by Betina Krahn
The kitchens were full of men lolling around the food-laden worktables with large metal tankards in their hands . . . drinking prodigiously, roaring crude songs, and calling encouragement to those of their company who were engaged in bouts of arm wrestling. There were her chief artisans and craftsmen, her clerks and clerics, and her leading merchants . . . laughing, shoving, and poking each other like boys truant from a priest’s school bench!
She halted as her narrowing eyes caught on a clump of vivid blue to one side . . . Mattias, Hubert, Marcus, Raymonde, old Fenwick, Gawain, Arnaud, and her sensible Cedric. Virtually all of the men who sat on her council were present, and like the others, they were beet-faced with drink.
In the midst of it all sat Saxxe Rouen, crowing the words to a reedy tune . . . something about Spanish ladies with accommodating knees and squeezes, squeals, and upturned heels. A number of the others apparently knew the ditty, for they bellowed what seemed to be a refrain about rolling over and over in a patch of clover. Then Cedric took up the lyrics and sang with gusto about a demoiselle with very large ears, very big eyes . . . very broad lips and very wide thighs....
They were swine-drunk, the lot of them! Even Cedric. And just when she needed him most.
Saxxe spotted her first and thrust to his feet, weaving, then raising his tankard aloft. “Thera—welcome! Come an’ tilt a cup with us—somebody fill ’er a tankard!”
“High-ness?” Cedric staggered about in surprise, spotted her, and lapsed into a silly grin. “There ye are! D-did ye come to wet yer whis-tler?”
Wet her whistler?
She closed her eyes.
When she recovered enough to open them, she turned on her heel and strode straight out the door.
As she lay in her bed that night, feeling burdened and abandoned and utterly alone in her fears and responsibility, she heard a sound coming from the garden outside. She held her breath and sat up, staring at the bright shaft of moonlight coming through the half-open garden doors. The sound grew louder and became a voice, and the voice became familiar.
Saxxe’s ale-roughened tones floated toward her . . . surrounding her with their warmth and vitality. It was a low, melodious tune . . . a ballad. Heaven help her—it was a love song. Her chin began to quiver and her eyes stung. The lout. She didn’t know if he was just drunk and lost, or if he was actually trying to serenade her.
“Curse you, Rouen!” With tears trickling down her face, she dragged a feather pillow from the head of her bed and threw it at the open door, causing it to swing shut. “Why can’t I ever be sure of anything about you?”
* * *
No bell sounded the hour of Prime the next morning for the first time in anyone’s memory. The church sexton had been among the drinkers carousing in the kitchens the night before, and his head was pounding so that he couldn’t bear to pull the bell rope. And without the bells, the people didn’t rise, the hearths stood cold and empty, the cows bawled for milking, and the shops and stalls didn’t open.
Thera was livid when she heard of it, and she went charging into the great council chamber to give her wayward councilors a thorough scolding for their own less than exemplary conduct. But the few men who had managed to drag themselves from their beds to the circle of council chairs were moving as if they feared their heads might topple from their shoulders. One look at Cedric’s bleary eyes and suffering expression, and she was too furious to trust herself with words.
It was Saxxe again, Lillith confirmed a short while later in Thera’s chambers. It seemed that after the horse races the previous day, Saxxe and Gasquar had led the men to the alehouse in the market square and pounded on the doors until the tavernkeeper opened to them. They spent the rest of the afternoon in “celebration,” and when the sun went down, Saxxe led them to the palace kitchens, where he cajoled head cook Genvieve into providing them an impromptu feast and persuaded Ranulf, the palace steward, to unlock the wine cellars.
Thera endured as much of Lillith’s report as she could, then rose abruptly and escaped into the gardens.
She sank onto a bench with her hands knotted into fists. What was she going to do? Through the long and sleepless night, she had been haunted by the words of the old prophecy the women had uncovered. Chaos and destruction. There was no denying that his every action seemed to result in some sort of confusion and disorder in her realm. But was he the dark prince of a looming apocalypse . . . or simply a lusty mercenary soldier whose unrestrained impulses were at odds with the orderliness of her society?
She lifted her eyes to find a page standing nearby with an anxious expression and a message that the chancellor and a contingent of her elders waited just beyond her doors, seeking an audience with her. Whatever her personal trials and tribulations, the business of the kingdom was always there, demanding her energy and attention. Preparing herself, she nodded permission.
Elder Hubert led an all-male contingent into her spacious chambers. They bowed stiffly and old Fenwick staggered dizzily when he straightened. Mattias and Gawain reached out to steady him with taut looks of sympathy.
“Princess, may I say that you look lovely indeed this morning,” Hubert said with determined cheeriness.
“You may say that if you wish, Elder Hubert,” she answered, leveling a daunting look on him. “But I assure you, ‘lovely’ does not begin to describe my humor.”
Hubert’s smile faded and he looked to Mattias for help. “We come with a question, Princess,” Mattias said, fidgeting under her stern gaze. “We respectfully request . . .” He swallowed hard, glanced at the others, then started again. “It would be helpful to know. That is, if you could tell us . . . perhaps . . .” When he ground to a halt, old Fenwick huffed in disgust and blurted it straight out for them.
“How long till ye’ve paid yer full debt to the fellow, Prissy?”
The others froze. Only old Fenwick, whose advanced age entitled him to a few liberties, dared call her by the pet name from her girlhood. When she didn’t erupt straightaway, they took it as a positive sign.
“That is none of your concern,” she informed them in clipped tones.
“Oh, but it is, Princess,” Mattias said, edging ahead of the others. “You see, there’s the ceremony of confirmation and wedding feasts to arrange . . . and then the double coronation to plan. It has been many years since we crowned a king and queen. We’ll need to study the records to see how it’s done and . . .”
They spoke as if it was a foregone conclusion that Saxxe would claim a full seven nights with her! As she searched their faces, she was stunned to realize that they seemed none too distressed by the possibility of having a bare-chested barbarian as their king.
“I will discharge my wretched debt to Saxxe Rouen when and if I see fit to do so. Not before,” she insisted.
“If?” Hubert lurched a step forward, his eyebrows rising and hovering like startled birds. “But you are honor bound to fulfill your word, Princess.”
“May I remind you that my debt will be fulfilled after six nights, not seven.”
“But after six nights with the fellow,” courtly Gawain said in a discreet hush, “where else would you find a husband? And you must marry, Princess . . . and produce an heir.”
“You would have me wed a common hire-soldier?” She drew herself up with regal indignation. “One who eats with his fingers and stalks about half naked?”
“Oh, haven’t you seen? He’s wearing a tunic today,” Marcus interjected.
“And hose . . . very fine hose,” Gawain added, exchanging nods with Marcus. “He looks quite civilized. And Robert, the bootmaker, is laboring day and night to finish a most marvelous pair of boots for him.” They all nodded earnest agreement.
“And that is supposed to recommend him to me as a husband and co-ruler?” she said irritably.
They seemed taken aback by her reluctance toward the man she had already spent four nights with. Lowering their gazes, they shifted feet and smoothed their tunic fronts. Hubert finally elbowed Mattias, urging h
im to speak for them.
“W-well, we expected that Saxxe Rouen had already recommended himself to you, Princess. After all, he is a bold and manly fellow . . . more than passing handsome . . . and in four nights . . .” Mattias winced when she drew a sharp breath.
Marcus took it up. “And he is strong and capable and has an endless stream of notions in his head. He knows horses from withers to hooves . . . and masonry and an astonishing amount about weaving. And he is most generous with his help. He’ll show us how to rebuild our stables and put new life into our heavy trades.”
“Yea, and he’s traveled the world, Princess,” Hubert went on, his voice—like their hopes—rising. “He’s seen Egypt and Constantinople, the Holy Lands and the Holy See of Rome. He understands several tongues and has a whole world of learning stored in his head. He’s been to the great merchant fairs and can advise our traders so they may strike more advantageous bargains.”
“He may be a hire-soldier, Princess, but there is nothing common about him,” Mattias concluded, drawing agreement from the others.
Their valiant defense of him stunned her. She looked from man to man, seeing in each one’s eyes the personal hopes and longings Saxxe had somehow managed to touch. Instead of deficits and difficulties, they saw assets and possibilities in him . . . things they believed Mercia needed. They recognized his strength, his knowledge, his experience, and the natural authority of his bearing. Barbarian, hire-soldier, commoner . . . it made no difference to them. They wanted him . . . just as the rest of her people did.
“He’s a strappin’ great bull of a man. Never seen finer,” old Fenwick blurted out, jostling the others aside as he pressed to the front and looked her over with a less than reverent stare. “But best of all, Prissy, he seems willin’ to put up with you. So why not just get on with the beddin’ and weddin’ and livin’ . . . and that be that!”
If it had been anyone but Fenwick, she would have rung down verbal flames of perdition upon his head that would have left him picking cinders out of his scalp for a week! But somehow, from withered, crusty old Fenwick, that crass exhortation sounded more like a blessing than an insult. And it struck the deepest longings of her own stubborn heart, dead center.
The part of her spirit that had been sinking in despair under the weight of the women’s fears and distrust had just been revived by the men’s faith and pragmatic acceptance of Saxxe. They had provided powerful confirmation of all the good things he was.
“I will give your suggestion some thought, Elder Fenwick,” she said with an odd thickness to her voice. “Now if you will excuse yourselves . . . Cedric and I have several things to discuss.”
They hadn’t gotten the firm answer they wanted, but at least they were leaving with hope. The elders sighed and bowed and made as dignified an exit as possible. When the door closed behind them, Thera turned to her trusted chancellor.
“I need your advice, Cedric.” She beckoned him to her writing table and handed him a parchment, bidding him read. His eyes widened as he recognized the writing and surmised the probable source of the document. He lifted his head with a frown, registering a new understanding of her troubled mood.
“This is from the prophecies. I assume,” he said. “Audra and Jeanine and their cohorts brought this to you, didn’t they?”
“Yea, they brought it.”
“They believe Saxxe Rouen is the one . . . this dark prince.”
She nodded and threaded her hands tightly together as he lowered his eyes to the words and read it again. “He is a man of steel and blood,” she said.
“He is a man of flesh and blood, Princess,” he rejoined, raising his gaze to hers. “A man who has braved great perils to rescue you a number of times, with precious little reward. And I have always believed that actions speak louder than mere words.” He let the parchment fall onto the tabletop.
“But the prophecies never err. Time and again in our past, they have sounded warnings that helped keep our people from calamity.”
“Yea, but our ancestors could not have known, as we cannot know, if a given prophecy was meant for their time or another. Hindsight makes each instance seem clear and inevitable to us . . . but I doubt it was so for them. That is what I hate about the prophecies . . . the uncertainty makes them stumbling blocks to reason, logic, and decision, and sometimes allows them to be used as tools for mischief. I would burn the lot, if I could.”
“Blasphemy, Cedric,” she said with a gentle smile.
“So it is.” He sighed. “I fear I have a most lamentable streak of the heretic in me.” Then he took her by the hands and engaged her eyes with his. “Do not be afraid to decide for yourself and your people, Princess. Despite the turmoil your barbarian stirs here and there, I believe he has possibilities.” He smiled ruefully. “And as Fenwick says, Saxxe of Rouen is willing to undertake you as a wife . . . and that is no small consideration.”
When she glowered at him. he chuckled and, unknowingly, gave her the very same advice Elder Jeanine had.
“Give it time, Princess. His actions will prove him, one way or another.”
* * *
That afternoon, Thera took Lillith and a small party of her elders and rode the length of the valley to check on the newly sprouted crops and the orchards and flocks. The weather was perfect: the sun bright and gloriously warm, the breeze light and flirtatious. For Thera, It felt good to be in her valley and among her people again.
Over and over, she dismounted to walk the land and to talk with her plowmen, orchard keepers, and shepherds . . . listening to their problems and plans. They seemed encouraged by the recent run of good weather after a freezing, wet spring that had made the early work difficult. They were unfailingly polite in asking after her health and journey, but to a person they peered around her as if searching for someone else in her party. And it didn’t take much to guess who they hoped to see.
When the royal party paused by a stream that came down through the mountains, some of the women removed their shoes and went wading. Thera stood looking at the water for a while, remembering the last time she had waded. Soon her mind and heart were filled with images of Saxxe as he had been that night by the riverbank.
They started back mid-afternoon, and as they approached the city they spotted a small crowd in a pasture just outside the city proper. Drawing closer, Thera could make out a number of young men with longbows taking aim against targets across the field.
Archery was the only martial art practiced by her people, and was encouraged more for its exacting nature and aesthetic appeal than for any military benefit. The men all possessed bows for hunting and competition, and they practiced regularly, so the sight of them in the field did not strike her as unusual until she spotted a large group at the far end of the field, near the granary walls.
Her concern piqued, she quickened her pace and rode down the closest cart path to investigate. The rest of her party followed. From horseback, she could see above the heads of the crowd to an open circle of ground in their midst, and in the circle caught sight of violent, jerking motion. The air filled with ringing metal and male shouts of encouragement.
As she nudged her mount through the spectators, she caught sight of Saxxe’s dark head darting and lunging, of his shoulders twisting and heaving, then of his blade flashing in the sun. Her heart gave a convulsive jerk as he sprang to the far side of the clearing and she saw Gasquar give a mighty roar and charge after him. In less than a heartbeat, they were engaged in heated blade battle. Their faces were contorted with fierce concentration as they lunged, swung, and slashed at each other in what seemed to be deadly earnest.
Her throat constricted with anxiety. All around her stood men with bows in their hands and eyes gleaming at the sight of the battle underway. Something in the looks on their faces bespoke a hunger, a disturbing desire for the spectacle of fighting, and it rattled her to her very core.
A number of men turned to help her dismount, and she strode straight into the clearing with her fists clenc
hed and her countenance ablaze with anger. “Stop this! Cease fighting this instant!”
Her voice and the flash of her white gown caught the edge of Saxxe’s senses, drawing away some of his concentration. For half an instant his motion slowed, but the briefest moment was all Gasquar needed to penetrate his defenses. A tip of blue steel smacked hard against the bronze clasp of his belt and rasped downward, narrowly missing laying him open from groin to knee.
Saxxe twisted back and aside just in time, and the near miss startled Gasquar, who checked his counterswing to prevent further chance of injury. Staggering and panting for air, they lowered their blades and turned to Thera with widened eyes.
“Bon Dieu!” Saxxe roared. “Don’t ever do that again—charge into the midst of a blade battle like that! When you broke my line of sight, you broke my concentration.” But a moment later, his face lit with a fierce grin at the sight of her angry blue eyes and heaving bosom. “And I came devilish close to losing that part of me which will prove indispensable to my future sons and daughters. . . .”
The laughter his comment and accompanying gesture evoked caused her to redden, and in spite of her, her gaze dropped to the bulging front of his hose. She jerked back as if she’d been scalded, and glared at him.
“It might have served you right.”
“Ah, but then I would have served you ill, sweetest.” He waggled his brows, grinning, and drew nervous laughter for his audacity. His blood was running high, and the sight of her flushed, wind-tousled form turned his thoughts from military to sensual conquest.
“You have no business blade fighting in the first place, Saxxe Rouen.”
“Gasquar and I were merely giving our blade arms a bit of work to keep them fit. Your men had invited us to see their archery training, and we offered to show them some blade work in return.”
