“I want to go,” Big Richard said. He rubbed his forehead, roughly. “Anyone want to back out?”
Isabella ignored his challenging stare. The mercenary code demanded that each mercenary be offered a chance to back out, before the formal contract was signed. No one would hold it against someone who left now, but later ... a mercenary who fled would be regarded as a deserter. And it would be harder to flee on the Summer Isle. She’d never been there, but she suspected a stranger would stick out like a sore thumb. Mercenaries who were cut off from the rest of the group were often brutally murdered by the locals, when they were caught. It wasn’t as if they were protected by the honour code.
Nor are soldiers, not really, she reminded herself. The locals have plenty of reason to fear and detest soldiers too.
She pushed the thought aside as Lord Robin issued orders. They’d be departing within the hour, riding straight for Humber. The port city wasn’t too far from Havelock, if Isabella recalled the map correctly, but it was closer to the Summer Isle. And far enough from Havelock that King Romulus couldn’t supervise his son. She wondered if that should bother her, then decided it probably didn’t matter. The world had changed, five years ago. If a prince wanted to overthrow his father ... who cared?
Everyone who gets caught up in the civil war, she thought, crossly. And the victor, who will have to make some hard choices after the fighting is over.
“I’ll have the innkeeper pack us some lunch,” Lord Robin said, rising. “We should be able to make it to Humber before dark.”
“If we ride hard,” Dolman said. The swordsman didn’t look convinced. “We don’t want to get to the town gates after dark.”
“We should be fine,” Lord Robin said. “And if we have to sleep in the open air ... well, it won’t be the first time.”
“We could just climb the walls,” Big Richard suggested. “It might be fun.”
“It might also get us beheaded,” Isabella countered. Townsfolk took a dim view of people climbing their walls at the best of times. Now, with an army and fleet assembling in the town, she suspected that any intruders would be taken for spies. “Better to sleep outside than risk death.”
“Coward,” Big Richard said. “We’ve sneaked into towns before.”
“There’s no need to sneak into Humber,” Isabella snapped. “I ...”
Lord Robin slapped the table, hard. “If we get there after the gates close, we will wait,” he said. “I do want to get there quickly, but there’s no point in breaking into the city.”
He nodded to the door. “Isabella, stay here. Everyone else, grab your stuff and meet me at the stables, twenty minutes from now.”
Isabella silently dismantled the privacy spells as the rest of the company headed out of the door. It wasn’t as if they had much to grab, in any case. Their bags should already be packed. Her bag was sitting on her bed, just waiting for her. She hoped a maid hadn’t tried to move it. The protective spells she used to keep her bag safe would give a maid a thoroughly unpleasant surprise, if she touched the bag without permission.
“The Crown Prince has also put out a call for magicians,” Lord Robin told her. “I was planning to make it clear that you were attached to my company.”
“I see,” Isabella said. Two of the pieces fell into place. “But you’re also planning to use me as a way to gain influence.”
Robin didn’t bother to deny it. “A chance to enter the prince’s personal household is not to be denied,” he said, seriously. “And it could be good for you too.”
Isabella nodded, slowly. There was a shortage of magicians in Andalusia – and the Summer Isle as well, she assumed. It was quite possible that she was the most powerful sorcerer in the kingdom. Hedge-witches had their uses, but they lacked the training she’d been given at the Peerless School. She couldn’t blame the Crown Prince for wanting magicians to join his invasion force. He might face significant problems if his enemy had more magic-users than he did.
And Robin would have a chance to build up a power base for himself, she thought. Not a bad opportunity for a landless bastard son.
“Tell him, then,” she said. “But don’t tell him too much about me.”
“As you wish,” Robin said. He winked at her. “You do realise the Crown Prince is unmarried.”
Isabella barked a harsh laugh. “I don’t think he’d be interested in me,” she said. The hell of it was that wasn’t true. If the Crown Prince knew her bloodline, he’d have excellent reason to court her. “And you know that, don’t you?”
She walked through the door and back up the stairs to her room, where she collected her bag and headed down to the stables. Big Richard was standing in the bar, kissing and fondling a very enthusiastic whore. Isabella wondered, cynically, just how much he’d paid her as she made her way out to the stables. Big Richard would be in real trouble if he was late. Lord Robin did have a good reason to want to reach Humber quickly. How else could he make himself useful to the Crown Prince?
And he’s going to use me to do it, Isabella thought. She felt a flicker of annoyance. Being close to the Crown Prince might be useful, particularly if the rumours were more than just lies, but ... at least she wasn’t posing as a kept woman. That would be worse. Pretending to be stupid had always got on her nerves. It’s worse than making love to some fat oaf.
Somewhat to her surprise, Big Richard joined the group an instant before Lord Robin arrived, carrying a bag of food. Isabella took her share and stowed it in her saddlebags, then clambered up and into the saddle as the stable doors opened. Her horse whinnied in delight – being confined to the stable couldn’t have been fun, even if there were mares in the nearby chambers – and started to move forward. Isabella let Lord Robin take the lead as they cantered out onto the road and headed west.
We’ll be riding all day, she thought, sourly. But as long as we get there on time, it will be worth it.
Chapter Six
Humber was not, in Crown Prince Reginald’s frank estimation, a particularly important city. It was too close to Havelock to have its own identity, yet too far from the capital to be absorbed into its teeming masses. The port facilities were good, but successive monarchs had worked hard to ensure that Havelock – not Humber – handled the vast majority of the shipping trade. Only fishing – and trading missions to the Summer Isles – had kept Humber afloat. It wasn’t something that had seemed likely to change.
But it had changed, Reginald told himself, as he stood on the tower and peered west. The Summer Isle was visible, barely. The Summer Channel was relatively narrow, as seas went, but it was treacherous as a demon from the darkest hells. Storms blew up out of nowhere, the sailors had warned; the tides and currents were dangerously unpredictable, changing seemingly at random. The body of water between Andalusia and the Summer Isle was hard to navigate, even for experienced sailors. Crossing the waters was not going to be pleasant.
He lowered his gaze, looking towards the port. It thrummed with activity as sailors struggled to prepare the fleet for departure. Reginald had hired nearly every ship in Humber that could make the crossing, along with a number of merchant ships whose captains had been looking for a sure thing. There were fifty-seven ships in the fleet, each one capable of carrying hundreds of soldiers. Disembarking the men – and their equipment – was going to be a hassle, but it was one he could surmount. And ... he turned his head, spotting the army and mercenary camps. Thousands of men had been coming in over the last two days, either as individuals or mercenary bands ... his sergeants were organising them now, preparing the men for departure. It was a logistics headache, but they could handle it. They knew that a mistake now might cost everything on the other side of the channel.
And the mercenaries also know to behave themselves, Reginald thought. I taught them that lesson already.
He gritted his teeth. He’d already had two men hanged for rape and a third for theft. It was hard to blame the mercenaries for wanting to entertain themselves while they waited to board the ships
, but there were limits. There was no shortage of whores, after all. And besides, the last thing he needed was the city fathers finding excuses to slow down work. The fleet had to depart before summer slowly turned into winter or it would never depart at all. Reginald wasn’t deterred by the thought of launching the invasion the following year, but ... it would give the usurper too much time to establish himself. A delayed invasion would be very costly indeed.
The door opened behind him. Reginald turned, just in time to see Equerry Caen step onto the battlements. He was a handsome youth, a year or so younger than Reginald himself. They’d grown up together, sharing their lessons as they inched towards adulthood. And yet ... Reginald felt a flicker of shame as he remembered how Caen had always been punished for Reginald’s misdeeds. The tutors knew better than to strike the prince. It had been his father, eventually, who’d taken him to task for allowing his friend to get into trouble.
“Your Highness,” Caen said. “The council of war is waiting for you.”
Reginald felt a hot flush of excitement. It was hardly the first time he’d called a council of war – he’d also attended his father’s councils as a growing youth – but this one was special. This was no border skirmish or campaign against rebellious noblemen. This was a war ...
“Then let us go greet them,” he said, turning to the door. “We have much to discuss.”
Humber Castle was old. It had been in poor condition until recently, when King Romulus had ordered the seneschal to prepare the building for a possible war. The castle was dark and draughty – and it stank like a privy – but at least it was defendable. Reginald wasn’t sure who his father envisaged attacking Humber, although he understood the older man’s paranoia. A foe who took Humber would be within striking distance of Havelock itself. He smiled to himself as he led his friend down the stairs to the council chamber. The Summer Isle was in the best place to mount an invasion, but it would never have the chance. He’d see to that.
He stepped into the chamber and watched as the council of war rose to meet him. They were a diverse crowd, including – his lips twitched in disapproval – his father’s watchdog. Lord William looked as if he wanted to be somewhere – anywhere – else. Reginald heartily agreed that the wretched man should be somewhere else, but he knew his father would be annoyed if Reginald banished Lord William. It would have to wait until they crossed the channel, whereupon a role could be found for the older man that would keep him out of the way.
“Be seated,” he ordered, as he sat down at the head of the table. He had no time for the pomp and ceremony that surrounded his father. “We have much to discuss.”
He allowed his eyes to roam the chamber. His three Captain-Generals – Captain-General Gars, Captain-General Stuart, Captain-General Jones – looked eager to depart, even though they knew there was still much work to do. They’d been his constant companions since he’d first lifted a sword, alternately serving him and pressing for promotions for themselves. He didn’t really blame them – they needed to establish themselves before it got too late – but it was frustrating at times. His father had given Reginald much, yet he hadn’t given Reginald anything he could use to bind the men to him permanently. Gars, in particular, wanted to marry well. But Reginald didn’t have the power to offer him the heiress he needed to make a mark on the court.
Behind them, Sergeant Ruthven was a short man with a fierce temper. He was the man who’d taught Reginald how to command, years ago. Reginald had admired him, right from the moment they’d first met; he had nothing but boundless admiration for the older man and ensured that he stayed with his prince. Common-born or not, Ruthven deserved to rise high. Reginald had every intention of making sure the man got an heiress of his own, when the time came. Ruthven deserved nothing less than the best. And, behind him, was Academic Milhous. He was out of place – he was a scholar, not a nobleman or soldier – but he was the greatest living expert on the Summer Isle. Reginald had insisted on bringing him when he’d discovered just how little was actually known about the island.
“Well,” Reginald said, calmly. “Gars, where do we stand?”
Captain-General Gars leaned forward. Reginald had appointed him the Master of Foot, knowing that Gars had the experience to handle so many troops in battle. It was annoying to realise that Gars had more experience than Reginald himself, but it was just something that had to be tolerated. Reginald’s father had been leery of letting Reginald too close to the front lines. The death of his only son would be an utter disaster.
“We have roughly five thousand men – soldiers and mercenaries – assembled now,” Gars said, without bothering to consult his papers. “Assuming others continue to flow into Humber as predicted, Your Highness, we will be looking at around twelve thousand men – infantry, archers, horsemen – by the time we depart. I’ve started intensive training already in the fields outside the walls. So far, save for a few minor disciplinary problems, we haven’t had any real issues.”
“That will change, Your Highness,” Captain-General Jones said, in his raspy voice. He hadn’t been a healthy child and, even now, he was weaker than his peers. He’d gone into logistics because he could barely ride a horse, let alone swing a blade. “Feeding five thousand men is a nightmare. I dread to imagine what feeding twelve thousand will be like.”
“I’m sure you will rise to the challenge,” Reginald said. He liked Jones, even though most of their peers considered Jones a weakling. No one could fight a war without a solid understanding of logistics. “Where do we stand on supplies?”
“We are buying up everything in the area,” Jones informed him. “But we have also driven prices up ...”
“Then set the prices,” Gars snapped.
“Then shopkeepers will hoard food rather than sell it,” Jones pointed out, tartly. “We cannot induce them to sell by setting prices.”
Reginald held up a hand. “Can you feed the army?”
“Barely,” Jones said. “We should be able to get enough supplies for the first month over with the army, but ... it isn’t going to be easy.”
“The Summer Isle is rich,” Milhous said. “Can we not live off the land?”
“They may burn the fields to keep us from taking the grain,” Jones said. “It has been done before.”
Reginald nodded. He’d led the campaign against Baron Gaunt, a campaign that had come far too close to failure. The man had withdrawn most of his men into his castle, then burnt the lands for miles around. Reginald had been forced to storm the castle – a very costly endeavour – rather than swallow his pride and withdraw. Even now, two years later, the lands hadn’t fully recovered. Far too many of the peasants had fled.
“We can solve all these problems,” he said. “Shipping?”
“We should have enough ships to transport most of the army,” Jones said. “But not every sailor wants to serve under your banner.”
“Traitors,” Gars muttered.
“Then offer them higher rewards,” Reginald said. “Now ... our plan.”
He nodded to Milhous. “Tell us about the Summer Isle.”
Milhous cleared his throat. “Very little is known about the Summer Isle’s past,” he said. “However, it is clear that the island was settled from Andalusia two thousand years ago and so we have a valid claim...”
Reginald laughed. “I’m not interested in claims rooted so far in the past,” he said, bluntly. If nothing else, treating that claim as valid would open up a thousand other claims that couldn’t possibly be verified. “Tell us about it now.”
Milhous reddened. “Politically, the Summer Isle is divided into three states,” he said. “The Summer Isle proper is flanked by the Wildlands – untamed mountainous lands dominated by savages – and the Northern Realm, a marginally more civilised country inhabited by barbaric brutes. Both countries pledge homage to the Summer Isle, but practically speaking they’re both independent.”
“That will have to change,” Reginald said.
“King Edwin’s noblemen
are a powerful lot,” Milhous added. “He couldn’t keep them under control and so ...”
Reginald tapped the map. “And your thoughts?”
Milhous looked as if he wanted to say something cutting, but didn’t quite dare. “There are only three cities of real importance,” he said, carefully. “Racal’s Bay, Allenstown and Georgetown. I believe we will have to claim all three of them to secure the island.”
“As well as miles upon miles of towns, villages, farms and untamed countryside,” Gars said.
“Quite,” Reginald agreed. He pointed to the map. “We need a port. Accordingly, we will land near Racal’s Bay and move at once to take the city. Once secured, we will bring in the rest of the army and then march on Allenstown, the capital. The usurper will have to challenge us at some point, if only to keep us from taking the capital and forcing him to flee back to his own lands.”
“Which are quite some distance from Allenstown,” Jones pointed out.
“He will have to challenge us,” Reginald said. “He wants to be a king. If he looks weak, his supporters will start to see us as the real power in the land and slip away. And if he leaves Racal’s Bay in our hands, we can just keep bringing in men and supplies until we can overwhelm him.”
He smiled, rather coolly. There had been no point in trying to disguise the invasion preparations, not when they could have only one conceivable goal. Reginald would be astonished if the usurper didn’t already know what was coming. Instead, he’d sent the usurper a message, ordering him to submit and pay homage ... or die. And he’d worded the message very carefully. No nobleman would submit to it, not unless a sword was held to his throat. There would be no peace. And no peace meant that Reginald could take the Summer Isle at will.
The Promised Lie Page 6
