What was I thinking?
She had handed her brother over to two unknown thugs. Alric had personally explained his intent to torture them and she had left him to their mercy. Arista felt sick whenever she imagined them laughing at her expense as they drowned poor Alric in the river. Now they were likely halfway to Calis or Delgos, taking turns wearing the royal signet ring of Melengar. When the scouts had returned with Alric’s robe, she had been certain he was dead, and yet there was no body.
Is it possible Alric still lives?
No, she reasoned, it was far more likely Braga kept Alric’s corpse hidden. Revealing it before her trial would allow her to make a bid for the throne. Once the trial was over, once she was found guilty and burned, he would miraculously reveal its discovery. It was very possible Braga had Alric’s body locked away in one of the rooms below her or somewhere in the vault.
It was all her fault. If she had not interfered, perhaps Alric might have taken charge and discovered Braga’s treachery. Perhaps he could have saved both of them. Perhaps she was nothing more than a foolish girl after all. At least her death would put an end to the questions and the guilt consuming her. She closed her eyes and once more felt the unsteadiness of the world around her.
The Galilin host was now a full five hundred strong as it marched through the wintry landscape. Sixty knights dressed in full armor carried lances adorned with long forked banners. They flicked like serpents’ tongues in the numbing wind. When they were back at Drondil Fields, Myron had overheard Alric arguing with the other nobles, about marching too soon. Apparently, they were still missing the strength of several lords, and leaving when they did was a risk. Pickering had finally agreed to Alric’s demands and convinced the others once Barons Himbolt and Rendon arrived, bringing another score of knights. To Myron, the force was impressive at any size.
At the head of the line rode Prince Alric, Myron, Count Pickering, and his two eldest sons, as well as the land-titled nobles. Following them were the knights, who rode together in rows four abreast. An entourage of squires, pages, and footmen traveled behind them. Farther back were the ranks of the common men-at-arms: strong, stocky brutes dressed in chain and steel with pointed helms, plate metal shin guards, and metal shank boots. Each was equipped with a kite shield, a short broad-blade sword, and a long spear. Next in line were the archers, in leather jerkins and woolen cloaks that hid their quivers. They marched holding their unstrung bows as though they were mere walking sticks. At the rear came the artisans, smiths, surgeons, and cooks, pulling wagons that hauled the army’s supplies.
Myron felt foolish. After hours on the road, he was still having trouble keeping his horse from veering to the left into Fanen’s gelding. He was starting to get the hang of the stirrups, but he still had much to learn. The front toe guard, which prevented his feet from resting on the soles, frustrated him. The Pickering boys took him under their wing and explained how only the ball of the foot was to rest on the stirrup brace. This provided better control and prevented a foot from catching in the event of a fall. They also told him how tight stirrups helped to hold his knees to the horse’s sides. All Pickering’s horses were leg trained and could be controlled by the feet, thighs, and knees. They were taught this way so that knights could fight with one hand on a lance or sword and the other on a shield. Myron was working on this technique now, squeezing his thighs, trying to persuade the horse to steer right, but it was no use. The more he used his left knee, the more his right knee also squeezed to compensate. The result was confusion on the part of the animal, and it wandered over and brushed against Fanen’s mount once again.
“You need to be more firm,” Fanen told him. “Show her who’s in charge.”
“She already knows—she is,” Myron replied pathetically. “I think I should just stick with the reins. It’s not like I’ll be wielding a sword and shield in the coming battle.”
“You never know,” Fanen said. “Monks of old used to fight a lot, and Alric said you helped save his life by fighting against those mercenaries who attacked him in the forest.”
Myron frowned and dropped his gaze. “I didn’t fight anyone.”
“But I thought—”
Myron shook his head. “I should have, I suppose. They were the ones who burned the abbey. They were the ones who killed … but …” He paused. “I would have died if Hadrian and Royce hadn’t saved me. The king just assumed that I fought and I never bothered to tell the truth. I really have to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Lying.”