The Maid's War

by Jeff Wheeler

  The citizenry of Kingfountain took up howling against the Maid, jeering obscenities at her and flinging spoiled fruit at her cart. There were at least fifty soldiers in front and fifty behind, but they would be useless against the swelling mob if a riot started. The indignities hurled at the Maid burned in the duke’s ears, making him bare his teeth at the willful humiliation. The street vendors had even stopped hawking their wares to join in the abuse of the young woman. He watched the advancing phalanx plow through the crowd as if trudging through a snow-packed landscape.

  As the first ranks of soldiers passed, Alensson saw the wary looks they were giving the tumultuous panoply. A fearful dread began pounding in his heart. What if they rushed the cart and seized her and threw her into the mouth of the falls? In the days since Alensson had been at Kingfountain, he had witnessed only one such outrage, a man caught thieving at one of the fountains. He’d been unceremoniously accosted and rushed to the ledge, and his corpse had later been found on the river shore below. The duke was terrified by the mass of life, the frenzied rabble who had been taught to hate Genette. What if she was murdered before his very eyes and she wasn’t even granted a trial?

  The pandemonium on the bridge outside the sanctuary was so great he could not hear the clacking of the wagon wheels as the cart followed the ranks of royal guardsmen. Smashed fruit and sludge dripped from the bars of the cart as it passed, making Alensson squeeze the bars of the gate in impotent fury. He saw Genette within, seated on the wooden floor, her hands bracing her body as the cart bumped and jostled. She was thinner than when he’d last seen her, her dark hair speckled with tomato seeds and other stains. But as the cart lumbered past Our Lady, she lifted her head and stared up at the sanctuary beyond the gate, taking in its vast architecture and sky-piercing spire. If she heard the taunts and deprecations of the crowd, there was no sign of it in her expression. A rotten cabbage exploded against the bars, and Alensson wanted to throttle the villain who had hurled it, but Genette still did not flinch. A slight smile brightened her face as she stared up at the shrine dedicated to the Fountain. She made a quick sign of obeisance with her hand, a prayer, and then her eyes fell to the gate of the sanctuary.

  Their eyes met.

  He was relieved she’d seen him, for he’d worried the cart would bear her away before he could alert her to his presence.

  Her shoulders slumped in a grateful sigh, and this time her smile was so bright it pierced his heart and brought tears to his eyes. She crawled to the edge of the cart, fastening her hands on the bars, and she looked at him with tenderness. With his gaze fixed on hers, he nodded once and inclined his head respectfully, as if she were the duchess and he a mere village boy. She took his meaning. He had done as she had bidden him.

  For the next three days, the boy Tunmore brought Alensson daily tidings of the trial occurring at the palace. The trial was attended by most of the nobles of the realm, along with many of the prelates, including the deconeus of Our Lady and his protégé, John Tunmore. They were restless, anxiety-ridden days.

  Alensson desperately wished he could find a way to gain entrance to the trial itself, but the notes the boy took in his ledger book were articulate and thorough. Despite his young age, Tunmore recounted details so vividly that Alensson almost felt as if he were there. They conjured images and moods and emotions. The boy had captured Genette’s tone and willfulness so well, it was as if she were speaking to him from the page. The people were astounded that such a young woman was managing to defy and out-argue the brightest minds in the royal court.

  On the third night, Alensson paced the sanctuary grounds as darkness fell and the torches were lit. Then he spied the young man approaching, his ledger clutched tightly to his chest.

  The sense of doom in the boy’s countenance made his heart jump in his chest. “What happened today? You look grave.”

  The boy sighed, his face pinched and worried. “The king’s court does not want justice. They are only interested in arriving at guilt. Tomorrow she will be condemned.”

  It was the result he’d expected. Hadn’t Genette told him that she was going over the falls? It was why she had asked for the scabbard. And yet he nearly swooned with worry.

  “What charges against her have been worthy of death. Sedition? Treason?”

  The boy shook his head. “No, they cannot try her for treason because there has not been a coronation in Occitania yet. She was quick to remind them of that. Their grounds for sedition were equally difficult to enforce. No, I’m afraid they are planning to condemn her for wearing men’s clothes.”

  “What?” Alensson asked, baffled. “When did this come about?”

  “Today,” Tunmore said. “She debunked their other accusations with logic, so today they have charged her with acting against her maidenhood. She has fought in battles and worn armor. She dresses in men’s clothes. She has defended herself by saying that she does it to protect herself. She said that none of the Occitanian soldiers ever tried to molest her, but once she was captured by Brugia, she has had to be vigilant day and night for fear. They have tried to persuade her to give up the soldier garb now that she’s safe.” The boy had a scoffing look. “But she insists she is no safer in the palace of Kingfountain than she was at Beauvoir.”

  Alensson clenched his fists. “If only I could know what she wants me to do,” he seethed.

  “I think . . . I think that I could see her,” Tunmore said softly.

  Alensson dropped to one knee and gripped the boy’s shoulders. “Tell me how!”

  He glanced both ways to make sure they were alone. “As I’ve said, the guards recognize me at the palace,” he said in a stumbling voice. “No one looks at me twice. I know where they are keeping her. If I said I bore a . . . a note. From the deconeus.” He was stuttering now, his face white with fear. “It would be a lie, but if I did, I think I would be allowed to see her.” His lips trembled. “But if the deconeus found out . . .”

  Alensson tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “Lad, you must have courage to do the Fountain’s will. You are not an ordinary boy. I sense in you the same power that she possesses. You must do as you suggest.”

  The boy shivered. “I’m afraid.”

  “So am I, lad. So am I. But you must talk to her. She knows . . . she knows the future, lad. She’ll know what we must do to help her. If you brought the scabbard to her in the cell, they would only take it away from you.” He released his grip and rubbed his lip. “She must get it.”

  “I know where they stow the boats they use for executions,” the boy said. “I’ve hidden the scabbard in the palace, but I could bring it to the boat if I knew which one it was. Perhaps she’ll know?”

  Alensson gazed eagerly at the child. “Yes!” He gripped his shoulders again. “Lad, there are times when a boy must act like a man. This is one of those times. The Fountain will guide you. Trust in it. Go seek the Maid. Her name is Genette. Tell her . . . tell her that her gentle friend awaits her orders.”

  The boy blinked at him. “Did you serve with her in Occitania? Are you one of her soldiers?”

  Alensson felt he could trust the boy. “I am,” he answered. “I am here on her orders. Talk to her in the dungeon. Hide the scabbard on the boat. Where is it now?”

  The lad squirmed again. “I’ve hidden it.” It was the same answer he’d given before.

  “Where?” he pressed.

  The serious eyes met his. “In the Deep Fathoms.”

  The duke had no comprehension of what it meant to hide something there. But then a memory surfaced: Genette drawing a chest from a fountain that had looked empty moments before. It was a power the Fountain-blessed had.

  “Go see her,” he said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “You are destined for great things, John Tunmore.”

  The boy looked pleased by the compliment. “They are holding her in the dungeon, not the tower. They say she jumped out of the tower at Beauvoir and survived without a broken bone.”

  Alensson felt a flas
h of pain at the memory. “I’ve heard the same,” he said. “And yes, she did survive. She must survive now too.”

  “Go,” Alensson said, jerking his head. The boy nodded and departed, clutching the ledger to his chest once more. Alensson watched until the shadows smothered the lad. He disliked using a child to achieve his ends. He’d grown rather fond of the lad over the last few days.

  And then he remembered his pregnant wife. Her time was coming due, and it was seeming less and less likely he’d be able to return in time with Genette. The worry in his chest was so fierce he almost couldn’t breathe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Into the Falls

  Alensson could not sleep. He lay awake, arms hugging his chest, listening to the garbled snores of his cell mates as he lay on the itchy wool blanket covering his dingy stray pallet. He listened to the omnipresent murmur of the falls, which could not even be escaped within the stone walls of the sanctuary. The sound was a constant reminder that Genette was likely to meet her fate today. She would be bound by arm and ankle, handed into a wooden canoe, and then ceremoniously dumped into the raging river—the form of execution trial most common in both Ceredigion and Occitania. He wished he could have sat with her in her stone cell that night, holding her hand and giving her a morsel of comfort before she faced the falls.

  The corridors had fallen quiet hours ago, and he occasionally tossed and turned, seeking to ease the pain in his hip. The rank smell of the blanket was normal to him now. After his five-year imprisonment, he’d learned to be comfortable in solitude, a feeling that drove most men mad. His thoughts turned again to his wife, Jianne. Had she sent for a midwife already? How close was she to her confinement? He had not contacted her in weeks for fear of discovery. She was undoubtedly as worried about him as he was about her.

  What would happen to the people he cared for so deeply?

  His ears picked out the cautious tread of a boy’s shoes coming down the hall. The slow, steady cadence spoke of his fear of being discovered roaming the sanctuary at night.

  As Alensson crept away from his pallet, he heard one of his cell mates grunt and then emit a loud snore. The disruption made him freeze his motion, waiting to hear the rhythm of the man’s breathing start up again. It did. There was no door covering the cell, only a stiff, tattered curtain. Alensson parted it and then slipped into the hall.

  The boy was inching his way toward him, his hands patting the wall as he counted the way down. A trio of torches burned in a rack at the far end of the hall, stretching the boy’s shadow to the point where it almost touched Alensson’s boots.

  The lad saw him and then came forward.

  “Did you see her?” the duke whispered.

  Tunmore nodded gravely. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

  “Did you have any trouble?”

  “Quite a bit, sir. But nothing I couldn’t manage. I don’t think anyone will send word to the deconeus. If they do, I don’t have an explanation.”

  Alensson smiled. “You’re very young. Just say you were curious, and that will explain it all away.” He dropped down to one knee to put their faces at an even level. “You spoke to the Maid then? What did she say?”

  Tunmore flinched and glanced back the way he’d come. Had there been a noise?

  “I did speak to her and the Fountain spoke inside my heart. She knew . . . she knew my name. It was almost as if we’d always been friends. She’s very pale, very tired.” He glanced back again, looking unnerved.

  Then Alensson heard it to. The soft clip of boots coming down the corridor. A swell of panic rose up inside his chest. Had someone followed the boy back to the sanctuary? Their time together was suddenly very limited. Alensson gripped the lad’s shoulders. “What does she want me to do?” he whispered urgently.

  Tunmore kept glancing back at the corridor, his eyes widening with fear. His nostrils flared and he started breathing fast. “She said she didn’t want you to watch her go into the falls tomorrow. The waters won’t kill her because she is Fountain-blessed and water is of the Fountain. But she said it would disturb you to see it.”

  A flush of anger shot through Alensson’s heart. “And she’s worried about me?” he growled.

  The boy nodded. “She said the Fountain has its own purpose for you. You must go to the North. To North Cumbria. There is a castle there called Dundrennan. Beyond the castle, high in the mountains, you will follow the river to its source. She will meet you there in three days.”

  Alensson’s mind whirled. The prospect of going even farther into his enemy’s country alarmed him. “Dun—Dundrennan? Was that the name?” he asked.

  The boy Tunmore nodded. “It’s the duke’s castle. If you follow the river, it will take you there. She said to dress warmly. There will be ice.”

  His heart hammered with dread as the bootfalls drew nearer. Because of the torches, there were no shadows on the floor to show how close the interloper was.

  Alensson pressed his back against the wall and ducked behind the curtain of his cell. The sound of the boots grew louder and faster as the man broke into a run.

  “Oy!” the man called. “You, boy! Hold fast in the name of the king.”

  Alensson’s blood froze. He pressed his wrist against his mouth to stifle the noise of his rapid breathing. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. The lad’s pursuer passed Alensson’s curtain, but his bootfalls were quickly followed by another set.

  “Did you find the brat?” asked the second man.

  “He went down that way and disappeared. I thought I saw him talking to someone, but couldn’t see for sure in this blasted darkness.”

  “Why didn’t you carry a torch?” asked the second man.

  The two men met up just outside Alensson’s cell. Terrified they’d pull the curtain back and see him, he carefully tiptoed to his pallet and slunk down onto it, putting his back to the opening and pulling the covers up to his shoulders. He was shivering with dread.

  “I wasn’t that far behind the lad. He came here from the palace!”

  “He did?” asked the other man in confusion. “In the middle of the night?”

  “Yes. One of the palace Espion caught him carrying a long box through the halls of Kingfountain. Thought he was a thief.”

  “These sanctuary men are all cutthroats,” the other said disdainfully. “They steal during the day and then hide here at night. Over half should be thrown into the river.”

  “You can’t do that, man! Think what the citizens would do! Superstitious fools. The Espion tried to follow him, but the boy was crafty. He knows the palace well.”

  “Humph! Definitely a thief then.”

  “Strange that he didn’t steal anything. He stashed the box he was carrying somewhere. When I was sent, I caught him leaving the grounds. Sure enough, he came here to Our Lady. There’s a gang of boys running amok these days. Urchins, all of them. Well, whoever the boy was, he’s slipped away. I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  “Well, best we leave before the sexton arrives with a lamp. Come on.”

  “All right. But I hate the thought of someone stealing His Majesty’s treasures. If I find that brat, I’ll wring his little neck. You’re stationed here. See what you can find out. Ask around.”

  “I will. Best to go.”

  The sound of their bootsteps faded. Alensson took deep gulps of air and gripped the pommel of the sword Genette had given him as he waited for the boy Tunmore to return.

  He didn’t.

  When it was dawn, Alensson decided to leave the sanctuary. He had wrestled within himself for the remainder of the night, tempted to disobey the Maid’s instructions. Part of him felt he should witness the canoe entering the river, that it was his duty to her despite what she’d said. But he knew himself, and perhaps Genette also knew him well. Would he be tempted to jump into the river to try to save her? He wasn’t Fountain-blessed. A rash action like that would end with his death, more likely than not. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn’t
trust himself. So he heeded her wisdom and pushed his way roughly through the crowds loitering on the bridge. Everyone was gathering to witness the spectacle, and he was moving against the flood.

  With a snarl on his mouth and fire in his eyes, he marched through the throngs, earning a battery of curses and contempt. More and more people tried to crowd onto the bridge to watch. When Alensson finally escaped the confinement of the press, he increased his pace and rushed beyond the city gates. He took a road leading north that followed alongside the river, though at a distance. Walking in long furious strides, his arms folded across his chest, he brooded on what was even now happening back at Kingfountain. Each step brought a variation of the same question. Had it happened yet? Was it about to?

  Those endless questions were what finally drove him to abandon his determination to honor Genette’s wishes.

  Once he made the decision, he ran to the river’s edge. He was about a mile upriver, close enough to see the mossy flank of the sanctuary island. The icy waters rushed by at breakneck speed. Swimming across the river would not be possible. Looking back at Kingfountain, he spied a series of docks wedged behind the castle, down at the water’s edge.

  The crowd was still gathered around the river, and when he squinted hard enough, he made out various men, soldiers mostly, though he also saw the cassock of the deconeus. This was the moment. There was a canoe fixed to poles, and he could see them lowering someone into it, someone who went willingly and without struggle.

  Alensson’s heart flamed with agony as he watched the deconeus stand over the prostrate girl. The man made a little benediction with his hand. As soon as he stepped away, the soldiers hefted the poles the canoe sat on and marched the little boat to the end of the pier. And then, unceremoniously, they tilted it and the canoe landed with a splash.

  He squeezed his fists, shaking with fierce emotions. Did she know he was there? Did she know he was watching her after all?

  The canoe was quickly gaining speed. Suddenly the brash duke stepped away from the tree, cupped his hands over his mouth, and screamed her name over the roar of the river.