by Jeff Wheeler
“I’m not made of glass, you know,” she said, her arm squeezing around his waist.
“I wish Izzt were not so far,” he said, turning to shut the door behind them. The small kitchen smelled of bread, baked squash, and there was a pile of greens she’d been in the middle of cutting. Again he felt the lack of coin and thus the lack of servants who could have tended to her needs. “It cost me dearly to come this way first, but I had to see you.”
“I wouldn’t be comfortable at Shynom anymore,” she said shyly.
“What do you mean?” he pressed, leading her to a bench at the table and helping her to sit.
She looked down at her hands and then up into his eyes, giving him a knowing look. “The court has changed, Alensson. It has always been a hive of scheming and plotting, but recent developments have altered the tone. The women are more . . . brazen. I suppose that’s the word. More haughty. You should see what’s fashionable now. The gowns, I mean.” She shook her head. “I would blush wearing something like that. We lack money, Husband. There are those who are willing to lend, but they wanted certain . . . favors.”
Alensson’s face went tight with anger. “Who?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want you to worry, Husband. I made it very clear that I wasn’t needful of money.” She sighed. “The court has changed so quickly. But that is not why you’re here. You didn’t come because you were worried about me.” It wasn’t stated as a question.
Alensson rose from the bench and began to pace restlessly. “It is not the only reason.”
“Tell me,” she pleaded. “When I heard that Genette was captured, I feared you might do something rash.”
He chuckled under his breath. “I am doing something rash,” he said. Then he looked at her. “So I needed to forewarn you.”
Her eyes closed and she began to tremble with fear. “What are you saying, Alensson?”
He approached the table and planted his palms on the surface. “During the siege of Pree, Genette’s squire, he was only a lad, took a crossbow bolt to the heart. It killed him instantly. She brought him back to life, Jianne. The Maid did. But before she did it, she turned to me and said, you must hear the word of power. Someday it will save the life of the heir of La Marche. A little babe—stillborn.”
Jianne shuddered at the words and covered her mouth in horror.
Alensson felt a gush of tenderness and fear. “When Genette was captured by the King of Brugia, I went to Shynom to plead with the king to ransom her. I begged him. I tried every device under the sun to influence and persuade him, even promised to give the crown a portion of my lands once I reclaim them. Nothing was enough to tempt him. He wants her gone.” He felt his lips twisting into a sneer. “She, the savior of Occitania. Jianne, we nearly took Pree in one day. One day!” His voice had raised to a shout, but he wrestled it down. “One day,” he whispered. “The king would not hear me. He ordered me to return to La Marche but to stop attacking Deford so boldly. He’s trying to negotiate a peace between the three realms—Ceredigion, Occitania, and Brugia. To restore some balance. Pah! We could have won it all back and more! But with each of her successes, she grew more powerful. He would have been beholden to her. Limited by her. And so he betrayed her, and now . . . now she’ll languish in a Brugian dungeon for years as I did. Or worse, they will sell her to Deford, who will execute her.” He paused. “There is some magic at work here. I can sense it. Some Fountain magic, though twisted.”
Jianne’s tears streamed down her cheeks. She reached out and put her hand on his atop the table. “Don’t go,” she begged.
He jerked his hand away. “How can you ask that of me! I know what it is like to languish in prison. You are still several months away from giving birth. Let me try, at least!”
“But if you are captured, Alensson!” she said desperately. “I . . . waited . . . I waited so long for you! How can you ask me to endure it again? Think of our child growing up without a father.”
He was trembling beneath a surge of violent and conflicting feelings. “But the child will be stillborn,” Alensson whispered hoarsely. “She knows! Genette always knows! The Fountain whispered it to her. The child will be stillborn. She told me the word of power, but I am not Fountain-blessed!” He pushed away from the table and paced, shaking his head. The look on his wife’s face . . . If he’d sent a letter, he wouldn’t have seen it, but it was an unworthy thought. She deserved to hear the news directly from him, and it would have been unbearable to take such a risk without first seeing her.
She looked down at the table, where her tears had gathered in a splotchy pool. “What will you do?” she said with a whimper of emotion.
“I’m going to Brugia,” he said. “I know the language. I can pass as a merchant, a mercenary, whatever. I’ve heard she’s being held at the Count of Luxe’s castle in Beauvoir. I will go there in disguise to see if I can get work at the castle.”
“But if someone finds out who you are . . .” she moaned.
He shook his head. “How would they guess? I’ve ordered my captain, Jeremy, to continue launching raids against Deford. Everyone thinks I am there. The king forbade me to try to rescue her.” He clenched his teeth. “But I will not obey him. His heart has become blacker than flint over these past months. He has forgotten who put the crown on his head.” He shook his head no. “But I haven’t. And I will do anything to save you and our babe, Jianne. I am determined to do this. If I can free her, then I will bring her here secretly. We will both be here when the babe comes.”
Jianne looked miserable. He was breaking her heart with this news, but he could not allow fate to take its course, not when he knew he had the wits and courage to enter his enemy’s lands and take back what was theirs. The Maid of Donremy belonged to Occitania.
“Hold me,” Jianne murmured, rising from the bench. He wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed her face against his chest and sobbed. They stood silently for a long moment, feeling the weight of the situation crushing against them. He tried to reassure her, to give her courage. But she was terrified by the great risk he was taking.
“What if they’ve taken her to Kingfountain?” she asked him, looking up into his eyes.
He frowned. “Then that is where I will go to find her,” he whispered, knowing it wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear.
Her eyelids closed and she nodded in resignation. She would not thwart his goal, although he could see she did not support it. Even the risk of losing their child wasn’t enough for her to willingly risk losing him.
“I love you, Jianne,” he whispered.
Rather than answer him, she pulled away and walked to the window. She put one hand on her lower back, the other on her belly.
His entire soul was scorched with the desperation of the situation. She hadn’t noticed the sword and scabbard belted to his hip. There was power in its magic and he could feel it. There was protection for his quest.
But it still meant parting from her once again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Beauvoir Castle
Finding out where they were keeping Genette—Luxe Tower—had proved ludicrously simple once he arrived in Brugia, disguised as a wandering mercenary in search of a lord. News of her capture and confinement had traveled far and wide. He managed to hold his tongue when people slandered her in his presence. The most common one was the Maid of Donremy was a water sprite come to wreak havoc on mortals with her magic. One man insisted he knew someone who had been at Shynom when she had presented herself to Chatriyon. The tale he’d heard was that a servant had spilled a cup on water on her and she hadn’t gotten wet. He did not dare contradict these tales, even the lurid ones, including a rumor that the Maid was not truly a maid at all but one of the king’s lovers. Some even insinuated that she was his lover.
He had learned the language as part of his childhood education, but one of the guards he had met in his long captivity had given him the chance to practice its nuances better. Getting to Brugia was easy enough after
paying a fare from a Genevese merchant.
Alensson was used to being a beggar, and he quickly found work guarding a merchant caravan bound for Luxe Tower. While he traveled, he kept alert for news of Genette. Negotiations for her ransom were underway with the palace of Kingfountain. Despite the Brugians’ efforts to drive up the price they’d get from Deford, Chatriyon still wouldn’t bid for her. As the weeks passed, Alensson picked up more of the local dialects, but being a mercenary gave him a lot of flexibility, and people didn’t expect him to be a learned man.
When the caravan reached the city of Luxe with its load of pickled sardines and cucumbers, the caravan captain offered him permanent work if the count wasn’t interested in hiring him. Alensson thanked him for the offer, but he needed to find a position that would give him better access to the tower. To Genette.
He applied to see the castellan of Beauvoir, but the guards sent him away. The man was too busy, they said, so Alensson found a room at one of the three inns and prepared to hunker down.
The news he had dreaded arrived the next day.
Deford and Philip had finally reached an agreement. The Maid had been sold to Ceredigion for ten thousand marks. A ship with the gold would be arriving shortly with orders to bring the girl to the palace.
That meant he needed to find a way to get her free before the ship arrived.
Beauvoir castle was smaller than a duke’s palace and very rustic. The park had beautiful hedges, sculpted lawns, and several small servants’ cottages situated at odd angles from one another. The main structure of the castle had a steeply pitched roof and several towers, including a narrow bell tower in the center. The walls were gray and blockish, and the circular towers at opposing corners had cone-shaped turrets with brims that resembled peasant hats topped with weathercocks. The grounds were open to the citizens of the village, so it was easy for Alensson to wander the parks without notice during daylight hours. But the moment he tried to approach the grounds, he was immediately accosted by the guards and warned to stay away from the castle itself. He bowed meekly and wandered back.
There was a lush wooded holt, thick with trees and untamed scrub, on the western side of the grounds. Some of the fanciest hedge work bordered it, but there was no fence or stone wall. After watching for a moment to make sure no one was looking, Alensson stepped over the hedge and disappeared into the wood. From that vantage point, he was able to get closer to the castle. He discovered the rear of the castle contained a dry moat filled with clumps of earth and nasty weeds. A steep shelf of rock covered in vines led from the foundation of the castle down into the moat, which would make it very easy to climb up onto the castle grounds. He nodded with satisfaction and hid amidst the trees, watching. After a time, he noticed the guards were patrolling the ground below the tower, coming and going according to a set routine.
He circled farther into the woods and found the remains of a stone bridge with three arches that stood up in the empty moat. The bridge was riddled with vines and it connected to the rear of the castle with an iron porter door. It was a sturdy-looking thing, possibly still in use, so he leaned against one of the shaggy oak trees and watched to see if the door opened or shut frequently. It did not open once while he watched that afternoon.
From his vantage across the dry moat, he could see the back tower of the castle with its strange hat-like roof. There was a window on the upper floor facing him, and he had a compelling feeling that it was where Genette was being held. It was the farthest point from the main doors and the gardens. The tower was quite high, and there was no way to scale it.
Alensson rubbed his mouth. Why had the moat been drained? The grounds were obviously well watered, so it couldn’t have been done out of necessity. He ventured as close to the edge as he dared, not wanting to be seen, and squinted down at the soft earth mixed with rocks at the bottom of the moat. It was dry, but newly so—he could see how high the water level used to be. It appeared as though the water source feeding the moat had been dammed and diverted by the many aqueducts in Brugia. Perhaps the moat had been left to dry out deliberately to prevent Genette from leaping out of the tower window and swimming away. He tapped his lip, confident of his assessment. The earth would be softest at the bottom.
He spent the remainder of the day skulking around the woods, studying the castle, and looking for weaknesses. It was small enough that even if he managed to overcome a guard and take his uniform, he’d probably get noticed as a stranger. He wished he could insinuate himself into the ranks of the castle guards as he’d originally planned, but time was not a luxury he had. He fumed with frustration, trying to determine how he could get Genette out before the ship from Ceredigion arrived with the treasure.
As the daylight faded to dusk, he began to settle down for the night, knowing he would soon run out of light. He’d found her—he was certain of it in his heart—and he would not leave until he figured out how to free her. The guards became more infrequent and the air was cool but not frigid. He’d spent some time gathering brush and leaves for another layer of warmth. Once he was settled, he pulled out a meat pie he’d purchased earlier and saved for his supper. Sitting with his back against the tree, he wolfed down the salty pie and then licked his fingers, savoring the juices.
He stared up at the tower. How could he get her free? His mind worked over the possibilities. Could he use the sword’s magic? Would it help him fight off the guards? It was a dangerous idea, but one that appealed to him. Then the sword and scabbard would be taken away, and they’d be of service to no one—or worse, they’d be in the enemy’s possession.
The night sounds settled over him—buzzing mosquitos, crickets and bulrushes, crackling leaves and twigs. Then he stood and began pacing, both to keep his body warm and to stir his thoughts. The moon hadn’t come up yet, and it was dark enough he wouldn’t be seen by a guard. He needed to be patient. The area was guarded, and he might be wrong about which turret she was in. He saw no sign of light coming from it. Maybe it was empty? Or maybe it was made to appear empty. He stalked this way and that, wondering what he should do.
He stared at the upper window. Could he toss a pebble that high? Some small stone to make a noise? If he could determine whether she was indeed up there, it would help him plan their escape. He gathered a handful of rocks from the edge of the moat and crept to a spot that was just across from the tower.
Pulling his arm back, he hurled the first pebble at the tower window. When he missed it completely, he shook his head and cursed himself. Then he readied the next one, stepped back, and threw it as hard as he could. He knew there were shepherd boys with slings who would have been able to break the window from this distance. His second attempt struck the tower, but it was way too low. The stone clattered down the wall and then bounced several times, making a terrible racket. He swore under his breath.
After six more attempts, he returned to his little nest to prepare to sleep. He lay awake for a long time, staring at the castle, willing his mind to conjure up a plan to free her. He fell asleep during the middle of his silent prayer.
A noise in the woods snapped Alensson awake. He sat up, the twigs and leaves crackling as he shifted. Several guards with torches were making their way through the thick expanse of woods with a pair of hounds.
Alensson’s heart began to hammer with fear and he cursed himself for being thickheaded. Yes, no one had bothered searching the woods during the day, but it made sense that the guards would add it to their pattern at night.
“I’m a fool,” he muttered to himself. They were still a good distance away, but he could not stay where he was, and he suspected the dogs probably already had a scent. Breaking free of his cover, he scattered the leaves he’d gathered as quietly as he could. If he climbed a tree, they’d have him pinned down within the hour. His instincts told him to go deeper.
Like a cat, he stalked to the edge of the moat and studied it quickly. He scrabbled down the ravine and landed amidst the soft earth, weeds, and hidden rocks. His heart thun
dered in his ears, and he knew the moat walls would make it more difficult for him to hear the approaching guards. The moon was out now, and if the dogs tracked him here, the guards would likely see him from above, but then he remembered the dilapidated bridge. He rushed over to the supports quickly and slunk into the shadows they provided, keeping an eye on the ridge of the moat for any signs of the night watch. The perimeter of the grounds was probably also being protected, so it would be near impossible to escape Beauvoir without a fight. Had he made a mistake in coming here?
The guards approached his former camp, and he watched their torchlight illuminate the area, casting moving shadows that stretched and yawned. He was concealed within an arch of the bridge, but he still felt vulnerable. There were some voices he couldn’t make out, and then a hound was suddenly snuffling at the top of the moat. It could probably smell his sweat.
One guard approached the edge of the moat and gazed down before tugging at the leash and pulling the beast away toward where the other one was going. Alensson felt a little thrill of hope when he realized the guards were coming toward the bridge. He imagined they would use it to enter through the porter door. Did they have the key? Probably not, he reasoned, or someone attacking them would gain access. He had no qualms about killing men or beast if need be, but it wasn’t his first choice, especially if there was a chance it wouldn’t get him what he needed.
If there was a password at the door, he might be in a position to hear it. He softly stepped through an arch, moving closer to the foundation of the castle. His boots made a hissing sound amidst the weeds.
There was a sharp knock on the iron door overhead. Alensson positioned himself as close as he could, his stomach wriggling with worry.
A little portal gap opened. “Who is it?”
