The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

Chatriyon’s eyes narrowed. “I know that, Cousin. But surely you could have come, Alensson? I’ve been in need of your advice.” He cut a glance at Genette, his eyes narrowing coldly.

The duke felt his anger heating up, but kept control of his face. “I am here now, my lord.”

“Thankfully.” The king pitched his voice lower, but there was so much commotion in the hall—drinks being served, women flirting with men and men with women—that it would have been difficult for anyone to overhear them. “I have received word that the King of Brugia is warming to the thought of an alliance with us. Deford is married to Philip’s sister, you know, so their alliance is more than one of practicality. But things are changing. The tide is beginning to turn. Now that I’ve been crowned, Philip is looking at me as the rightful heir of Occitania and not the little brat from Kingfountain. I’ve been advised to cease hostilities and let diplomacy do its work.” His eyebrow lifted. “What do you think, Cousin?”

Alensson glanced at Genette, whose expression reflected the same anger and resentment he felt. After all the success and victories they’d had, why stop? The only reason they hadn’t taken Pree was because Chatriyon had called it off too soon. He hadn’t even given them a chance.

“My lord,” Alensson said, trying to master his tone. “Isn’t it better to negotiate from a position of strength? You don’t need Brugia’s help to regain your kingdom. You have soldiers willing to fight in your name, willing to fight and lose their blood on your behalf.”

Chatriyon winced. “Yes, yes, but it’s all rather bloody, don’t you think? Consider how many lives will be saved, Alensson! We are shedding the blood of our brothers. They are my subjects as well. This is a civil war. Don’t you realize that? If I can persuade Philip of Brugia to join me, it will permanently alter the balance of power between us and Ceredigion. Deford will be forced to make a truce with us. And then we can regain much of what we lost. Including your lands!”

Alensson was trembling with anger. “You think Deford will give up La Marche? He won’t, my king. It must be wrested from him. And I cannot think of a better time to attempt it than right now. If you want to play peace instead of war, so be it, but let me take those who will follow and harry Deford’s lands—my lands! Diplomacy can take years to achieve results. And it would all but hobble the momentum we’ve built thus far. The kingdom is tottering like a vase on a small table and you want to steady it before it falls!”

Chatriyon’s look was so patronizing. “Of course I do, Cousin. If the vase falls, it breaks! What’s the use of ruling a kingdom that’s been broken to pieces?” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Then he turned his gaze on Genette. “And what is your opinion, dear girl?” In the past, he had attested that she spoke for the Fountain. But the coronation had changed him. It was remarkable how sudden the change had come. The king looked uncomfortable in her presence, as if her act of breathing annoyed him.

She looked him full in the eye. “You have the power to take your kingdom back,” she said in a low voice. “If you will use it. It is your decision, my lord. But you must remember that you cannot choose the consequences.”

He cocked his head in confusion and misgiving. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You know what the Fountain wills, my king.”

“Yes, I think I do,” he said with an almost lazy tone. Then he turned back to Alensson. “I will heed your advice, Cousin. Take what men you can and go around Pree. It will only help hasten the negotiations if you’re there stinging Deford’s flanks. But when I call you back, you must come. Agreed?”

Alensson felt something was wrong. The king had given in too easily. Here it was again, the sensation that something else was afoot, something the duke wasn’t seeing. “Thank you, my lord. I will take Genette with me, and she will—”

“No, I don’t think so,” Chatriyon said solemnly.

“My lord?” Alensson asked.

“You heard me. No, I will have duties she can perform. An army is always in need of good captains. There are cities to hold, garrisons to maintain. I will keep her near me.”

Alensson felt his heart warn him. “She inspires people, my lord. More soldiers would join the effort if she came to support my assault on La Marche. She’s skilled on the battlefield.”

“I’m sure she is,” Chatriyon said with a yawn. “I’m sure you want her near you for other reasons as well.”

It felt like the king had punched him in the stomach. “What did you say?”

“I don’t judge you, Cousin. But she’s too important. No, I order you to ride out tomorrow with as many soldiers as will come. I think a hundred ought to do. The Maid will stay at Montjuno, where I will look after her myself. The two of you should spend more time apart. People are starting to talk, Cousin.”

If Chatriyon weren’t the king, Alensson would have smashed his fist into the man’s mouth. It took all his self-will to keep himself from striking his sovereign. In that moment, he felt the ambition in his heart swell so much that he wondered if it would consume him. As he stared at the king in outrage, he began to understand what was going on. He understood why Chatriyon had called off the siege of Pree.

If Genette had indeed defeated Pree in only one day, it would have established her reputation forever. Chatriyon was crafty enough to know that if he kept her as his champion, he would be shackled to maintaining her standards in his court. For a man of many hungers, it was not an appealing prospect. And while each of Genette’s successes had drawn more men to the fight, they were fighting for her and not for the king. Oh, Alensson could see it in the cunning look in Chatriyon’s eyes. He was asserting his control and humbling the girl, without whom he would not be wearing his crown.

It was deplorable. It was cowardly. And it was obvious why the king was trying to shame Alensson and send him away—he was her protector. If one poisoner could be sent, why not another?

“If that is your will, my king,” Genette said, bowing her head to him.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Squire's Gift





The wind was surprisingly fierce as it battered the curtains of Alensson’s tent, the thunder of it momentarily drowning out the noise of the night crickets. The tent was much smaller than his previous one, for it needed to be packed and moved every night as they made their lightning raids through the inheritance of his youth. A small oil lamp burned nearby as he read the latest missives arriving from Shynom. The air smelled pungently of horse manure.

He sat on a camp chair, hunched over, still wearing his torn hauberk beneath the filthy tunic he’d been wearing for days. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, scowling at the news, his mind twisting for a solution to his quandary.