Three Nights With the Princess

by Betina Krahn

  One entire wall of the church had collapsed, taking the domed roof and parts of the other walls down with it. Smoke rose thinly from the middle of the collapsed roof, and as they stood, staring at it in shock, Saxxe felt a little sick inside. He couldn’t have guessed that firing and collapsing the tunnel would undermine the church itself. Thera spotted the soot-stained priests and sexton sitting on an overturned cart among a number of equally grimy townspeople.

  “We tried, Yer Grace,” the elder priest said, coughing. “We saved the altar vessels and Holy Scriptures, but the rest . . . It was too much . . . too hot. . . .”

  Thera squeezed the priest’s reddened hands and touched the sexton’s sooty arm, then turned away to stare at the wrecked church. Saxxe took her by the shoulders and made her look at him.

  “We still have a lot to do. There’s still an army camped at our gates.”

  A short while later, Saxxe and Gasquar led a mounted party through the valley toward the western pass. They arrived to find tensions high among the archers who defended the passage. The mood of the dark horde below had turned ugly, and here and there in the throng, Saxxe could see hastily constructed ladders meant for scaling the cliff walls. He and Gasquar and several of the elders removed the bodies of the duc and his captain from horses and started up the slope to the top of the cliff with them. Thera began to follow, but Saxxe halted her.

  “Are you sure you want to see this?” he said, watching her troubled eyes. “It may not even work.”

  “They’re my people. I want to be there, whatever happens,” she replied with a determined expression. He took a deep breath and waved the others on.

  When they reached the top, Saxxe called out to the leader of the force, declaring that the Duc de Verville was dead. There was some wrangling, and the burly captain left in charge there accused Saxxe of lying. The duc, he declared, was an immortal who would live forever. A roar went up from the horde and they brandished their weapons.

  Then Saxxe and Gasquar flung the bodies over the cliff edge and onto the slope between the armed force and Mercia’s hills. “There is your immortal duc!” Saxxe shouted. “You’ll meet the same fate . . . and worse . . . if you try to invade Mercia!”

  The soldiers sent out scouts to examine the bodies, and when their identity was confirmed there was a rumble of confusion through the battle-hardened mercenaries. “Turn away,” Saxxe shouted. “Go back to your camp and divide the duc’s riches as your wage. You’ll find nothing among us except your death!”

  The captain tried to rally the mercenaries with hot words and promises of riches. But a deepening silence fell over the assembly. After a tense interval, one soldier near the front sheathed his sword and turned his horse, picking his way back down the trail. Another followed, then another. Soon the mercenaries were moving down the mountainside in numbers.

  At the sight of them leaving, Saxxe turned to Gasquar with a grin, then to Thera and the others. “They’re going—we did it!” A cheer went up. He swept Thera up in his arms and hugged her, murmuring, “It’s over now . . . finally . . . truly over.”

  Leaving a small force of archers at the pass, they rode back to the city with rising spirits. Everyone had stories to tell, and by the time they reached the city some of the sparkle was back in Thera’s eyes.

  They rode past the burned forge, and she pointed to the three hearths, newly constructed, still standing among the wreckage. Saxxe grinned and declared it proof that Mercia’s stonemasons were the best anywhere. The stables were a burned-out hulk, but Mattias was overseeing a temporary arrangement for the horses . . . proud that his stablemen had conducted themselves with conspicuous valor.

  Riding on through the streets, they assessed the damage and found it surprisingly light. Casualties had been remarkably few, and already the physicians and goodwives were seeing to the injured. The people had taken a number of prisoners and had already sentenced the survivors to hard labor . . . clearing their streets and setting the damage to rights.

  Up and down each street they rode and were greeted with joy and relief, especially when Cedric called out the news that the dark horde had dispersed from Mercia’s gates. And there were stories here, too. “The tailor Lucian’s wife, Faye . . . she got two with her skillet when they broke into his shop!” and “You should’ve seen Rousseau, the cooper, an’ me, Yer Grace! We took down three of ’em . . . ringed ’em up proper!”

  “Three?” came a hoot in response. “That’s nothing . . . Michael, the baker . . . he clouted three with one swing of a bread trough!”

  “Well, Benelton, the weaver, and his daughters”—chimed in a third voice—“they took down seven at one time . . . and wi’ just a net of yarn!”

  Saxxe rolled his eyes at Thera. “They’ve got a whole new set of numbers to argue about now.” When she laughed, looking at him with eyes brightened by prisms of tears, Saxxe felt a huge weight sliding from his heart.

  They rode to the terraces of the palace and dismounted. Saxxe pulled Thera back against his chest and wrapped his arms around her, turning her so that she could look out over the city. She drew a deep, shuddering breath.

  “So much destruction,” she said gravely. “Look what they did to my city.” Then she glanced up at him and corrected herself. “Our city. Our beautiful church . . . our stables, our forge . . .”

  “It can be rebuilt, Thera. We can rebuild it all,” he said. “Perhaps even better. And this time we’ll build a few city walls and a proper garrison.” He shifted to look at her. “You know, don’t you, that those soldiers are carrying away with them news of Mercia’s existence and location. Your little realm won’t be a secret anymore.”

  She thought about it and scowled worriedly. “More of the world coming to our doorstep, with its greed and violence.”

  “Yea, there will be some of that,” he agreed, then smiled. “But there will be good things as well . . . writings and new ways and inventions . . . and good people. You’ve seen the worst, of late. But there is a lot of good to be had in the world as well. I’ve seen it, Thera.” He saw her eyes welling with tears again and turned her in his arms.

  “But my people are so—”

  “Your people—” He caught himself and laughed. “Our people are smart and strong and resourceful, just like their queen. They’ll come through, Thera. And it will be our task to prepare them for it and to guide them as they do. Dieu—just look how they defended themselves today . . . and against hard-bitten mercenaries. You can depend on them, Thera, just as you can depend on me.”

  He held her eyes with his, smiling, then grinning until she couldn’t help but catch his confidence. And as they stood in the lowering sun, watching the evening breeze carrying away the smoke and the sunset washing the city in a red-and-golden light, she felt a new joy taking hold of her heart.

  Up the steps from the city came Gasquar and Lillith, buoyed along by a contingent of elders. Soon Saxxe and Thera were inundated with reports of injuries and prisoners and estimates of how long it would be before the damage was repaired. In due time, Elder Audra stepped forward to make her special report with reddened eyes and a quivering chin.

  “And the church, Your Highness,” she choked out, wringing her hands. “When it burned, the Sacred Scrolls went as well. Destroyed. It’s a tragedy . . . an irreplaceable loss. The laws, the prophecies . . . whatever shall we do without them?”

  All were silent for a moment as Thera bit her lip and sought Cedric’s eyes. He was trying his best not to burst into a blasphemous grin. She composed herself, straightened in Saxxe’s embrace, and said solemnly, “We shall have our clerks and scribes write the laws down again, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “But what about the prophecies?” Audra moaned.

  Hubert, whose injured arm was wrapped against his body, answered. “Maybe it’s best they’re gone . . . look at the worry they caused us. Maybe it’s best we don’t know what the future holds.”

  Audra sputtered and turned to Jeanine, who looked outraged.


  “Well, if it’ll make ye feel any better, Audie,” old Fenwick proclaimed, hobbling down from the palace on the arms of two servants, “I’ll write ye some.” He wheezed a laugh at Audra’s reddened face and raised a gnarled finger. “Startin’ with . . . Prissy here’s first babe will be a boy . . . handsome as his father and stubborn as his mother. An’ he’ll be born nine months from their seventh night. . . .”

  “Excellent prophecy!” Saxxe declared with a grand laugh. He bent and scooped Thera up into his arms. “Fenwick . . . I appoint you head prophet.” And as the old man cackled, Saxxe turned and strode with her in his arms, up the terraces and into the palace.

  “Wait—what are you doing?” Thera demanded, wriggling in his grip as he carried her through the charred and wrecked doors and into the Great Hall.

  “I believe I owe you a debt, Your Highness.” He grinned wickedly. “And unlike some members of this royal family, I always pay my debts promptly.”

  “But we’ve duties and obligations . . . a thousand things to do!”

  “At least that many,” Saxxe said with a lusty gleam in his eye. “And I feel sure I can depend on you to count every one of them.”

  “Saxxe!” she groaned, looking for some way to halt him and catching a glimpse of Gasquar carrying Lillith in much the same fashion. Lillith waved with a glowing smile and held up three fingers, pointing to Gasquar. And as Saxxe turned toward Thera’s quarters, she surrendered, smiling. And over his shoulder, so Lillith could see, Thera held up seven fingers.

  Saxxe carried her straight to her quarters, straight through her solar, and into her bedchamber. He walked straight down the steps of the bathing pool and ducked under the water with her. When she came up sputtering, he set her on her feet with a joyful laugh and kissed her breathless.

  “I’m going to give you a night you’ll never forget, Thera of Aric,” he said, his eyes alight and his hands flying over her laces. “And—who knows?—I may even give you a son.” He stripped the wet silk from her shoulders and replaced it with his lips, murmuring, “But first this barbarian is going to give his princess a bath.”

  photo credit: Robert Rountree

  Betina Krahn