The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

For the next three days, the boy Tunmore brought Alensson daily tidings of the trial occurring at the palace. The trial was attended by most of the nobles of the realm, along with many of the prelates, including the deconeus of Our Lady and his protégé, John Tunmore. They were restless, anxiety-ridden days.

Alensson desperately wished he could find a way to gain entrance to the trial itself, but the notes the boy took in his ledger book were articulate and thorough. Despite his young age, Tunmore recounted details so vividly that Alensson almost felt as if he were there. They conjured images and moods and emotions. The boy had captured Genette’s tone and willfulness so well, it was as if she were speaking to him from the page. The people were astounded that such a young woman was managing to defy and out-argue the brightest minds in the royal court.

On the third night, Alensson paced the sanctuary grounds as darkness fell and the torches were lit. Then he spied the young man approaching, his ledger clutched tightly to his chest.

The sense of doom in the boy’s countenance made his heart jump in his chest. “What happened today? You look grave.”

The boy sighed, his face pinched and worried. “The king’s court does not want justice. They are only interested in arriving at guilt. Tomorrow she will be condemned.”

It was the result he’d expected. Hadn’t Genette told him that she was going over the falls? It was why she had asked for the scabbard. And yet he nearly swooned with worry.

“What charges against her have been worthy of death. Sedition? Treason?”

The boy shook his head. “No, they cannot try her for treason because there has not been a coronation in Occitania yet. She was quick to remind them of that. Their grounds for sedition were equally difficult to enforce. No, I’m afraid they are planning to condemn her for wearing men’s clothes.”

“What?” Alensson asked, baffled. “When did this come about?”

“Today,” Tunmore said. “She debunked their other accusations with logic, so today they have charged her with acting against her maidenhood. She has fought in battles and worn armor. She dresses in men’s clothes. She has defended herself by saying that she does it to protect herself. She said that none of the Occitanian soldiers ever tried to molest her, but once she was captured by Brugia, she has had to be vigilant day and night for fear. They have tried to persuade her to give up the soldier garb now that she’s safe.” The boy had a scoffing look. “But she insists she is no safer in the palace of Kingfountain than she was at Beauvoir.”

Alensson clenched his fists. “If only I could know what she wants me to do,” he seethed.

“I think . . . I think that I could see her,” Tunmore said softly.

Alensson dropped to one knee and gripped the boy’s shoulders. “Tell me how!”

He glanced both ways to make sure they were alone. “As I’ve said, the guards recognize me at the palace,” he said in a stumbling voice. “No one looks at me twice. I know where they are keeping her. If I said I bore a . . . a note. From the deconeus.” He was stuttering now, his face white with fear. “It would be a lie, but if I did, I think I would be allowed to see her.” His lips trembled. “But if the deconeus found out . . .”

Alensson tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. “Lad, you must have courage to do the Fountain’s will. You are not an ordinary boy. I sense in you the same power that she possesses. You must do as you suggest.”

The boy shivered. “I’m afraid.”

“So am I, lad. So am I. But you must talk to her. She knows . . . she knows the future, lad. She’ll know what we must do to help her. If you brought the scabbard to her in the cell, they would only take it away from you.” He released his grip and rubbed his lip. “She must get it.”

“I know where they stow the boats they use for executions,” the boy said. “I’ve hidden the scabbard in the palace, but I could bring it to the boat if I knew which one it was. Perhaps she’ll know?”

Alensson gazed eagerly at the child. “Yes!” He gripped his shoulders again. “Lad, there are times when a boy must act like a man. This is one of those times. The Fountain will guide you. Trust in it. Go seek the Maid. Her name is Genette. Tell her . . . tell her that her gentle friend awaits her orders.”

The boy blinked at him. “Did you serve with her in Occitania? Are you one of her soldiers?”

Alensson felt he could trust the boy. “I am,” he answered. “I am here on her orders. Talk to her in the dungeon. Hide the scabbard on the boat. Where is it now?”

The lad squirmed again. “I’ve hidden it.” It was the same answer he’d given before.

“Where?” he pressed.

The serious eyes met his. “In the Deep Fathoms.”

The duke had no comprehension of what it meant to hide something there. But then a memory surfaced: Genette drawing a chest from a fountain that had looked empty moments before. It was a power the Fountain-blessed had.

“Go see her,” he said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “You are destined for great things, John Tunmore.”

The boy looked pleased by the compliment. “They are holding her in the dungeon, not the tower. They say she jumped out of the tower at Beauvoir and survived without a broken bone.”

Alensson felt a flash of pain at the memory. “I’ve heard the same,” he said. “And yes, she did survive. She must survive now too.”

“Go,” Alensson said, jerking his head. The boy nodded and departed, clutching the ledger to his chest once more. Alensson watched until the shadows smothered the lad. He disliked using a child to achieve his ends. He’d grown rather fond of the lad over the last few days.

And then he remembered his pregnant wife. Her time was coming due, and it was seeming less and less likely he’d be able to return in time with Genette. The worry in his chest was so fierce he almost couldn’t breathe.





CHAPTER THIRTY

Into the Falls





Alensson could not sleep. He lay awake, arms hugging his chest, listening to the garbled snores of his cell mates as he lay on the itchy wool blanket covering his dingy stray pallet. He listened to the omnipresent murmur of the falls, which could not even be escaped within the stone walls of the sanctuary. The sound was a constant reminder that Genette was likely to meet her fate today. She would be bound by arm and ankle, handed into a wooden canoe, and then ceremoniously dumped into the raging river—the form of execution trial most common in both Ceredigion and Occitania. He wished he could have sat with her in her stone cell that night, holding her hand and giving her a morsel of comfort before she faced the falls.

The corridors had fallen quiet hours ago, and he occasionally tossed and turned, seeking to ease the pain in his hip. The rank smell of the blanket was normal to him now. After his five-year imprisonment, he’d learned to be comfortable in solitude, a feeling that drove most men mad. His thoughts turned again to his wife, Jianne. Had she sent for a midwife already? How close was she to her confinement? He had not contacted her in weeks for fear of discovery. She was undoubtedly as worried about him as he was about her.