by Ben Cassidy
Joseph pointed back down the road as he drew his horse to a halt. “Twelve riders, my lord, coming fast down the road. They’re flying the flag of Llewyllan.”
Bathsby looked back at the royal carriage and the line of soldiers marching on the road, shading his eyes from the light of the setting sun. He nodded, then turned to one of the men beside him. “Captain, gather some men together.”
The officer nodded, then began barking out some orders to the mounted men behind him.
Lord Bathsby looked over at Joseph. “You will accompany us?”
“Gladly.”
Bathsby nodded. “Then let’s go. Captain?”
Thirty seconds later they were riding hard down the east road, over the slight rise that obstructed their sight. As they cleared the crest, they saw the riders approaching about a hundred yards away.
Bathsby pulled his men to a trot and then a full halt as the riders in front of them came close.
They slowed as well, their peacock banner drifting in the wind. The rider in front took off his hat, and rode forwards towards them. He was a handsome man, wearing an elegant silk coat with fancy ruffles on the sleeves and buttons made of ivory on the cuffs. Long blond hair curled down to his shoulders, blowing softly in the breeze.
“Lord Bathsby?” the rider said, his hat still in his hand.
Bathsby nodded stiffly. “Lord Whitmore. I trust all is well with the King?”
“As well as can be expected.” Whitmore leaned in eagerly, replacing his hat. “What news of the princess? Have you found her?”
“We have.” Bathsby eyed Whitmore carefully. “She’s back there, riding in the carriage.”
“Thank Eru,” breathed Whitmore, leaning back in his saddle. “She’s all right, then?”
“For the moment,” said Bathsby. He pulled his horse’s head back to the front. “She was being held by bandits. We took care of them.”
Whitmore shook his head. “Bandits? That’s quite astonishing. I wouldn’t have thought they had the strength or courage to attack a royal convoy.”
“Yes, well apparently they did.” Bathsby cocked his head. “What news from the frontier?”
The nobleman shook his head heavily, the curls in his hair swaying. “Not good. Two settlements have been completely destroyed, and another evacuated. It looks like the Jogarthi are in open revolt again.”
Bathsby scowled. “That is ill news indeed.” He looked out towards the darkening fields with a heavy sigh. “I suppose we should make camp for the night here. If we’re lucky we should make Balneth by tomorrow evening.”
Lord Whitmore glanced back eagerly at the royal carriage. “The princess is in her carriage, you say? I was hoping to have a word with her.”
Joseph saw Bathsby’s face grow rather thin. “Yes, she is,” he said slowly.
“Splendid,” said Whitmore. “I shall speak to her without delay.” He touched the brim of his hat in salute, then gave his horse a kick.
The band of riders rode past, their horses kicking up dirt in their wake.
Joseph caught a quick glance of one of the riders in a long blue cloak and black hat, who gave him a chilling stare before passing. Surprised, the scout looked after the man, but he did not turn around again.
“Captain,” said Bathsby in a low tone, “make camp here for the night. Double the guard.”
“Yes sir,” replied the rider, then wheeled and rode back towards the column as well.
The rest of the horses turned, clopping their way down the road towards where the column had stopped. Before they were halfway there the soldiers began making camp. Fires began to appear as bright dots against the dark backdrop of the fields around them, and tents began to rise up like ghostly shapes. Joseph pulled his horse up until he was riding along next to Bathsby.
“This Lord Whitmore,” said Joseph quietly to Lord Bathsby, “he is a friend of the princess?”
The nobleman looked over with a snort. “Friend? I suppose so. Though I shouldn’t doubt Whitmore desires more.”
A breeze caught the mane of Joseph’s horse, tossing it gently. “You sound as if you don’t approve of the man.”
Bathsby glanced over at Joseph again, his eyes as hard as steel. “Lord Whitmore is a man of opportunity, if you get my meaning. He means to have the throne.”
The scout blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Bathsby’s face darkened. “The throne of Llewyllan. Whitmore is from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the nation. His blood is almost as blue as that of King Nathan himself.” He glanced down at the ground with a sigh. “Our King is in poor health. He has been for a long time. Whitmore hopes to secure his own future before His Majesty’s passing.”
Joseph felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. “Serentha is the King’s eldest child?”
“His only child.” Bathsby returned the salute of two of the camp guards as they rode past. “Whitmore means to marry her and claim the throne.” He gave a bitter chuckle. “He’s a snake, that one. As oily and reptilian a creature as you’ll ever find.”
They were in the camp now, riding down the main road as tents were being set up all around them. The sun had completely set in the western sky, and the night was beginning to thicken all the more.
Joseph was lost in thought for a moment. “The man in the blue cloak who was riding next to Whitmore,” he said at length, “do you happen to know who he is?”
Bathsby pondered for a moment. “I can’t remember his name just now. He’s one of Whitmore’s close friends, an arrogant and cruel man, if you don’t mind me speaking plainly.”
They pulled their horses to a stop. The royal carriage was just up ahead, though it was too dark to see it clearly.
“Reginald, I think his name is,” said Bathsby. “Sir Reginald.”
“We should stop,” said Maklavir, putting down his cards with a sigh. “It’s getting too dark to see anymore.”
“Just one more hand,” begged Serentha, examining her cards carefully by the light of the lamp in the carriage compartment. “I’m doing too well to stop now.”
“I know you’re doing well,” Maklavir responded with a chuckle. “Too well, I’d say. You don’t want all your luck to run out in one day.”
“Oh, Maklavir,” she chided, “you’re so negative. All right, no more for now. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”
“Your Highness is too kind,” Maklavir said with a smile. “I beginning to think I never should have taught you this game. It’s hardly fitting for a lady.”
“Please, Maklavir,” she responded with a short laugh, “I can’t believe how much fun I was missing. I never—”
Something outside caught her attention. She reached over, opened the door and jumped outside.
Maklavir looked over quickly to see a rider dismounting from his horse.
“Lord Whitmore!” Serentha cried as she stepped onto the ground.
The man removed his foot from the stirrup and whipped off his hat. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing low and taking her hand. He kissed it, sweeping his hat to the side. “I am relieved to see you are safe.”
Serentha smiled gratefully, turning back towards the carriage. “Allow me to introduce you to my good friend, Maklavir.”
Maklavir stepped down from the coach and gave a courteous bow. “Lately of the service of King Luxium of Valmingaard. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“I am Lord Whitmore,” the young man said. He gave Serentha a side-glance. “I was hoping to talk to Her Highness alone for a moment.”
Maklavir straightened. “But of course. I think I will go and see if I can find something to eat. I’m positively famished. Good evening, Your Highness.” He lifted his cap in farewell, then set off down the line of rising tents, whistling softly to himself.
Whitmore watched him go with a curious glance. “You met him recently?”
Serentha watched after the man as well, a smile on her face. “Just a week ago or so. He has risked his life for me countless
times since then.”
“I see. The measure of a man is always in his actions, I say.” His face changed suddenly. “Are you hurt?”
Serentha stared at him in confusion a moment, then lightly touched her head, laughing. “I had almost forgotten. No, I’m fine. It’s practically healed now.”
“That’s good,” Whitmore replied. He glanced out over the bustling camp. “Would you care to go for a walk? I have something I wish to discuss with you.”
“Certainly,” said Serentha. “My legs could use a stretch after riding all day in the carriage.”
They walked together through the pale white tents. Around them soldiers were beginning to settle in for the night, cooking their meals, drinking some rum, and playing dice around the fire. Laughter and raised voices spilled throughout the maze of tents. High above them the stars were strung in a dazzling display across the heavens.
As they walked a little ways away from the tents into the open field, Whitmore cleared his throat.
“As I said, Your Highness, there is something of importance I wish to speak to you about.”
Serentha took her eyes off the stars above. “Yes, Lord Whitmore?”
“Your know your father is very ill. I wish it were not so, but it is.”
Her face paled slightly. “Yes, I know.”
Whitmore looked up at her. “I will be blunt, Your Highness. I intend to formally ask your father for your hand in marriage. I do it not for myself, you understand,” he added quickly. “I believe it is best for Llewyllan. I have spoken to the king already, and he is of a similar mind.”
She stared at him, shocked into silence. Over the clear night air came the sound of some soldiers singing a drinking song. It was badly out of tune.
Whitmore turned, his eyes searching back towards the ghostly white shapes of the tents. “I am sorry to burden you with this, especially now after everything you’ve been through. But your father grows more ill day by day.” He looked back over at her, his eyes reflecting the light of the rising moon. “Our time grows short, Serentha. I would have formally asked your father already, but I wanted to talk to you first.” He smiled apologetically. “I was going to ask you when you came back from Merewith. Obviously that didn’t turn out quite as any of us planned.”
Serentha tried to speak, but suddenly found her voice gone. She tried to swallow, her mouth dry.
Whitmore’s face grew worried. “This cannot be a surprise,” he said. “You must have known…I mean—”
She looked away quickly, finding her voice. “I’m sorry, Lord Whitmore. No, of course this isn’t a surprise. I’m just—” she paused, feeling an aching feeling inside her chest.
“I understand,” said Whitworth. “And I apologize. It was foolish of me to put this kind of stress on you. I can only imagine what ordeals you have been through in the last few days.” He took his hat in his hands. “We will not be back in Balneth until tomorrow night. Please think this over as long as you wish. I won’t speak to your father again before then.”
She closed her eyes, feeling the wind on her face and the rustle of grass against her dress. “I will, Lord Whitmore. Thank you.”
The nobleman turned the hat awkwardly in his hands. “Think carefully, Serentha,” he said softly. “If your father dies without an heir apparent, there may be several people who might…” he paused uncertainly, “might push claims to the throne. It could lead to a civil war.”
Serentha didn’t open her eyes. “I know.”
Whitmore put his hat back on. “I’m sorry, Serentha. I truly am. All I ask is that you consider my suggestion.”
He waited for a moment or two, then turned, walking back across the grass to the tents.
Serentha remained standing on the dark field, her eyes closed and her hair wafting in the wind.
The guards snapped to attention as Sir Reginald rode up, his eyes on the prisoners between the wagons. The bandits were seated on the ground on the outskirts of the camp, watched over carefully by at least half a dozen soldiers. The guards had eaten first, then had warily untied the prisoners, allowing them some stale bread and cheese for dinner. The thieves were still eating as Reginald looked over them.
“Sir?” said the nearest soldier with a salute.
The nobleman gestured to the bandits with a flick of his horse’s reigns. “This is all of them?”
“Yes, sir.” The soldier gave a smug grin. “We killed the rest.”
Reginald looked over the faces of each of the men very carefully, then visibly relaxed. “Very good, very good.”
His eyes fell on Kara, who was staring up at him defiantly.
The soldier followed Reginald’s gaze. “She’s a handful, she is,” he said in a low voice.
“Is she, now?” Sir Reginald chuckled. “Imagine finding such a beautiful rose amongst such rank weeds. This certainly bears looking into. Bring her here, sergeant.”
The soldier started. “Beg pardon, sir?”
The nobleman gave an impatient wave of his hand. “Bring her here. I would have a closer look at so lovely a thief.”
The guard gave Sir Reginald a doubtful look, but nevertheless moved over to Kara, then hauled the young woman to her feet and pushed her forward.
Torin straightened himself in the grass and watched with glowering eyes.
Kara stumbled before Sir Reginald, who was still seated on his horse. The guard stood behind her, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
The nobleman looked her up and down. “What is your name, lass?”
She glared up at him, but said nothing.
“Come now,” chuckled the nobleman, “you aren’t mute, are you?”
Kara looked down. “Kara.”
“There,” said Sir Reginald lightly, “that’s better. Are you hungry?”
“The prisoners have already been fed, sir,” the sergeant voiced.
Reginald gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Stale bread and moldy cheese? Please, sergeant, such fare is hardly appropriate for such a beautiful woman.” He looked down at Kara. “Perhaps I could find something better for you, Ms. Kara.”
The young woman smiled. “Please, just Kara. And yes, I would like something to eat.”
Joseph walked out from between two tents, his large bag of herbs and salves slung over one shoulder. He glanced up quickly as he noticed Reginald and Kara.
“Perhaps you might accompany me back to my tent,” Sir Reginald continued. “I hate to think of such a lovely a young woman as yourself sleeping out in the open like this.”
“Sir,” the sergeant said in a warning tone, “perhaps it would be better to keep all the prisoners together.”
“Oh, I hardly think this young lady will be too much for me to handle,” said Reginald with a laugh. He held out a hand to Kara with a disarming smile. “Well, my dear, will you come with me?”
Joseph set his bag down and watched the scene before him with a calm gaze.
Kara looked away shyly. “I don’t know, my liege. After all, I barely know you—”
“Oh, tut-tut,” replied the nobleman. “I assure you that I am a perfect gentleman. Now what say you?”
Kara looked up again, then gave an embarrassed smile. “Well, in that case, perhaps it would be all right.”
Sir Reginald smiled warmly. “Of course it would, lass.” He extended his hand again. “Now take my hand and we’ll ride back together.”
The young woman looked up at the man with soulful eyes. She reached up for his hand.
And then, with one hard yank, she pulled him off his horse.
Startled, Sir Reginald struggled to rise, his horse already pulling away in confusion.
In the blink of an eye Kara snatched a dagger from the nobleman’s belt, then leapt behind him and thrust the edge of the blade to his throat.
The guards drew their swords, surrounding the girl instantly.
Joseph’s rapier was immediately in his hand as well.
Sir Reginald choked and sputtered as Kara pressed the steel in
to his neck.
“I’ll cut his throat if anyone moves,” she snarled.
Reginald’s eyes grew wild with fear. His hands clutched at Kara’s arm.
Joseph took a step forward. “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “You won’t get out of here like that.”
She gave a half smile. “We’ll see.” She looked over at the sergeant. “Let my friends go. Now.”
Torin leapt to his feet, causing one of the guards to nervously point a crossbow at him. He glanced over at the soldier, then back at his sister. “Kara--”
She didn’t look over at him, but kept her eyes focused on the sergeant in front of her. “Let them go now,” she said again, “or I swear by Eru I’ll cut his throat!”
Sir Reginald gave a sharp cry as the blade cut into his neck, bringing a trace of blood. “Do it! Do it!” he shouted, his voice panicked. “Do whatever she says!”
Kara twisted slightly, and glanced to her left. “You have three seconds,” she said. “One—”
There was a whistling noise in the air, and suddenly something hard struck Kara’s hand that held the knife.
She gave a cry of pain, then dropped the dagger and fell back.
Sir Reginald lurched forward, gasping for breath. He clutched at his throat.
Kara turned to run, and lunged for the horse’s bridle, but a guard was already there, his rapier held at her throat. In moments a soldier grabbed her by each arm, pinning them behind her back and turning her around. She struggled violently, kicking and twisting in their grip.
Reginald got slowly to his feet, his hands shaking.
Joseph walked up silently, retrieved his throwing dagger from off the ground and stuck it back into the top of his boot.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked the sergeant.
The nobleman didn’t respond. He rubbed his throat and stared angrily at Kara.
She glared back at him, still held tight by the guards.
“So you have some fire in you, do you, lass?” Reginald said in a cold voice. “We will have to see to that.” He glanced behind him at Torin, who was watching them intently.
“Her brother,” the sergeant offered, answering Reginald’s unspoken question.
“Ah,” said Reginald. “I see.” He looked over at Kara. “Perhaps we can teach you to be more respectful.”
