by Jeff Wheeler
The poisoner coughed and gargled something unintelligible.
“Answer me!” Alensson roared, pressing the flat of the blade to the man’s throat.
“Lord Bannion,” the poisoner said with a cough. “She was supposed to die at the wall!”
Lord Bannion was the king’s chamberlain.
Alensson was temporarily stunned: He knew who the order had truly came from. Was Chatriyon going mad already? Then he increased the pressure enough to nick the man’s neck with the blade. “Oops. I slipped,” he growled.
The poisoner’s face began to twitch in horror. Then the convulsions started to rack his body.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Abandoned
The Duke of Westmarch’s army arrived at Pree two days later, descending on the city like black storm clouds that promised to bring the lash of lightning. The rest of Chatriyon’s army had already melted away, but Alensson waited outside the sanctuary of St. Denys, a small burg on the outskirts of Pree, astride his horse, holding the reins of Genette’s steed, waiting for her to finish inside. She had demanded that he never speak of the miracle of her squire’s recovery.
“Shouldn’t we be on our way, my lord?” grumbled one of his captains, eyeing the road nervously for signs of outriders from Deford’s army. He stroked his graying red beard anxiously and glanced back at the sanctuary.
“Patience, Jeremy,” Alensson said, although it was a virtue he was struggling to find within himself. “She’ll be out soon.”
“I don’t have time for patience,” the soldier griped. The city of Pree was ominously silent, like a child waiting fearfully for the rebuke of an angry parent. The city had withheld the short-lived siege, but the many outlying towns, like St. Denys, would suffer the wrath for helping Chatriyon wage war. Alensson ground his teeth together, wishing with all his heart that the situation had been different. He had hoped they would already be in Pree by the time Deford arrived. How glorious it would have felt to repel him from the city. Unfortunately, it was not the Fountain’s will for his revenge to be satisfied.
“There she is,” Jeremy said with relief. “We cannot leave here soon enough.”
Alensson watched in surprise as Genette left the sanctuary wearing one of the royal tunics he had provided for her. She had gone in wearing armor, but it was missing.
Jeremy gave Alensson a puzzled look.
The duke watched her limp, seeing how her leg still pained her despite the scabbard she once again wore at her side. The Maid marched up to him, and there was an almost sour look of determination on her face as she took the reins.
“You left your armor?” he asked her softly.
Genette put her good leg up in the stirrup and winced as she mounted. “My work here was unfinished,” she told him. “So I left my armor in the fountain.”
That earned another baffled look from Jeremy, but Alensson nudged his mount closer to hers. “You put it in the water? To hide it?”
She gazed at him, eyes narrowing slightly, and then nodded. “The Fountain bade me to do this. It will be needed . . . later.”
“Will we take back the city of Pree then?”
She looked at him seriously. “Chatriyon will regain his palace, Gentle Duke.”
“We should be going,” Jeremy murmured impatiently. “Deford’s army is hardly more than a stone’s throw from us. Someone will warn him we’re still here.”
The Maid looked at the captain and snorted. “We are not in any real danger.”
She turned and looked back at the sanctuary, staring at the bubbling fountain set inside the doors. The sexton bowed his head to her from the doorway. Genette’s strength was returning slowly this time, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was because she was heartsick.
“Why did you send Brendin away?” Alensson asked her. “After the scabbard healed him? You will need a squire, Genette, even if you don’t have your armor.”
She gave him an enigmatic look. “Where I am going, I will not need one. Let’s rejoin the army.”
“And be quick about it,” Jeremy huffed, jerking the reins and starting out at a clop.
Alensson gazed at the walls of Pree rising over the cropped tree tops at the edge of the village. He saw the flags in the distance, taunting him.
“You’ll get your chance, Gentle Duke,” she told him, reaching out and touching his arm lightly. “If Deford is here, it means your lands are unprotected.”
She knew just what to say to make him smile.
The king had retreated to the royal castle of Montjuno, a fortress between Lionn and Pree. They had reclaimed it during their journey. Supply wagons from Shynom arrived regularly, as did a host of courtiers come to surround the king like so many buzzing flies.
When Alensson and Genette arrived from Pree, they found the mood much changed. Instead of treating the Maid of Donremy with the awe and respect they had once demonstrated, many of the soldiers greeted her with black looks, curled lips, and whispered conversations. Alensson had told the king he’d killed a poisoner who had been sent to murder the girl. But he had not told the king he knew who’d hired the man. Chatriyon had feigned shock and outrage and promised to send his captain to investigate, but nothing further had been done.
As they walked through the crowded hall, Alensson saw several courtiers bustle up to Chatriyon to warn him of their approach. The king wore his crown and a sumptuous jeweled doublet made of purple velvet and stitched with costly gems.
Genette was limping as she walked, and although Alensson would have slowed down to accommodate her, she kept a pace that forced him to keep up.
When she reached the king, Genette dropped down on one knee. Her wince was probably undetectable to anyone other than Alensson, but the king waved her back up.
“No need for that, my dear,” he said graciously. “Your leg is still troubling you. Cousin, help her up!” The king gestured for Alensson to assist her back to her feet, but she managed it on her own. “So you’ve managed to arrive at last. You took your time in coming.”
Alensson felt a hint of censure in the tone. “She was grievously wounded in the attack on Pree, my lord.”
Chatriyon’s eyes narrowed. “I know that, Cousin. But surely you could have come, Alensson? I’ve been in need of your advice.” He cut a glance at Genette, his eyes narrowing coldly.
The duke felt his anger heating up, but kept control of his face. “I am here now, my lord.”
“Thankfully.” The king pitched his voice lower, but there was so much commotion in the hall—drinks being served, women flirting with men and men with women—that it would have been difficult for anyone to overhear them. “I have received word that the King of Brugia is warming to the thought of an alliance with us. Deford is married to Philip’s sister, you know, so their alliance is more than one of practicality. But things are changing. The tide is beginning to turn. Now that I’ve been crowned, Philip is looking at me as the rightful heir of Occitania and not the little brat from Kingfountain. I’ve been advised to cease hostilities and let diplomacy do its work.” His eyebrow lifted. “What do you think, Cousin?”
Alensson glanced at Genette, whose expression reflected the same anger and resentment he felt. After all the success and victories they’d had, why stop? The only reason they hadn’t taken Pree was because Chatriyon had called it off too soon. He hadn’t even given them a chance.
“My lord,” Alensson said, trying to master his tone. “Isn’t it better to negotiate from a position of strength? You don’t need Brugia’s help to regain your kingdom. You have soldiers willing to fight in your name, willing to fight and lose their blood on your behalf.”
Chatriyon winced. “Yes, yes, but it’s all rather bloody, don’t you think? Consider how many lives will be saved, Alensson! We are shedding the blood of our brothers. They are my subjects as well. This is a civil war. Don’t you realize that? If I can persuade Philip of Brugia to join me, it will permanently alter the balance of power between us and Ceredigion. Deford will be f
orced to make a truce with us. And then we can regain much of what we lost. Including your lands!”
Alensson was trembling with anger. “You think Deford will give up La Marche? He won’t, my king. It must be wrested from him. And I cannot think of a better time to attempt it than right now. If you want to play peace instead of war, so be it, but let me take those who will follow and harry Deford’s lands—my lands! Diplomacy can take years to achieve results. And it would all but hobble the momentum we’ve built thus far. The kingdom is tottering like a vase on a small table and you want to steady it before it falls!”
Chatriyon’s look was so patronizing. “Of course I do, Cousin. If the vase falls, it breaks! What’s the use of ruling a kingdom that’s been broken to pieces?” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Then he turned his gaze on Genette. “And what is your opinion, dear girl?” In the past, he had attested that she spoke for the Fountain. But the coronation had changed him. It was remarkable how sudden the change had come. The king looked uncomfortable in her presence, as if her act of breathing annoyed him.
She looked him full in the eye. “You have the power to take your kingdom back,” she said in a low voice. “If you will use it. It is your decision, my lord. But you must remember that you cannot choose the consequences.”
He cocked his head in confusion and misgiving. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You know what the Fountain wills, my king.”
“Yes, I think I do,” he said with an almost lazy tone. Then he turned back to Alensson. “I will heed your advice, Cousin. Take what men you can and go around Pree. It will only help hasten the negotiations if you’re there stinging Deford’s flanks. But when I call you back, you must come. Agreed?”
Alensson felt something was wrong. The king had given in too easily. Here it was again, the sensation that something else was afoot, something the duke wasn’t seeing. “Thank you, my lord. I will take Genette with me, and she will—”
“No, I don’t think so,” Chatriyon said solemnly.
“My lord?” Alensson asked.
“You heard me. No, I will have duties she can perform. An army is always in need of good captains. There are cities to hold, garrisons to maintain. I will keep her near me.”
Alensson felt his heart warn him. “She inspires people, my lord. More soldiers would join the effort if she came to support my assault on La Marche. She’s skilled on the battlefield.”
“I’m sure she is,” Chatriyon said with a yawn. “I’m sure you want her near you for other reasons as well.”
It felt like the king had punched him in the stomach. “What did you say?”
“I don’t judge you, Cousin. But she’s too important. No, I order you to ride out tomorrow with as many soldiers as will come. I think a hundred ought to do. The Maid will stay at Montjuno, where I will look after her myself. The two of you should spend more time apart. People are starting to talk, Cousin.”
If Chatriyon weren’t the king, Alensson would have smashed his fist into the man’s mouth. It took all his self-will to keep himself from striking his sovereign. In that moment, he felt the ambition in his heart swell so much that he wondered if it would consume him. As he stared at the king in outrage, he began to understand what was going on. He understood why Chatriyon had called off the siege of Pree.
If Genette had indeed defeated Pree in only one day, it would have established her reputation forever. Chatriyon was crafty enough to know that if he kept her as his champion, he would be shackled to maintaining her standards in his court. For a man of many hungers, it was not an appealing prospect. And while each of Genette’s successes had drawn more men to the fight, they were fighting for her and not for the king. Oh, Alensson could see it in the cunning look in Chatriyon’s eyes. He was asserting his control and humbling the girl, without whom he would not be wearing his crown.
It was deplorable. It was cowardly. And it was obvious why the king was trying to shame Alensson and send him away—he was her protector. If one poisoner could be sent, why not another?
“If that is your will, my king,” Genette said, bowing her head to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Squire's Gift
The wind was surprisingly fierce as it battered the curtains of Alensson’s tent, the thunder of it momentarily drowning out the noise of the night crickets. The tent was much smaller than his previous one, for it needed to be packed and moved every night as they made their lightning raids through the inheritance of his youth. A small oil lamp burned nearby as he read the latest missives arriving from Shynom. The air smelled pungently of horse manure.
He sat on a camp chair, hunched over, still wearing his torn hauberk beneath the filthy tunic he’d been wearing for days. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, scowling at the news, his mind twisting for a solution to his quandary.
“You’re grimacing,” Jeremy said, twisting strands of his graying beard, shaking his head, and peering over his shoulder. “Ill news, my lord?”
Alensson sighed. It had been two months since the king had separated him from Genette. She’d been sent to take a town that showed no sign of surrendering. It was too fortified to assault without siege weapons, not that Chatriyon had bothered to supply her with any, but she had gone willingly enough. In other words, he’d sent her to kick against a stump while his negotiations with Brugia progressed. Maybe Chatriyon had sent Alensson to La Marche to get him out of the way as well, but at least his duty was more enjoyable—after all, he had been sanctioned to be a thorn in Deford’s side. He had stayed on the move, stopping to strike at a garrison for two days before slinking away and hitting another, making Deford chase him all the while. The king had expressly forbidden him the battlefield victory he craved, but the duke honestly didn’t think he would win without the Maid helping him. He’d written letters begging the king to send her to La Marche to help him. She’d wanted to come. But Chatriyon had remained implacable. Now the situation had finally come to a head, and he would have to make a decision—one that would define him for the rest of his life.
He remembered that Jeremy had asked him a question, and he let out a pent-up breath. “I received a letter from Genette,” he said gruffly. “Before I knew her, she couldn’t write her own name. Now look.” He waved the letter. “She’s not just dictating letters to a scribe. This is her own handwriting.”
“What does she say?” Jeremy asked. “Is she still hammering fruitlessly at Compenne?”
“No,” Alensson said, shaking his head. “She abandoned it.”
“Really? Where is she now?”
“She’s heading to Shanton.”
Jeremy’s brow wrinkled. “The border city? Why there?”
Alensson rolled up the letter and stuffed it into his saddlebag. “I learned from her that Chatriyon is giving that city to the King of Brugia.” He frowned with resentment. “Obviously His Majesty didn’t see fit to consult with me on the matter. Giving Brugia a foothold in Occitania is dangerous. If you let the wolf’s snout inside the henhouse, he’ll soon be eating the hens.”
Jeremy chuffed loudly and in surprise. “I truly didn’t believe the king would be such a fool. But why is the Maid heading there?”
Alensson smiled ruefully. “Because the city of Shanton isn’t keen on being surrendered to the Brugian army. They’re holding out, and they asked the Maid to come help them.”
“They asked her to defy the king?”
He gave his captain a knowing look. “She says she’s obeying the will of the Fountain. She bids me to join her in preventing Brugia from taking over. Apparently they’ve sent a strong force to threaten the mayor of the city. She sent this message six days ago, so she’s probably already there.”
Jeremy’s brow wrinkled with concern. “And what are you going to do, my lord? The king wants you here to keep the pressure on Deford. I don’t care how accomplished the man is, fighting three fronts at once would cause anyone grief. Surely Deford doesn’t want Brugia intervening.”
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“Of course not,” Alensson said, rising and beginning to pace. “Remember that Brugia and Ceredigion are currently allies, bound by marriage. King Philip must tread carefully, because if he provokes Deford too much, he’ll get invaded himself.”
“And Ceredigion controls the Brugian city of Callait, does it not?”
“Indeed. They have a foothold. And there’s another reason why it would be foolish to give Philip one with us. What if he’s deceiving Chatriyon? What if the foothold is a pretext to help Ceredigion? It could be disastrous for them to have a fortress inside our realm. I can see why Genette is so upset. She called the king a few . . . unflattering names in her letter.” He grinned as he recalled them.
“How fares your wife?” Jeremy asked after another moment’s pause. “The babe is due before the winter, aye? Or was it spring?”
“The spring,” Alensson said.
That opened up another festering sore inside him. It must have shown on his face, for Jeremy said, “Is she not well?”
“It’s been a difficult pregnancy thus far,” Alensson said, continuing to pace. He clenched his fist, wishing he could punch something. He hated being so far away from his wife, especially since he knew how much she suffered. He knew his decisions affected not only himself but also Jianne and their unborn child. It was a torturous position to be in. “She can hardly keep any food down. She says this is normal, but she’s suffering and lacking the comforts her station deserves.”
“Is she still in Lionn? Surely her uncle’s attending to her needs?”
Alensson shook his head. “No, Lord Hext is at Shynom trying to negotiate his brother’s release from prison in Ceredigion. She went back to her cottage in Izzt.” He ground his teeth with frustration. “Would I were there instead. But what could I do? I’m no nurse, no midwife. I’ll go back for the winter months, and she says she’s content to wait until then.” He let out his breath, feeling torn and conflicted. Genette wanted him at Shanton. The king wanted him to stay in La Marche. His wife needed him. What was he to do?
