by Jeff Wheeler
Jeremy rose from his bench. “I’ll give you time to think about your answer then. Your men will follow you no matter where you lead them. Maybe it’s time we attacked the palace of Kingfountain, eh?” He chuckled softly. “That would surprise them.”
“Indeed,” laughed Alensson. “As you said, my mind is in turmoil. Grant me some time to ponder the dilemma before I give orders for the morrow.”
After his captain’s departure, the only sound was the chorus of the crickets. Alensson took a drink from his wine flask and winced at the bitter taste. He rummaged through his saddlebag again until he found the pile of letters he’d bound with a strap of leather. They were all from Jianne. He carefully untied them and started to read them over again, admiring the penmanship and savoring the words of love and encouragement from his wife. There was such a difference between her letters and Genette’s. He paused, his thoughts drifting to the Maid once more. She had seemed so certain that the Fountain would deliver Pree into their hands. Yet she had failed. Rather, the king had pulled back his forces too soon—he hadn’t given the Fountain’s magic time to aid them. Alensson had thought on that decision over and over since they’d abandoned Pree, and he still believed the king hadn’t wished for her to be successful. How would he take her actions now? If she’d truly gone against his wishes, it would give Chatriyon justification to declare her a traitor. Would he dare do that? If he did, did that mean Alensson would be considered a traitor for helping her?
He looked down at the letters again, banishing the Maid from his mind as he read his wife’s words. He fancied being at the cottage, tiptoeing inside, and startling her with a surprise, folding his arms around her middle and nuzzling kisses against her neck. Pangs of loneliness and frustration spiked inside his heart. Jianne was so far away it felt as if she were on a different world. He wasn’t a prisoner of Ceredigion any longer, but he did feel like a prisoner of the crown. His fate was bound to Chatriyon’s—a king whom he no longer respected, a king who no longer valued him, despite all the years his family had served.
The thought made him brood angrily. He pored over a few more of the letters and then tied them up again and delicately returned them to the saddlebag. Each was a treasure that brought a little balm of comfort. He would get his duchy back. He would make sure Jianne was given all the comforts she deserved. He would get his duchy back. He would make sure . . .
“My lord?” said a voice outside the tent.
“What is it?” Alensson asked, wrestling with his feelings of futility.
One of the soldiers parted the tent and poked his head inside. “My lord, there’s a lad here to see you.”
Alensson frowned. “Who is it?” It was highly unusual for a local village lad to wander into his camp uninvited.
“He says he knows you. The lad’s name is Brendin.”
Genette’s squire. Alensson hurried to his feet. “Send him in.”
The soldier held open the tent and the tawny-haired boy came inside. He was holding a long bundle, tied off with ropes and straps. It was much longer than a bedroll. Alensson’s mouth went dry.
The boy looked nervous. There was a furrow in his brow, just beneath the hairline. He looked anguished. The memory of this boy lying dead on a pallet flashed through Alensson’s mind, so vivid it made him relive the clash and fury of the siege of Pree.
Alensson’s gaze fell to the bundle in the boy’s arms. It was clutched to his chest like a treasure. The young duke’s mouth went dry. He thought he knew what it was even though it was concealed by blankets.
“What do you bring me?” he asked softly, his skin prickling with apprehension.
“She told me to bring this to you,” Brendin said. “She bade me to wait until the second full moon and then find you. She told me you’d be camped outside the village of Doeg. She made me . . . she made me swear an oath to the Fountain that I would obey her.”
The boy set the bundle down and quickly knelt by it, untying the knots that bound it. Alensson’s heart hammered in his chest. It wasn’t possible. But then the boy began to unroll the blanket and there it was. Nested inside was the sword he had discovered at Firebos in the raven-sigil scabbard.
“She said . . . she said this is for you,” the boy murmured, looking up at him with tears in his eyes.
Alensson stared at it, feeling the hunger twist inside his belly, twined now with the sickening sensation of fear, as if the blade really were a serpent.
“My lord!”
The voice came from outside the tent. It was the captain.
“What is it?” Alensson asked hoarsely, unable to take his eyes away from the treasure before him.
Jeremy thrust his way into the tent, nearly stumbling over the kneeling boy. He looked around in confusion and then met Alensson’s gaze.
“Word just arrived,” he said breathlessly. There was a panic-stricken tremor in his cheek. “She’s been captured, my lord. A rider just came from Shanton with the news. The Maid has been captured by the King of Brugia!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Escape
The king’s palace at Pree was abuzz with the news that the Duke of La Marche had escaped his confinement, and everyone was on the lookout for him. Although Ankarette’s pulse was racing, she kept a calm demeanor and walked unhurriedly down the passageway. Two male servants walked behind her, carrying two chests between them. The chests were stacked atop each other, the top one smaller than the bottom one. The men were sweating from the burden.
“Careful, you fools,” Ankarette snapped as they came around a corner and nearly collided with a squad of soldiers. “Those plates are worth more than your wages.” One of the men grunted an apology and they continued.
The porter door at the end of the corridor was manned by several soldiers wearing the colorful plumage of the King of Occitania. A crowd had assembled there—people with trollies, and servants carrying crates and chests outside the palace walls. The soldiers were inspecting each of the larger chests. They offered no explanation, but their purpose was clear. A large chest could be used to conceal a man.
Ankarette joined the end of the line. There was an imperious expression on her face as she glanced back at the servants. “Tell me you have the carriage ready outside,” she said with a haughty tone. “My lady will be furious if we are late!”
“The driver is waiting even now, mum,” said one of the servants, wiping his sweaty forehead across his sleeve.
“It better be,” Ankarette said, stepping forward as the line shortened. “Come along. Don’t dawdle.”
“Yes, mum,” said the other, and both heaved at the chests again.
As they reached the guards at the end of the line, Ankarette gave the servants another scolding look. Then she flashed a dimpled smile at the captain of the soldiers. “Any word of the duke’s capture, my friends?” she asked boldly.
“Rumors is all, my lady,” he said, quickly sizing up the two chests. Both were too small to hide a body. He waved her past. “They say he escaped in the night through a privy hole. Messy business. The hounds are on the hunt, but with the smell, it’ll be difficult to follow him. Where is your mistress headed?”
“Chateau Grif,” she answered. “Thank you, Captain.” She gave him another winning smile and he offered a gallant bow in return.
“Come on,” she said, glancing back at the servants again. Then she gave a toss of her head to the captain, acting as if their incompetence was a sore trial in her life. The captain chuckled and waved them through.
As they reached the carriage awaiting them in the crowded courtyard, the two men hefted the bundle up onto the baggage well and secured it with ropes. The driver hopped off the perch and opened the door for her.
“My lady,” he greeted, showing a false tooth and a crooked smile.
“Thank you,” she offered, keeping her nose high in the air in case someone was watching her, and then ducked into the carriage. The window curtains were already closed, so she quickly went to work on the false panel
beneath the seat facing the back wall. She could hear the grunting of the men outside, their low jokes, and then one of them slapped the chests.
That was the signal.
The driver climbed back up onto the perch, clicked his tongue, and gave the beasts a little snap with the whip. Both of the men clung to the back of the carriage as it began to lumber across the courtyard. Ankarette sat on the carriage seat and folded her hands in her lap, feeling exhausted from the long night’s interview. The carriage made it to the end of the courtyard before being halted again by the gatehouse guards. Just as she’d expected.
She parted the curtain as a soldier approached. “What is it, sir?” she asked impatiently.
“Are you alone in the carriage, my lady?”
“Of course I am,” she snapped. “See for yourself.”
The soldier nodded and twisted the handle. He poked his head inside, looked both ways, and nodded when he found her alone. “Apologies. It’s the king’s orders that every wagon be searched upon entering and leaving.”
She settled back on the bench and folded her hands across her knees, staring away as if the conversation utterly bored her. The soldier nodded to the driver and then secured the door again. With another click and whistle, the carriage trundled through the gate and across the moat bridge, entering the hive of Pree.
As soon as they were past, Ankarette knelt by the bench and lifted the seat. She’d already removed the plank and she could see the edge of the larger bottom chest. She pried loose the nails and then pulled the edge of the chest open, revealing the soles of two heavy boots.
“Are you quite comfortable, Alensson?” she called into the void.
“It may be a bit crowded, but it’s better than a stinking privy hole,” he said in a muffled tone. Ankarette smiled as she grabbed his ankles and began pulling him into the carriage to join her. He wriggled and squirmed to help, and soon he was sitting on the bench across from her, his gray hair askew, a mischievous smile on his mouth.
“A cunning lass,” he said. “Cutting the boxes in the middle like that and stacking them was an inspired idea. If they’d opened the top one, they would have seen my head and shoulders.”
“If they’d opened the top one, they would have found themselves with daggers in their ribs,” Ankarette answered with a shrug. “One poisoner and two Espion would be more than a match for those simple guards at the porter door. I had planned for the possibility that I might need to kidnap you earlier in the evening. Your eagerness to escape only made the task easier. Now sit down. I have some questions before you continue your story.”
“I assumed you would,” Alensson said. The carriage jogged and tottered a bit as it went across the uneven cobblestones. He parted the curtain with his fingers, glancing worriedly and hopefully at the scene, a small smile of relief twisting one side of his mouth until he let it fall back into place.
“She gave you the sword and the scabbard,” Ankarette said pointedly.
“And you want to know where they are now,” he replied with an evasive smile.
“Yes, that is true. As I told you when we met, that was my mission—to find out where King Lewis was hiding them.”
“And now you know from my story that they weren’t taken from her when she was captured,” he added.
“Exactly. She was given over to Deford’s men eventually after being in the custody of the King of Brugia. While tracing the origins and history of the blade, I spent some time in Brugia to see if I could discover rumors of it there. It’s safer visiting Brugia than Occitania at the present. I have it from reliable sources, who were poisoned and quite cooperative, that the sword they took from the Maid when she was captured did not have the markings. I knew nothing of the scabbard’s power until your tale, so naturally I’m eager to find it as well. It would be a great asset to my king.”
“It would indeed. As I said, the blade once belonged to King Andrew. The scabbard also did, though it originated in Leoneyis. The histories of the legends of the Lady of the Fountain show that when the need arises, the blade and scabbard will return to the land.”
“But they have both been missing since the Maid’s war,” Ankarette said. “She brought them back and then they were lost. She gave them both to you.” She could hear her own eagerness in her voice. “You mentioned before how much you coveted them. Then they were freely given to you. Why would she do that?”
He looked away from her, staring at the curtain, his face clouding with fatigue and sadness. “I don’t have the sword anymore,” he whispered.
“I didn’t think so,” Ankarette said. “You’ve been imprisoned several times for rebelling against King Chatriyon. The only reason Lewis didn’t execute you long ago is because you’re somewhat of a hero among the people. You are noble in a court that is lewd. You are still her Gentle Duke.”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “That was many years ago. I was very young. I was no stranger to suffering, but I did not realize how much I’d be schooled in it later.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You wanted the full story, and I will give it to you, Ankarette.” He looked her in the eye. “These are painful memories. I’ve not shared them with anyone in a very long time. But I trust that you will keep my secrets. And share my pain.”
She reached over and laid her hand on top of his. “I’ll tell you what I know and you fill in the gaps. There is comfort in sharing another’s pain. I’ve seen my own share of sadness as well.”
A crooked smile stole across his mouth. “I don’t doubt it.”
Ankarette released his hand and then cupped hers together in her lap. “King Chatriyon refused to ransom the Maid. Not that he could have afforded it, even if he were so inclined. She was taken by the King of Brugia but held in custody at the castle of one of his liegemen, the Count of Luxe, who had gone with him to Occitania.”
“You are well-read, Ankarette,” he said approvingly. “Very few remember the name of the Count of Luxe. Do you know it?”
“His name was Peter,” Ankarette said. “I know this trite piece of history because my master’s wife, the Queen of Ceredigion, is his granddaughter.”
An ironic smile crossed the duke’s mouth. “Isn’t it strange how events twist and turn and come around again? We all play parts upon some grand stage. The Fountain wills the roles.” He shook his head. “Yes, Peter of Luxe had a daughter named Jaquette. She was born the year Occitania fell in the Battle of Azinkeep. You remember that Deford was married to the King of Brugia’s sister?”
“Yes,” Ankarette said. “You mentioned that in your tale.”
“She died. Some thought a poisoner did it because they were childless.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if that is true. But his second wife was her.”
“Jacquette,” Ankarette said with a nod. “She was seventeen when they married, but it was also a childless marriage. It didn’t last that long before Deford died. And yes, he was poisoned. She married again to Lord Rivers and they had a large brood of children. My mistress, she who now reigns at Kingfountain, was their eldest.”
Alensson sighed. “So now you know that Genette did not have the sword when she was captured outside Shanton. Once I saw the blade, I understood why Genette’s leg had taken so long to heal. She had entrusted it to her squire and then sent him away to await news of her capture. When it happened, he was to bring the blade to me.”
“And why to you?” Ankarette pressed.
“I thought it was because she wanted me to rescue her,” he replied. His eyes twinkled. “And so I tried. You already understand, Ankarette, that my wife was having a difficult pregnancy. I hadn’t forgotten Genette’s warning that the heir of La Marche might need the same magic she’d used to save Brendin. I needed to free the Maid from that awful dungeon—for her and for my family. I disobeyed my king’s orders. I was willing to risk anything to set Genette free.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Risk
Alensson’s stallion was wearied by the pressing ride, but the duke was impatient to ar
rive. The lush valley spread before him, the air full of gnat clouds and the pleasant odor of honeysuckle. His heart started pounding faster when the roof of the cottage came into view from his vantage point on the road. The stallion wanted to linger and crop grass, but he gave it an encouraging nip with his spurs, and it continued to labor down the gravel road, bringing up puffs of dry dust. A meadowlark trilled from the nearby trees, and Alensson was lost in its beautiful song for a moment.
The beast managed the final agonizing steps to the cottage door. Before the young duke was out of the saddle, the door flung open and his wife emerged from within, holding her swollen belly. Alix Felt looked worriedly from the doorway, but her face melted into relief upon recognizing him.
“Alensson!” Jianne gasped. She leaned against the door frame, looking as surprised as a child who’d seen a jongleur’s trick. The smudges under her eyes wrenched his heart.
He had left his armor and royal tunic with his captain, Jeremy, so he could conceal his identity while he traveled. He wore a hunter’s garb now, clothes that would be comfortable for living off the land, which he intended to do until he succeeded.
“Hello, my love,” he said, reaching her in moments and sweeping her into his arms. Her growing womb was as taut as a melon, and it felt strange and exciting when it pressed up against him. He kissed her ear, then her neck, then her mouth, and she responded with a fiery vigor that proved they’d been away from each other for too long.
“What are you . . . doing here?” she tried to get out amidst the flurry of kisses. Alix discreetly slipped away to give them some privacy.
“I had to see you,” he answered huskily. “Let’s go inside.”
“What about the horse?”
“I don’t give a badger about the horse! It’s half lame right now. It won’t wander off.” He waved at it with his arm. “Go find a water trough, beast! Off with you!” He grinned at Jianne, his heart swelling inside his chest as he walked back into the cottage with her, one arm around her shoulders to support her.
