by E. D. Walker
“Of course.” Thomas offered Philippe the shallowest bow that courtesy allowed. “Well, Prince Philippe, I thank you for your aid in this desperate hour, and I wish you good luck with your quest. My men and I will encroach on your hospitality no longer. We will take what we came with and depart.”
“No, no, King Thomas. I will not be so ungenerous as that. Take some food and other supplies if you need them. I will not turn you out to starve.”
“You are too kind.”
Philippe snapped his fingers, and the freckled page produced some vellum with a quill to write. Philippe dashed off a few lines and tried to hand the permission to Thomas. Llewellyn smoothly intercepted it and read it over before rolling the document up.
“Thank you again for your help, Prince Philippe.” Such as it was.
Philippe returned Thomas a bare nod, not even civil, and Thomas left the prince’s presence without another word.
“That went well,” Llewellyn muttered.
“Do we have enough horses for our men?”
“We are short one horse, Sire.”
“Mine, yes? Well, I’ll ride pillion behind you if I must to get out of this damned camp.”
Llewellyn brandished the prince’s note. “I’ll see if this stretches far enough to cover a horse.”
They walked in silence through the camp for a moment more before Llewellyn asked with deceptive mildness, “Will you take formal leave of the Princess Aliénor?”
“No. I’ll not create further problems with her troublesome wretch of a husband. Besides, I hardly know the woman.” He would never know her better now. I’ll probably never even see her again. Bitterness burned in his gut at the thought. How cruel the Fates were to throw such a fascinating, lovely woman into his path when she belonged to someone else.
“I think you must take formal leave of her.”
Thomas flicked an annoyed glance at his second. “Why is that?”
“Because she’s sitting just up there, watching us.”
Like a compass needle seeking true north, Thomas’s head whipped around almost against his will, and his hungry gaze sought sight of her. There. She sat alone on one of the grassy hills well above the river.
Thomas broke off from Llewellyn and cut through a line of tents, his path an arrow shot straight for Aliénor. Princess Aliénor. He sighed to himself. Old fool. It had been twenty years since he’d felt so silly-headed around a woman, and that had been his late wife. He frowned, disconcerted by the thought.
Aliénor smiled at him as he approached, her clear brown eyes shining, her cheeks flushed in the gloomy light of this miserable morning. She wore another plain, almost dun-colored gown today with a short leather riding jacket over it dyed a soft blue. Both garments were weather-beaten but clean, like something a merchant’s wife might wear. He felt a strangely wistful urge to see her in all her royal finery. How beautiful she would look with that red-gold curtain of hair loose about her shoulders, jewels at her creamy throat. Best to get this over with. “Princess Aliénor, I come to take formal leave of you. My men and I are going.”
Her pale brows drew down. “But you cannot. You have no supplies. Do you even have enough horses?”
Thomas felt his mouth twist. “Your husband has most generously gifted us with whatever supplies we need to be on our way.”
“Most of your men are injured. You are still injured, no matter how you go charging about the camp. Forgive me, but this does not seem wise.”
His chest ached with bittersweet warmth, as if a bird were unfolding its wings over his ribcage. “You speak true, my lady.” Truer than she knew. “Yet for all that, we must go.”
“But—” Her eyes widened, and her gaze flicked back to the way he had come, toward Prince Philippe’s tent. She caught her breath on a scandalized gasp. “I think I understand now.”
Thomas made a small gesture of negation. “’Tis well enough.”
Her already ivory face had paled now almost to the color of snow. “Philippe is a jealous fool.” She spat the words out, yet tears glittered in her eyes, and her lip trembled.
“Princess Aliénor, what is wrong?” Thomas knelt beside her and took her hand before he could think better of it.
Her graceful fingers gripped his for one brief moment before she jerked her hand back and looked about as if someone might be watching.
They probably are. He shifted further away from her.
She sent him a quick, despairing glance, and pulled her knees up to her chest like a castle lifting its drawbridge. Truly, she seemed besieged in that moment. Caught, trapped, utterly alone.
“Princess, is there any assistance I can render you? Anything I can do?”
One small tear broke free to slide down the fullness of her cheek. She turned her face away, and wiped the betraying wetness against her skirt over her knee. “No one can help me while I abide in Philippe’s camp.”
Come away with me. Thomas bit the words back, just barely. His hands were curled into tight fists as he fought every urge within himself that cried to draw his sword and pledge it to this sweet lady’s defense.
Come away with me. He could still taste the words, heavy and sweet on his tongue as some rich wine. And just as foolishly intoxicating. For surely the quickest way to start the next war between Jerdun and Lyond would be to steal away the Jerdic princess.
As if sensing his inner battle, Aliénor looked at him, her face sad. “I think you are right and you must go. Kind Fate walk with you and keep your steps safe from harm.” She rose as she said it and offered him her hand in parting.
Thomas stood with her and caught her fingers. He bowed low and pressed a small, tender kiss against the skin of her hand. When he would have released her, her palm turned against his, and he felt the feather touch of her fingertips against his cheek. It was the barest touch—he might have imagined it. Yet the princess’s face was wistful, her eyes brimming with tears again when he glanced at her.
His chest ached, as if a split were starting, a crack like a jagged fissure in the heart of a glass window. “Good-bye, Princess Aliénor.”
“Good-bye, King Thomas.” She wheeled away from him, folding her arms over her chest.
He forced himself to turn, to take one step and another away from her until he could not even see her anymore when he looked behind.
Chapter Eight
The army moved out the next morning a little later than usual, almost limping along after the disaster by the riverside. Aliénor watched the ragged line straggle up the road behind her, men limping, dirty, empty-eyed, and she couldn’t help but think they looked more like a mob than an army.
Philippe seemed to notice nothing. He was still as neat as ever in a parti-colored surcoat of now-faded purple and white with his chain mail beneath. He wore the uniform of a common soldier, but it was cleaner and well-mended. His cheekbones had no hollows beneath them from lack of food or sleep—although his eyes were pinched today, and his mouth set in an unhappy line.
The clop of their horses’ feet and the men’s on the road was dull, but the jangle of all their harnesses, the creak of leather and chain mail seemed impossibly loud in the still morning air. She and Philippe did not lead the column, and ahead of her were the backs of men and horses. She could not see the road at all, except for the craggy red stone of the mountains looming in the distance.
Her horse stumbled on the path, rattling her. When she looked down, a body lay in the road. Her horse had just stumbled over a dead body in chain mail. Her stomach clenched, and sourness burned her throat. Her horse had recovered his footing, but Aliénor’s stomach felt less sure. Covering her mouth with one hand, she cast her gaze wildly about and was shocked to see more evidence of slaughter: blood staining the rocks and clumps of carrion birds still feasting to the side of the road.
She could hardly believe her eyes, but yes, they had left the river valley and climbed steadily toward the higher ground offered by the road into the mountain passes. The rocky foothills loomed before
them, and the higher peak of the imposing Mt. Calismos towered over her like an enemy’s blade about to fall.
The blood jumped in her veins. “Husband, we head into the mountain passes?”
A muscle flexed beneath Philippe’s beard. “Yes.”
Aliénor lowered her voice, but she could not stop a small tremolo of fear from leaking in. “The same mountain where King Thomas’s army was attacked? Philippe, are you mad?”
His head snapped her way, and his eyes were tight with the same fear souring her gut. “What choice do we have? My advisors went over and over this yesterday. The weather along the river path is disastrous. If we stick to the coast we shall all be drowned, and we lack the supplies to go the long way around the mountains. Instead, we must cut straight for Anutitum, straight as the crow flies, and then we shall be there within the week.” A brave speech, and yet her husband’s voice wobbled on the end.
“We will all be killed by the Tiochene first.”
“I have no choice, Aliénor.” He scraped a shaking hand through his dark hair. “Anyway, I’m sure the Tiochene have moved on with their spoils by now. Why should they attack a well-armed force like ours when their victory over King Thomas is so fresh?”
“Why indeed?” Aliénor pressed a hand to her face, rubbing at the sudden ache behind her eyes.
“You question my methods, wife?”
I question your sanity. Aliénor bit those words back, chewing on her cheek, her stomach feeling as storm-tossed as the dark river from the other night.
The blood witch rode somewhere just behind them, and Aliénor felt the witch’s presence like a rolling boulder at her back. Between the looming mountain pass and the threat of the blood witch’s control, Aliénor wasn’t sure which Fate she feared more.
***
“Monstrous. Monstrous that the Jerdic boy would kick us out of camp.” Godric fingered the scab on his face from his interrogation, his expression surly.
Thomas simply kept his eye on the uneven trail along the riverbank. They were taking that shorter path to civilization, hugging tight to the riverbed. This trail would be more dangerous with the winter rains and flooding, but the chances of supplying themselves were better. After what happened to his army in the mountain passes, Thomas would take the dangers of the riverbed over the dangers of the Tiochene raiders any day.
“It’s for the best, really, that the Jerdic lad kicked us out,” Llewellyn murmured.
Thomas shot his friend a quick, accusing look. “What do you mean by that?”
Llewellyn’s mouth quirked, but instead of making some comment about the Jerdic princess, his second merely raised his mail-clad arm. He pointed behind them toward where they had left the Jerdic camp.
Thomas craned around in his saddle, but it took him a long moment to understand what he was seeing. A column of dust rising high on the road. A column such as a moving army might produce with their many trampling feet. When he recognized the direction of the dust, he felt his temper spike. “That foolish, arrogant little ass.”
“Yes.”
“He’s leading them through the mountain passes.”
Llewellyn dropped his gaze, and his shoulders hunched over. His voice was quiet, almost soundless as he said, “Yes.”
“We warned him. He saw our wounded, our dead. Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps to prove he is the better man, the better general. Perhaps he feels he cannot support his army through a long trek around the mountain passes. Perhaps he simply has a horrible sense of direction.” Llewellyn lifted one shoulder in a shrug, but his face was pinched and unhappy as his gaze wandered toward the trailing column of dust.
Thomas had a violent urge to wheel his horse about and ride straight back into the Jerdic column. Gallop through until he found Aliénor, toss her over his saddle, and ride off with her to safety. Foolishness, of course. Even if he were to attempt such a ridiculous rescue, the odds that he could find one fair lady among a rabble of thousands of soldiers on the march were slim.
Still, he stared at that column of dust steadily marching toward doom, and he wished he’d had the audacity to ask her to run with him when he’d had the chance.
With a firm hand, he turned his horse back onto the river path. “Come on. We don’t have enough supplies to dawdle.”
Llewellyn urged his horse alongside Thomas’s and kept his voice low. “Perhaps they will fare better than we did in the mountains. Perhaps the Tiochene won’t attack. Perhaps Philippe is a better leader than we give him credit for, and he will fight them off.”
“Yes.” Thomas stopped himself from looking back again. Instead he turned his eye toward the roaring of the river. The waters were still dark and heavy with storm runoff, bracken, and tree limbs swirling in the wild torrents. He could almost imagine he saw that brave, small figure dressed in pale blue fighting her way through the wild rush of the river again. Fight hard, Princess Aliénor. I cannot help you this time.
Chapter Nine
The army passed more bodies with practically every step they took up the treacherous road into the mountains, but Aliénor knew better than to look. The soldiers, though, marching on foot as they were, could not help but notice—notice and fear. A ripple of alarm and dismay passed through the column, starting at the front and passing backward in a low, muttering wave. Men were tense now, watchful.
Aliénor kept an iron grip on her own reins, and the leather straps were slick in her sweaty palms. Her shoulders were stiff and aching from tension, and she seemed to have passed her jitters on to her horse as the damned nervy beast kept twitching and sidling sideways under her hands.
Philippe seemed no better. He’d caught his lower lip with his teeth and worried at it absently. She wasn’t sure he realized he was doing it. His eyes scanned the tops of the hills above them, and Aliénor found her own gaze following his even though she wasn’t sure what he feared.
Constant alertness, constant worry. These made the army cautious, slow, scared to take every step forward. A strong leader might have been able to hurry them forward, to reassure. Philippe just sat atop his horse and grew paler and paler as the day passed, deep lines etching themselves into his face. Some turn in the path appeared ahead and Philippe, atop his horse, wheeled toward Aliénor. “Wife, take yourself to the women’s wagon. You look overtired.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but Philippe’s gaze warned her that his mood was dark. Feeling an itch behind her shoulder blades that might have been the blood witch’s stare, Aliénor dropped her head. She nodded, hating herself and him. “Of course, husband.” Her obedience tasted heavy and bitter on her tongue.
“My princess.” Philippe lifted her hand to his lips for a careless kiss and dropped it just as quickly, his gaze returning to the cliffs above.
Aliénor motioned for her personal guards and Noémi to follow as she turned her horse about. The small group of them worked their way back from the vanguard to the middle of the column along a narrow band of a wash beside the old mountain road.
“My lady,” Noémi murmured.
“What?”
Her handmaiden nodded to Aliénor’s hands on her reins. A long moment passed before Aliénor realized she was scrubbing the back of her left hand with the heel of her right. Stop. Still her skin prickled. Strange that the memory of one small kiss should leave her so warm while the feel of her husband’s lips only made her skin crawl.
She urged her horse forward faster, just short of a trot along the narrow basin path. Her mount huffed in annoyance but obliged her. She felt suddenly as if she were back in that dark river, watching the waves rise over her head, seeing her doom approach. All I can do is take a deep breath before the wave washes over me. All I can do is hope for the best.
The ladies’ wagon appeared before her: a squat wooden box set on six wheels and drawn by four horses. The driver, Michel, rode atop the right horse in the front line, controlling it and the other beasts with a long whip. When he saw her approach, he tugged on the reins, then
reached behind to pull the harness on the rear horses until each animal had stopped. Aliénor dismounted, then nodded hello as she climbed inside the coach.
Violette was bundled up on one of the benches, still tired after her adventures in the river. The girl looked up from a sewing project as they entered, her hazel eyes wide in her dark face. “My lady?”
“Get out your armor and put it on at once.” Aliénor worked her way past the two women and told the driver to start moving again.
“Princess?”
“My lady?”
She flung her hands up amid the chatter of their voices, and silence fell as the wagon rolled into motion, rocking gently like a boat. Violette rose from her seat, pressing one hand against the wall to keep her balance. Her usually rich brown skin looked sallow, the skin around her mouth and knuckles a pale yellow. “Why, my lady?”
Because at least then you’ll have some protection against arrows and blades. Aliénor did not say that. Best not to scare them. Instead, she gave them each a gentle smile. “Because your princess asks it of you, and you are both my Amazons. Is that enough for now?”
Violette swallowed, perhaps in belated realization that this was not an idle whim. “Of course, Princess.”
“Let’s put yours on first, my lady.” Noémi sat stiffly in one corner, arms folded.
Aliénor opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, Noémi popped up and set about digging in the storage space under the wagon benches. Philippe had not allowed her to keep swords or bows in the lady’s wagon, but each set of armor had a knife in a scabbard to belt at their waists.
For a good while, the wagon rocked with a bustle of activity as the ladies pulled their brave red leather breastplates from the storage under the benches and fastened the armor over each woman’s gown. Each Amazon had a red gown to match her armor, but Aliénor ordered them not to change into those.
As she surveyed her women, she restrained a sigh of deepest frustration. Red. Scarlet red. What an idiotic choice for armor. They would all stand out like a beacon in the countryside. There were no good choices here. She had rather they have the protection their armor could afford if it did come to fighting. She would just make them all stay in the wagon so they could not provide tempting targets to any eagle-eyed archers on the hill.