked, wrenching the bolt out of the dead boy’s foot. He lifted the boy in his arms and found him surprisingly heavy. He was tired, so very tired, as he started toward the camp. The sound of cheering from the walls nearly drowned out her next words.

  “To bring the lad back alive,” the Maid whispered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Breath

  The camp was in commotion as Alensson carried the limp body of the dead squire into it. Genette used her banner pole as a crutch and walked with a pronounced limp from the gash on her leg. The tents were being brought down in a hasty manner, and all around them there were signs of retreat. The king was abandoning the siege of Pree after one day. Rubbish and filth had been left behind and supply wagons lumbered down the road, driven by cranky teamsters with pole whips.

  “To my tent,” the Maid gasped. Her tent was one of the few still standing.

  She hobbled ahead of Alensson and opened the flap, allowing him to duck in and bring the body. He was breathing fast and hard, tired from carrying it so far, sickened by the awful duty he had assumed.

  “On the pallet,” she directed. The tent was darkening quickly from the advancing dusk. She quickly lit a taper and then some candles to ward away the gloom. The air smelled like dirt and sweat. There were screams all around them as the wounded were brought in from the battlefield. Most were dragged to wagons to be carted off for healing elsewhere. Alensson knew many wouldn’t survive the night.

  “I’m going to Chatriyon,” Alensson said, watching as Genette knelt stiffly by the body.

  “Don’t go yet,” she said, looking up at him worriedly.

  He hesitated at the threshold, unnerved by what she had said she was going to do. Reviving the dead was a blessing from the Fountain. Few in history had been able to accomplish it, but he did not doubt that someone of Genette’s faith and abilities could do it.

  “Should I be here?” he asked her, feeling dirty and tired and frustrated and a host of other feelings. He grappled with the desire to choke the king if he could not dissuade him from making such a monumental mistake. Chatriyon was not one to change his mind quickly, though.

  “Yes. The Fountain wishes it. And I’ll need your help, after it is done.”

  “Help? What can I do?” He wanted to flee from whatever arcane magic she was about to invoke. But he was also curious, so he came over and knelt beside her and the pallet.

  Genette’s hair was a wild, untamed mess when she removed her chain hood. There were smudges of filth on her cheeks and nose. Then she pulled off her gauntlets to free her hands, and he saw the bruises on her knuckles.

  She was finally getting her breath back
after her injury. The glow of the candles illuminated her face, and he saw their points of light shining in her eyes as she looked up at him. A strange expression crossed her face, one of tenderness and gratitude. Then she unbuckled her sword belt and the mystical scabbard woven into it.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  She laid the scabbard on the boy’s chest and brought his hands up to rest against it. “It will do no good to revive him if he’s so wounded. This will hasten his healing.”

  Her lips grimaced in pain and he watched as the wound on her leg began to trickle blood.

  “But what about your wound?”

  She shook her head. “The bolt just grazed me. I will be fine.”

  “You need a healer yourself.”

  “I don’t have time, Alensson!” she said in scolding tone. She averted her eyes and sighed. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. When I revive him, I will lose all my strength. I’ll be helpless as an infant.” She looked up at him. “I trust you, Gentle Duke. With all my heart. Bind my wound and let me rest. I will recover soon, have no fear.” She looked down at the body again. “Have no fear. What’s done is done.”

  He put his hand on top of hers. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What’s done is done,” she whispered. “I knew this would happen. I knew it, yet I believed he would become the man he could be. I hoped.”

  “Who? Chatriyon?”

  “Yes,” she answered wearily. “The Fountain warned me.” Then she looked him in the eye with heart-wrenching tenderness. “I knew this would happen, Gentle Duke. All of it. I chose it willingly.”

  “You speak in riddles, Genette,” he said with frustration.

  “I know. I know,” she nodded, her shoulders slumping. “If I say more, I’ll lose my courage. I cannot falter. Even if Chatriyon does, I cannot. Just know this, Alensson. I chose to answer the Fountain’s call. Now it bids me to heal this boy. You must watch it. You must hear the word of power. Someday it will save the life of the heir of La Marche. A little babe—stillborn.”

  Her words burned the inside of Alensson’s chest as if she’d grabbed a poker from the coals and jabbed him with it. A stillborn child. His wife was pregnant with their first child. Would the child be stillborn then? Would Genette’s word of power be able to save him? A mix of grief and hope and fear battled inside him, and he didn’t know what to say, let alone what to think.

  “I will only say the word of power once,” Genette said, cupping her hands together and placing them on the corpse’s waxlike hands. “You must remember it. You must never forget it, Gentle Duke. Promise me.”

  “I swear it,” he said. “On the—”

  “It is enough,” she said, cutting him off. She leaned over the boy’s face, the peaceful face beneath the thatch of thick flaxen hair. Alensson felt his skin prickle and gooseflesh spread down his arms, across his neck. He shivered and started to tremble. Her face was serene and, despite the smudges, filled with unearthly beauty.

  “Nesh-ama,” she breathed and then planted a gentle kiss on the boy’s cold lips.

  There was a distant rushing sound like a waterfall.

  And then the boy began to breathe.

  Alensson watched as the boy’s chest rose and fell and color blushed his cheeks. The squire’s fingers stiffened against the scabbard of the sword. Then the black wound on the boy’s chest began to shrink before his eyes. The duke felt as if he were in a holy place and could not utter a word for fear of disturbing the reverence.

  Brendin’s eyelashes fluttered open. He stared up at them in confusion, but with a look of tranquility. Genette stroked his fair hair tenderly, then Alensson watched helplessly as her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to the ground unconscious.

  The Duke of La Marche had helped knights get in and out of armor many times. But getting Genette out of hers was fraught with peculiar sensations. She was a woman, not his sister, not his wife—of no relation to him at all. But she was his friend, and their friendship had been forged in the furnace of war. A sister in arms, truly. He removed the battered breastplate, bracers, and greaves.

  Her skin had turned chalk white and she was listless and unresponsive. The doctor he had summoned lifted her eyelids, checked her pulse, and tried to rouse her with hartshorn—which failed. The bandages the doctor wrapped around her leg were soon soaked with blood. He used needle and thread to stitch the wound shut, but the bleeding did not stop. Alensson paced in the tent, gazing down at her and fearing that she had traded her life to save the boy’s. Her breath was too shallow to hear and her chest rose and fell at distant intervals.

  The squire was sleeping on a pallet, clutching the sword to his bosom. Alensson had inspected the lad’s foot where the bolt had pierced it—all that remained was a pink scar.

  “I can’t stop the bleeding,” the doctor said worriedly, shaking his head. He had a bowl full of bloody water and stained rags. “I think I have some woad in my tent. Here, press your hand against the wound rag until I return.”

  Alensson knelt by her side, doing as the doctor had asked, and the man rushed from the tent. He glanced at the boy, wondering if he should take the scabbard away and bring it to her. He knew it would heal her wound. But the boy’s injuries had stolen his life. While the external injuries had been healed, he did not know how long it would take for the scabbard to heal the inward ones.

  He heard a faint whisper from Genette’s mouth.

  Looking down, he saw her eyelids fluttering. She was so weak she couldn’t move at all. He pressed the bandage even harder against her leg, willing it to stop bleeding.

  “Are you awake, Genette?” he asked, bending close to her mouth.

  “Alen . . . sson,” she whispered.

  “I’m here,” he said, his heart churning with worry. “I’m going to bring the scabbard.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Or he won’t . . . recover. I’ll not die yet. Not yet, Gentle Duke. Just weak. So weak.”

  He felt a surge of relief, but while he believed her, it did not stop him from worrying. He was still looking down at her pale face and seeping wound. “The doctor is getting some woad.”

  “Pretty yellow flower,” she mumbled. Her head lolled to one side. She blinked her eyes open fully, gazing up at him. “I’m cold,” she said.

  Keeping his hand pressed against the wound, he pulled the blanket up to her chin. She closed her eyes again. “Promise me.”

  “What? Did you say something?”

  “Promise me.”

  He strained to hear her over the commotion of the camp. He leaned so far forward that his ear was nearly to her lips. “What? Promise you what?”

  “That you’ll not kill the king,” she said. “He must live. Even if I must die.”

  A piercing pain shot through his heart. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. I know. There is so much . . . you don’t understand. Promise me that you won’t kill him. Or his child.”

  “I wouldn’t kill a child,” Alensson said indignantly.

  “Lewis won’t always be a child,” she said with sigh. “Promise me, Gentle Duke. Please. Even if you don’t understand. Promise me. The game must go on.”

  “What game? What are you talking of, Genette? Tell me!”

  “I can’t. You must find out . . . for yourself. Promise me.” She gave him a pleading look. “Or my death will be worth nothing.”

  “Have you seen your death, Genette? Do you know when it will be?”

  She stared at him and then slowly nodded. It was the first time she’d moved her body since breathing life back into Brendin. “Promise me. Please.”

  He let out his breath. She had given everything to see Chatriyon crowned. She had suffered and she had bled and she was bleeding still, yet she was determined to see him king. It didn’t matter that Chatriyon was ungrateful, that he was perhaps unsuited to leadership.

  It was not an easy promise for Alensson to make, and he did not make it lightly. Still pressin
g the soaked cloth to the oozing wound on her leg, he rested his other hand on top of hers. “I promise you, Genette of Donremy.”

  A rustle of the tent fabric announced the doctor’s return.

  “What took you?” Alensson grumbled, turning and glancing at the doctor. The man looked haggard and spent as he crossed the tent to where the Maid lay. There was a stalk of vibrant violet-tipped flowers in his hand. Violet, not yellow.

  When Alensson gazed down at Genette, she was looking at him, her mouth turned into a frown. “That’s not woad,” he said.

  The doctor’s eyes were full of panic. “He . . . is . . . outside,” he panted. His voice was hoarse.

  As Alensson rose, the flap rustled and a man came through it, dagger in hand. A poisoner, no doubt. The doctor quailed, letting out a moan of fear, and scrabbled away from the Maid. Alensson noticed a sticky substance on the tip of the dagger. The poisoner lunged at him, bringing the hilt down toward his neck to stun him, but the duke hiked up his shoulder and caught the blow that had been intended to knock him out. He kneed the poisoner in the stomach and grabbed at his face with his blood-slick hand, the one that had been staunching the wound moments before. Their two bodies collided as they wrestled each other for control. The poisoner’s knee slammed into Alensson’s groin, but he was protected by his armor, and when the dagger came slicing down at his forearm, it glanced off the metal bracer.

  The duke swung his elbow around and caught the poisoner in the teeth, tearing his lip. Then he tackled the man to the floor and buffeted him on the face.

  The dagger came stabbing at his side, right beneath the armor. The chain hauberk stopped it from piercing, but he felt the pain of the jab in his ribs. Alensson grabbed the man’s wrist and forced it down to the floor through sheer strength. The poisoner spat in his eyes, bloody spittle, and Alensson butted his forehead down on the man’s nose, breaking it. That finally stunned the poisoner, who groaned and went limp beneath the blinding pain.

  The duke pried the dagger from his fingers and then brought the blade up to his throat. “Who sent you?”