by E. D. Walker
She stared at him from narrowed eyes for a long moment and cleared her throat. “I’m so sorry. You are the only…the only survivor we’ve found so far.”
Thomas gritted his teeth, tamping down the wave of despair that threatened to swamp him.
“I’m sorry.” She made a small flinch of movement, as if she would have touched his hand, but then her eyes fluttered downward again. She kept her hands tightly folded in her lap.
He wet his lips. “I think I owe my salvation to you, fair lady. It was you who found me, yes?” He thought he remembered her face now, hovering over his before he’d blacked out. “May I know my rescuer’s name?”
“I am Princess Aliénor. Of Jerdun.” Her gaze flicked to his face, avidly studying him for some reaction.
So this is young Philippe’s bride. Thomas knew of her husband by reputation—a weak, petulant child—but Thomas knew nothing of this woman. A duke’s daughter, perhaps? Was he remembering right? A particularly insistent thread of pain uncoiled in his forehead, but he still smiled pleasantly for this woman. A soldier never shows weakness in front of his enemies.
“And you?” the Princess Aliénor asked, and there was more than a bit of challenge in the question.
“I’m called Thomas.” True enough, if incomplete information. He should have invented a minor barony or claimed residence in the colonies here, but some foolish whim inside him disliked the idea of lying to this good lady. She had saved his life, after all. Falsehoods and trickery seemed a poor repayment for that.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
He scrubbed the back of his hand over his brow. The clang of swords rang in his ears. The smells of piss and offal and blood prickled in his nostrils. If he closed his eyes he would be back on that pass through the valley, under attack, watching his men die… “We were attacked, my lady. A pack of raiders swooped down on us in the mountain pass. They had magic users, more than I’ve ever seen together at one time. Their bows rained arrows on us from all sides so that the sun was entirely blacked out, and each bolt found its target with deadly aim. They struck fast and hard, cutting the rest of my men down with fire spells. Failing that, they used their hatchets and swords.”
He and his men might have been able to fight them off but for the alarming amount of magic at the raiders’ disposal. Magicians were rare in Lyond and Jerdun, and the practice of even simple magic outside the nobility was frowned upon in both nations. He’d assumed that to be the case everywhere. How could the Tiochene raiders here possibly have so many magicians? Nearly one in three among the Tiochene fighters seemed to have had a least a small amount of Talent. “I led— Our army retreated, fleeing for our lives, but the Tiochene caught up to us here on the river road. They…they showed no mercy.” His eyes stung.
“Here, have some water.” Princess Aliénor lifted a flask toward him, and she held it to his lips when his hands proved too unsteady for him to do it himself. He sipped a moment, then nodded his thanks.
Behind Princess Aliénor’s shoulder, her stout lady companion pursed her lips in disapproval. “How did you survive?”
“I was knocked off my horse and separated from my men—from the others. I climbed that tree you found me in and kept my back to the mountain. I must have passed out after that. It’s a miracle no one found me before you—”
Before he could finish, a young man threw back the flap to the infirmary. The boy swept into the room like he owned the place. He had a mass of waving dark hair and heavy-lidded brown eyes that gave him a sleepy appearance. Prince Philippe, Thomas guessed. He’d never met the prince, but the lad had the look of the late King Bernard about him. Philippe’s face was narrow and thin with delicate, somehow fragile features. His eyes bulged with anger as he stepped closer and saw the Princess Aliénor by Thomas’s bed.
The lady, for her part, rose to her feet and stared the prince down with calm composure. “My lord, I was just checking on this survivor.”
The boy let out a low, quick huff and whipped his gaze away from her to glare at Thomas. “You, soldier. More survivors from your party have wandered into our camp. Shall I take you to them?”
Princess Aliénor held her hand out, palm down in a flat gesture of denial. “He is not well enough—”
“No, no, I will come. Show me.” Thomas shot her an apologetic glance as he pushed slowly to his feet. He was dizzy and weak, but damned if he’d let this arrogant princeling see it.
Princess Aliénor flicked a glance at her handmaiden. The larger woman immediately stepped in to catch Thomas’s elbow and let him lean his weight on her side. He gave his helper a quick, thankful nod. She returned him a brief, irritated grimace in return. The handmaid clearly did not like him.
“This way.” Prince Philippe turned and started to go. When he realized Princess Aliénor was not immediately at his side, he grabbed her by the arm, towing her out beside him as he whispered angrily in her ear.
“Her husband,” the handmaiden explained. “Prince Philippe of Jerdun.”
Thomas flashed the handmaiden a wide grin. “Remarkable. Me, rescued by royalty. That’ll be a story to take home to the lads in my village.”
She snorted, sizing him up from the corner of her eye. A worldly woman, and a suspicious one it seemed.
Suspicious of me, at least. “And you, my lady? What is your name?”
“I am Lady Noémi of Orullion, Thomas.”
“Lords and ladies all about the place then?”
She swallowed a small sound of amusement and shook her head at him as they walked along behind the prince and his…princess. His wife. He watched Philippe jerk on her arm and scold her as they marched forward. How could the fair Princess Aliénor be married to that pompous little twit?
“They were married when they were quite young,” the handmaiden murmured.
And that explained everything. A state marriage. A wholly arranged marriage, no doubt. Fate spare me from the same.
They had reached the outer edge of the camp now, and Thomas caught his breath at seeing a line of nearly two dozen men on their knees on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. They were alive. Not all of his men, not even that many, but— As he scanned the line of faces, his breath caught, his heart beating hard, hoping, hoping…
One prisoner with blond hair so pale as to be almost white had looked up at their approach. His gaze had been scanning the line of faces just as Thomas’s was. Their glances locked, and the blond man’s shoulders rolled down in a release of tension so great he almost collapsed with it. When he looked again, he was smiling fit to crack his face. Thomas smiled back at his friend. Llewellyn’s alive.
Having established that fact, Thomas let himself tally the rest of his men. Mostly these were his own personal knights, with two of his barons as well. Men who would have been close to Llewellyn in the melee, no doubt. None of them seemed to have very serious wounds, although a few were sporting cut lips and black eyes. How—
Princess Aliénor turned one man’s face gently toward herself and examined the signs of a fresh beating. She wheeled on her husband, her face pinched with anger. “Couldn’t you control the soldiers?”
Young Philippe dropped his gaze and scuffed one toe in the dirt, looking every inch a sullen boy. Come to think of it, he couldn’t have been much more than twenty, by the look of him. What is this child doing leading an army over dangerous ground like this?
“These men resisted being bound,” Philippe said, making his voice pompous. “What was I supposed to do?”
Thomas snorted. Meaning no, Philippe could not control his soldiers.
Philippe crossed to one of the soldiers and pointed at the man’s pale blue surcoat with its three black wolves rampant against a gold-and-gray shield. The Jerdic prince locked eyes with Thomas and raised one eyebrow. “This is the crest of the King of Lyond, and I know the king himself led a force of men down this way. Where is your king, soldier?”
Thomas let his gaze drop as if in sorrow. “He was killed.
I saw him fall.”
“Is that right?” Philippe all but purred the word out.
Not entirely stupid then, this one. Thomas kept his gaze sadly lowered, his voice firm. “Yes. Our king was yanked off his horse, and then the raiders killed him.”
“If I were to ask each one of your men here the same question—”
“They would give you the same answer, Prince Philippe.”
Philippe’s eyes fluttered at the honorific, as if he hadn’t wanted Thomas to know who he was just yet. He tilted his chin and eyed Thomas head to foot. “I wonder.”
“I am here, my prince. Apologies for my tardiness.” A woman bustled up. She was thirty or so, with dark eyes and long, waving black hair falling loose around her shoulders, sleek as a raven’s wing. All the other women in camp he’d seen wore gowns with skirts split for riding, but this woman was dressed almost as a man with a thick, high-collared red tunic, a long cape, and black hose on her shapely legs. A small, wickedly sharp dagger was belted to her waist, another oddity for a woman. She was clearly a woman, though, with a voluptuous figure and a delicate, pretty face. She had a low, throaty voice that was entirely pleasing to the ear. The prince’s lover, perhaps?
Philippe smiled, but there was an edge of malice to it. “Mistress Helen. Just in time.”
Princess Aliénor’s shoulders inched up with tension. Her husband, distracted by the older woman’s arrival, had released his wife’s arm. The princess sidled away from him and eased close to Thomas. “Noémi”—she murmured the name quickly, urgently—“get back to the infirmary. You know what to do?”
Lady Noémi nodded once, then wandered away, moving in a leisurely manner so as not to draw either the prince’s or Mistress Helen’s attention. Thomas swayed at the sudden loss of support. Princess Aliénor, eyes wide, flung out a hand to brace him.
Thomas shook his head, blinking his eyes to clear them. “What is happening?”
Philippe conferred with the strange Mistress Helen in a low voice.
“She is my husband’s spell-caster.”
That explained the odd attire, and the voice. Spell-casters, whether through breeding or practice, always had the loveliest voices. Female spell-casters at royal courts were rare but not unheard-of. Usually women with magic stifled it or became midwives, but an ambitious woman could climb high if she’d a mind to.
Princess Aliénor wet her lips, watching her husband. “Be wary of Mistress Helen, soldier. She is a blood witch.” The hair prickled on the back of Thomas’s neck. He took one impulsive step forward, but Princess Aliénor held hard to his arm. “You are outnumbered, good sir.”
He tensed his back teeth, his blood popping with the need for action as he watched Mistress Helen approach his men.
The witch paced down the line, looking all of the soldiers over. “You say your king is dead.” She whipped her small dagger out, and the sharp stiletto blade gleamed in the sun. Each of the prisoners bravely raised his eyes and stared her down, unwilling to be intimidated by a woman.
Thomas put himself forward, gently disengaging from Princess Aliénor’s hold. He pitched his voice to carry. “I say the king is dead. I saw him fall.”
Mistress Helen waved her hand, rolling her eyes at him. “Yes, yes. But what if I were to ask…oh, you.” She stopped in front of Thomas’s friend Llewellyn, and swung her blade in a wide loop so the point came to rest just under his chin. Using the pressure of the knife’s blade, she forced Llewellyn to tilt his head back at an uncomfortable angle to meet her eyes.
Ever the brilliant actor, Llewellyn let his voice throb with emotion. “My king is dead, lady. One of the fire spells knocked him off his horse, and the raiders slit his throat, to be sure.”
Thomas just hoped the men marked that comment well so they would keep this same story straight as they were questioned.
“Hmm.” Mistress Helen pursed her lips in displeasure and moved on to the next man in line. This was one of Thomas’s knights, a tall, beefy man named Godric. She held the knife to Godric’s throat and asked him the same question. “And you? Did you see the king fall?”
“Yes. The fire spell killed his poor horse, and they yanked the king out from under the dead beast by his surcoat.”
“Hmm hmm hmm,” Mistress Helen hummed in apparent thought. Suddenly her blade flicked out, and a line of blood rose on Godric’s cheek. Thomas flinched. The witch lifted her blade carefully to her mouth and licked a single drop of Godric’s blood off the tip. She smacked her lips afterward and closed her eyes.
Princess Aliénor shifted beside Thomas, and he noticed the hand she used to brace his arm had begun to tremble. Without thinking, Thomas reached up to cover her hand with his own.
The witch let out a low, almost sexual groan, and opened her eyes again. Thomas let out a startled oath. The witch’s eyes had turned red and faintly glowed as if she were on fire from within. “I ask again, Sir Godric of Lyond, is your king dead?” Her voice had changed, grown deeper, more masculine. It almost sounded like Godric’s own voice speaking back to him.
Godric stood taut as a cord stretched between two posts. All the veins in his neck stood out in sharp relief as his mouth worked, as he strained to fight the evil spell she’d cast on him.
“Stop.” Thomas tried to disengage from Princess Aliénor.
She held on to him with a small, scared, “Don’t.”
The blood witch knelt before her victim and tilted his chin up with her bloodied dagger. “You are strong, sir, but I am stronger. Is your king dead?”
Godric’s throat worked, and he breathed hard as if pushing against a crushing weight. “No.” The word burst from him with great effort, yet his face still fell with shame after he had spoken.
Thomas winced.
The witch whirled around and leveled a cool glare at Thomas. “You lied, soldier.” She took a step sideways to stand before Llewellyn. “You, also, have lied.” She lowered her dagger to cut Llewellyn next.
“Stop.” Thomas tore himself free of Princess Aliénor’s protective grasp and stood straight and tall before the witch. “Stop this.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
He drew in a deep breath, praying he would not regret this. “I will tell you where the king is.”
“All right. Where is he?”
Thomas gave her a small lopsided smile. “Right here. I am the King of Lyond.”
Chapter Three
The witch gave Thomas a frankly dubious look. “You?” She turned back to poor Godric and brandished her dagger. “Does he speak truth?”
Godric flicked a glance at Thomas, asking for permission, and even that small hesitation cost him as the veins in his neck bulged with the effort of resisting. Thomas gently nodded. Godric let out a low, pained sigh. “Yes, yes. He is our king. He is.”
Thomas’s gaze briefly caught with Llewellyn’s as his friend shot him a very exasperated look indeed. Thomas gave a small shrug back.
Philippe sauntered forward with his chest puffed up, trying to look strong, trying to look authoritative. Thomas kept his face straight to spare the young man his dignity.
“King Thomas.”
Thomas made a small acknowledging nod. “I am he, Prince Philippe. I’m sorry I didn’t greet you formally before, but I wasn’t sure what my reception might be.” He flicked a wry look at his cut-up knight.
Philippe cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“The King of Lyond.” The witch’s eyes had returned to normal now the blood magic had faded, but they gleamed all the same with a dark, avaricious light. She lifted her knife in an almost instinctual move to take some of Thomas’s blood.
Princess Aliénor flung herself between Thomas and the witch. “No. Husband, are you so lost to good sense that you would knowingly let your witch attack a fellow royal?”
“Uh…” Philippe’s mouth hung open as he flicked an uncertain glance between his witch and his wife. “Um.”
Princess Aliénor, with an uneasy glance at Thomas, gently dr
ew her husband out of Thomas’s earshot. The witch followed at once, her strides stiff and angry, picking deep divots into the sand as she walked.
Thomas eased closer to his men and bent to check the cut on Godric’s face.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” the knight whispered in a broken voice.
“You were bespelled, Sir Godric. No shame in it.”
Beside them, Llewellyn let out a snort. “You should not have come forward, my king. These men are here to protect you, not the other way around.”
Thomas shook his head. “She was going to cut you next, Llewellyn. Should I have let her?”
Llewellyn grimaced but made no reply. He watched the witch with uneasy eyes. “I wonder.”
“I didn’t like to test your strength, old friend. Better to let some of us keep our secrets from that beldam, eh?”
“Hmm.” Llewellyn still looked unhappy. “She may get her chance. That prince believes he has the witch on his leash, but I think it is the other way round.”
Thomas glanced back to watch the low-voiced argument continue. “Can you get your hands free? If there is a need.”
“My king, what makes you think I need my hands free to deal with that witch?”
“Don’t underestimate her.”
“Who is the other woman? The girl who leaped to your defense?”
Thomas turned his attention to dabbing at the cut on Godric’s face. “She is Philippe’s wife, the Princess Aliénor.”
***
Aliénor tossed her head in exasperation as she dragged her husband away from the prisoners. “If you let the witch have her way, then you will have to kill King Thomas, for I’m sure he could never forgive such a breach of diplomacy.”