The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

Alensson started pacing, stroking his chin and cheeks with a wrinkled hand. He was a such a riddle of a man, one that had fascinated her for years. Again she was struck by the enormous opportunity that was laid before her, to learn his history from his own mouth instead of a book.

“Of course it was!” he said with vehemence. “But I did not let the imprisonment shake me. Or shape me. The Fountain favors the bold. I was determined to be free, to repay every crown that had been borrowed on my behalf. I longed to see my wife. You cannot imagine what torture it was being parted from her. I thought she would hate me as the months rolled on. I could not see her, but we could write to each other. How her notes of encouragement comforted me. I grew to love her more in those years of privation than many husbands ever love their wives.” He swung his arms wildly to emphasize his point. “Troubles are the furnaces, my dear. Troubles and heat, troubles and heat. Does not a baker need fire to stiffen the dough? For every kind of pie, there is the proper time in the ovens. The Fountain has a purpose—nay a recipe!—for each of us. If we endure the flames well, then we become more than the eggs, the flour, the spices, the drabs of honey!”

Ankarette smiled at his comparison. “I’ve never heard it put that way, but you are right. Even my own king, the man that I serve, was captured and held prisoner. It was his adversity that helped him establish a strong kingdom.”

Alensson snapped his fingers and then wagged his pointer at her. “You see it, Ankarette Tryneowy. You understand it!” His eyes were big and eager. “In my five years as a prisoner in Callait, I did not rot . . . I cooked. Some men grow lazy in confinement. They grow cynical. I only grew more ambitious. I kept my body hard and firm by practicing with the guards. Through it all, I was a good-natured captive. Gall never attracts bees. You know this to be true! One year turned to two, then two turned to three. My wife, Jianne, helped bring it all together. She could have left me in the dust. Many women would have. Instead, she lived in a humble cottage. She kept a few fine gowns, of course, for when she needed to visit a countess or an earl, but she lived humbly, her only constant companion a single maid who never abandoned her, and she wrote to me, and slowly she assembled a vast fortune. Two hundred thousand crowns!” His voice throbbed with unquenched devotion. “She bought my release with sweat, and patience, and promises to repay that we dared not hope to be able to fulfill. When the sum was gathered, even Deford was surprised. He’d hoped to be able to keep me captive until he’d vanquished the rest of Occitania.” A sly grin stole over his mouth. “But his ambitions had proven to be more of a challenge than he’d thought.”

Ankarette felt a blossoming admiration for this woman she’d never met. “When were you reunited with your wife?”

He folded his arms and leaned back against the window abutment. “It was the summer, nearly five years after the failure of Vernay.” He paused. “At the time, they said Vernay was a repeat of Azinkeep. But no one remembers it anymore.”

Ankarette nodded. “I’d never heard of it either, and I’ve read many histories of Ceredigion.”

“The reason is because what happened next will be remembered longer than even Azinkeep. It will be remembered for all time. You see, while I was in my cage, there was a young peasant girl growing up in the village of Donremy. She was special, Ankarette. I had always hoped that if I worked at it hard enough, the Fountain would speak to me. It did eventually. It did it through a girl—that stubborn, proud waif of a girl!” He pushed away from the wall and fetched a goblet, then took a single swill from it. “Let me tell you her story next, Ankarette Tryneowy. I knew it because I lived it. I was the poorest man in Occitania. I had nothing. Even my sword was borrowed! But when I met the Maid, she looked at me. She knew who I was even before I could announce it.”

His eyes filled with tears. “She gave me my nickname that day. She called me her gentle duke until she died.”





CHAPTER FIVE

Genette of Donremy





The Duke of La Marche was a free man. But everything he had, he owed to others. He had been given transport on a Genevese vessel bound for the Brythonican city of Ploemeur, and from there, he’d walked the uneven dusty roads on hot summer days for leagues and leagues wearing clothes belonging to another man, his feet shod in ill-fitting boots handed to him from one of his guards out of pity, equipped with a half-dull sword from a Ceredigion garrison.

His father-in-law, the Duke of Lionn, was still a prisoner in Kingfountain. He was an heir to the Occitanian dynasty, so no amount of ransom would be acceptable to the butcher kings of the East. Meanwhile, the man’s main fortress at the capital city of Lionn had been under siege for years and was still holding desperately like an anvil against the hammer of the Ceredigion invasion. If Lionn fell, the rest of Occitania would tumble with it. But Alensson’s wife was not in the war-ravaged lands of her father. She had taken refuge in the duchy of Vexins and was living in a small cottage in the village of Izzt.

This was Alensson’s destination. He admired the lush fields of berries growing in the mild climate of Brythonica as he passed through them. The farmers and pickers he met treated him with courtesy once they knew his name, and gave him leave to snack on their berries. Yet none had a horse they were willing to lend the impoverished duke to hasten his return to his wife.

The Occitanian court had been relocated to Shynom, deep within the kingdom. Alensson needed to see the prince, to demand he take action about Lionn and to volunteer to help, so he very nearly stopped in court on his way to Izzt, but he was desperate to see his wife again. He continued onward until he reached the sleepy village. The castle that presided over it was situated in a lush valley amidst green vineyards. Even the castle was green, from the ivy clinging to the walls to the green mold coating the slate shingles. Small square turrets rose above tall walls of varying heights forming a square. The castle was so secluded it had not seen action in over a century.

Some of the groundskeepers hailed him and told him that the castellan was visiting court at Shynom that day. But Alensson’s wife, Jianne, was waiting for him. They directed him to her cottage, which was connected to the outer wall of the castle, next to a porter door and a small hillock that defeated the purpose of the wall because someone could walk up the hill and jump over the wall at that back portion of the castle. Alensson shook his head in wonderment at the poor design.