The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8)

by Lina J. Potter

  But who had started all of it and why? Damned if she knew. Lilian had no time for reconnaissance. She had her own hide to rescue, and the count couldn't blame her, seeing as she hadn't saved only herself and her immediate circle. No matter how much easier it would have been for her to flee without a woman giving birth, little children, a grumpy old maid, or the Eveers, Lilian Earton would have never abandoned anyone inside a city swept up in chaos.

  She had escaped, taking everyone she managed to get her hands on, regardless of their status. Saving came first; she could sort it out later. And that, if nothing else, was worthy of respect.

  He would take care of recon himself; he needed to know whose hide he'd be flaying. That's what the count was telling the pleased Lilian when he was interrupted once again.

  Another letter had arrived by pigeon, no personal royal seal. It came from Fort Shedar. But this one bore the imprint of the queen’s signet ring.

  Chantaine knew such things, and he wasn't going to keep secrets from Countess Earton. Instead, he unfolded the letter.

  ***

  Lily closely watched the count's face and was astonished to see it lit with a smile.

  Was it really the time for that?

  "This is Leir Olsen, Your Grace."

  Lily searched her memory. Thankfully, she had taken pains to study the important names, and she did remember that one. Her brain that stored more than one volume of handbooks on anatomy, physiology, pathology, pharmacology, and other medical wisdom, didn't even consider that a problem, easily producing the answer.

  "Garrison commander at Fort Shedar?"

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  "Good news?"

  "In these circumstances, yes. They have Her Highness Maria, and they're going to the capital."

  "How many men do they have?"

  "Three hundred, at least."

  Lily shook her head.

  "I doubt they make it. A mutiny cannot start with such puny numbers, and it's unlikely to be quelled with that. If I were a conspirator, I would have gathered more men. Many more."

  The countess was right. Still...

  "But I'll lend them a hand. I'll write to them that we can strike from two directions and crush those bastards! Um, forgive me, Your Grace..."

  "No need to apologize for the truth," Lily grumbled and then realized something. "Will you write about the queen?"

  "What if something goes wrong? The letter might fall into the wrong hands..."

  It was hard to argue that. Something might go wrong, easily, and they were still in the Summer Palace...

  "How many men will you leave to guard Her Majesty?"

  "A hundred."

  She nodded. A hundred royal guards, elite warriors. Chantaine, of course, wouldn't leave just anyone to guard them—only the men he could count on. For those times, it meant not just a lot—it meant everything.

  A hundred men. They could protect them, shield them, let them survive.

  "Thank you. We'll feel much safer."

  "Countess, it's you we should thank."

  Lily brushed it off. She had no time for titles and gratitude. They still could die a thousand deaths, and if they didn't, they'd get even at some point.

  "Will my people stay with me?"

  "Of course, Your Grace," Chantaine said with a nod and couldn't help but ask, even if he berated himself for that. Still, she was a doctorus of a kind, and even a thousand or three thousand years ago, people would ask them of the same thing. "Are you...are you sure Her Majesty will survive?"

  Lily sighed.

  "She should. I'll do everything in my power."

  Her voice wasn't completely confident, and the count could understand why. To survive something like that...a stronger man would break, not to mention the queen. A veteran warrior, he could recount many tales about mental health influencing physical recovery, putting to shame any doctorus.

  "I count on you, Countess."

  Lily tossed her head. So he counted on her. But even thousands of years later and in a different world, physicians would be afraid of guaranteeing a safe recovery. Not because they didn't care about the family's peace of mind. They were simply scared to jinx it.

  "I've already said everything."

  "Then I'll write Olsen and gather the troops, too."

  Lily considered his words.

  "Count, you'll only march out in the evening, right?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm sure you have spies in your ranks. I mean, the conspirators must have planted their men in your regiment. I doubt there's many of them, maybe one or two, and probably not your closest confidantes, but still."

  Chantaine didn't doubt that either. Considering the foul betrayal at the palace, why would he be worse off? But how to identify the traitors?

  He admitted to himself that he could not. That wasn't his strong suit. On the other hand, why not ask? Even if the countess suggested nonsense, nobody forced him to put it in motion, and she'd love to express her observations.

  That's what diplomacy was like.

  "Do you have any ideas, Countess?"

  Lily gave him a mischievous smile.

  Did she have an idea? Oh, she had a college degree, a history of logical thinking, the knowledge of past generations that she didn't mind carrying on her shoulders, the stories told by her father and Alex, who loved the hell out of those musketeer romances...

  She didn't just have an idea. She had a plan.

  ***

  How would one send a message in those dark times?

  Only two ways existed, really. Either you ran into a village and sent a pigeon from there or risked sending a bird from the castle's pigeon coop. There were no other options.

  You could try sending a letter with a messenger, but finding a man was a problem. Nobody was going to wait for you in the bushes with a ready horse; you were no high-flyer.

  Rudiger Ayn, a royal guard and a sergeant of Count Chantaine's regiment, would have loved to go AWOL to a nearby village and send a pigeon from there, seeing as he had a contact anyway. Unfortunately, nobody was going to let him do that. Chantaine told everyone to prepare to march out, and nobody from the regiment was to leave even if the sky fell to the ground. And if anyone's not ready, you'll regret it!

  So what did those preparations include? Packing up, checking your armor, weapons, horses, taking everything necessary... They could have marched on the capital at once, but that would be foolish. Attacking it without help was ill-advised. It was a city. If Alcine hadn't devised a way to defend Cardin, he wasn't worth a copper. The gates would be shut; all passages would be barricaded—riding through all by yourself on a horse armed with only a sword didn't seem inspiring.

  No, Chantaine didn't want that. He wanted an inflammable mixture, ropes, grappling hooks, and lots of other stuff...even a battering ram, to be safe. Something like that couldn't be prepared in a matter of minutes.

  And then again, they had a thousand men with a thousand horses. Was it realistic that none of them had any problems at all? Only in a fairy tale. One had his horse lose a shoe, another had problems with his horse's harness, and one didn't have his weapon in proper shape. It would be a miracle for everybody to be ready by the evening.

  Rudy faithfully issued orders and took a walk around the pigeon coop while he was at it. He didn't like what he saw. Two brutes were standing guard, not likely to move an inch. Both were part of Chantaine's trusted group. In such conditions, trying to get into the coop was tantamount to suicide; he'd get caught before saying "pigeon."

  What other opportunities did he have? Pass a note into the village. Nobody had locked down the palace kitchen, and all those commoners were allowed outside.

  Rudy quietly scribbled a short message.

  We have the queen and the princes. Marching out to Shedar and the capital in the evening.

  He didn't need to write anything else; those were the main points. Alcine would understand him and reward him...or at least give him his promissory notes back! Having a gambling ad
diction was a pretty sad thing, especially when you got snake eyes all the time. And if you were only a leir instead of a duke, your debts might get the best of you. Not play if you couldn't stop while you were ahead? Now that was advice for cowards and sissies! Real men would die before losing!

  And so, Alcine had reeled Rudy in. The boy was convenient: not very rich, quite greedy, and, most importantly, plain. A regiment of a thousand men had a hundred such sergeants.

  Rudy walked to the kitchen and picked a pretty-looking maid, one of those always ready to serve any master of theirs. Had he rolled in the hay with her? Was it another one? Ah, those wenches all looked alike. He had better things to do than memorize every skank!

  A flashing gold coin drew the girl's attention.

  "Sweetie, could you run over to the village?"

  "If the master wishes so. What needs to be done?"

  "Give a note to Arno Saran. He'll scribble a few lines for me...can you read?"

  "Where'd I learn to, master?"

  "No matter. Just give him the note, take his letter, and run here. One more coin for you when you return."

  The maid gave him a sweet smile and hid both the coin and the note.

  "Always ready to serve you, master. Should I...give you anything else?"

  "We'll discuss it later," Rudy said. "Go on, then."

  And so she did, straight to the palace exit. Alas, she didn't run far. She was caught right at the doorstep. They searched her, found the coin and the note, and shook their fists at her.

  Unwilling to have her nose lose its cute-looking original shape, the maid immediately confessed. It's not like she had anything to hide, in any case. She had been hired to deliver a note from Leir Ayn to Mister Saran. It might be important, but how should she know? She was illiterate!

  The maid got off with a cuff on the nape, although a silver coin "for trinkets" sweetened the pot. The note was taken, and both she and Rudy himself were locked in a closet. He, however, got a bit more than a slap. Chantaine personally promised to rip off his head—but later, when he returned from the expedition—with wit and feeling.

  Rudy realized that the count wasn't joking and decided against playing the hero. After all, he didn't serve any other cause than money—no need to pretend to be something he was not. He needed to confess before they tied him up on a rack, unless he wanted to spend his remaining years begging for scraps at city walls.

  Half an hour later, three more guards joined the merry band. Defecting to warn the duke might sound funny, but Virman watchdogs didn't have a sense of humor to speak of. They could jump, they could bite, they could scare horses...

  Just two dogs, you say? Ah, you've never met them! Those who did, however, thought there were at least eight of them, attacking from all directions at once.

  Lou-Lou and Nanook couldn't, of course, sweep the entire area, but two or three routes to the village were enough. The Virmans intercepted the villains and diligently delivered them to Count Chantaine.

  The results cheered Lily up. Just four traitors out of a thousand? That was a great ratio; even the Bible was worse with its one betrayer among twelve Apostles. And then, they had caught everyone! That was something to be happy about.

  ***

  "Master Salsi, I need your help."

  "Your Grace?"

  The master didn't ask what kind of help; he already understood it.

  Lilian exchanged glances with Count Chantaine, and the latter spoke up.

  "Master Salsi, we've found spies in our midst. We know where they were going, we know whom they tried sending a letter to..."

  The master immediately put two and two together, not being noble-born and having had to use guile and smarts throughout his life just to survive.

  "What letter had they tried sending? And to whom?"

  Chantaine looked at Lilian, and they both breathed out in relief, glad they wouldn't have to spend time explaining.

  "You got it right, Master Salsi. This letter. It's addressed to someone called Arno Saran in the village."

  Master Salsi listened to their plan, made a few adjustments, and the trio proceeded to put it into effect. They didn't have a lot of time left.

  ***

  Less than an hour later, a vagrant with an obvious touch of Eveer blood appeared on the road connecting the palace with the village. He was dirty, disheveled, and reeking of trash—just as vagrants were supposed to. Lots of people like that wandered the roads.

  There was something out of the ordinary about him, however. Not scared of being beaten off with a stick, he asked the first man he saw for the whereabouts of Arno Saran's house. The man, a shepherd, was so shocked that he didn't even kick the impudent vagrant or lash him with his whip. He pointed at a house, to which the beggar boy promptly took off, all purposeful.

  He knocked at the door and, not waiting for Arno to release the dogs at him, whispered loud enough for the master to hear,

  "A message from the castle."

  That earned him admission to the courtyard.

  Arno Saran turned out to be a well-off farmer: stately, with a half-grey spade beard reaching down his waist and a belly that even that beard couldn't hide.

  "A message, you say?"

  "Yes, kind sir," the vagrant blabbered. "So I was going past the castle. Didn't dare to beg for alms, fat chance they'd let me into the park, even..."

  Arno nodded. If he had his way, he'd hang those like the beggar.

  "And then, someone called me up from behind the fence. A soldier, all tall and handsome..."

  Arno asked a few more questions and realized that the boy was talking about Leir Rudiger. Well, why not?

  "He gave me a coin to deliver this letter to you and promised another one...he said you'd give it to me, sir."

  "Give me the letter," Arno demanded.

  He didn't want to spend a coin, but he had to. No need for that snotty beggar to blab about the letter around the neighborhood; if he got his reward, he would simply leave. The seal and the handwriting were correct.

  Standing guard. He bought the letter; we won't march.

  Short and on topic.

  Arno didn't quite get certain aspects, but the point was, the regiment would stay in the palace. It was time to send a pigeon to the capital.

  He threw a coin at the boy.

  "Take it and be gone. Make sure nobody sees you here."

  "Master...forgive me...I wanted to buy some bread...master..."

  The boy whined, looking at Arno in horror, and the man waved his hand.

  "I'll give you bread. Just get out of here, quickly."

  The boy started bowing and thanking Arno until he finally got a loaf of stale bread baked two days before. Arno had intended to give it to the cattle, but it was good enough for beggars as well. Biting off the pieces, the boy took off, loudly praising the kind master.

  Five minutes later, a pigeon flew off from the house. In thirty more minutes, two riders picked up the boy from behind the village.

  "Did you do it?"

  "As soon as I left, he rushed to the pigeon coop. I watched it," the young trickster reported. He was Master Salsi's nephew.

  "So he bought it," one of the soldiers trusted by Count Chantaine said with a nod.

  The horses took off. Let Alcine think that ruse had worked, and that the idiot Chantaine remained in place. Let him.

  As for tricks...what else could they do? Alcine might have other people working for him in the village; they couldn't watch everyone. But he should believe the information he received from one of his own. Aldonai help them, he would.

  Chapter 3

  "How many men do we have?"

  Once again, Jerisson attacked Ert Olsen. The commander kept brushing him off.

  "Not enough. Not even close!"

  He needed to wait for Chantaine's reply.

  If Alcine had at least a thousand men, rushing there would be idiocy: they'd lay down their lives without solving anything. They simply didn't have the numbers.

  Al
cine's messenger had already arrived, too.

  He started cursing at them and giving them lip. Too bad for him.

  At the moment, he was lying on his back in the dungeon, counting his remaining teeth and thinking about life. Served him right.

  Then Leir Olsen sent another note to Alcine, saying that they were ready to march, but the Iverneans had attempted to break through. Scumbags, what can you say? They could have paid a nice visit, all fair and square, getting a gift for them...

  The battle was furious. Some of the enemy soldiers were killed or maimed, but the prince and the princess escaped.

  Sorry, Your Excellency, but we're going to fix our mistake...get you the prince as a nice trump card, too. So we'll be late; don't be angry with us.

  Leir Olsen genuinely hoped to win some more time, at least a little. Marching out only with his men was one thing, but attacking the capital from two sides with Chantaine's people?

  Pigeons were wonderful birds, but they couldn't fly faster even if you tied a burning twig to their tails. Who knew what went on in bird brains, anyway? A pigeon had left for Chantaine's regiment, but the response was yet to arrive. All they could do at Fort Shedar was to prepare and wait.

  For Jerisson, it was harder than for anyone else. He fussed about the fortress and dreamed of returning home. Thankfully, he hadn't done anything stupid yet; he knew that he couldn't help his wife if he got killed.

  Where are you, Lily?

  Where's Mirrie?

  What's happened to you, my dearies?

  ***

  "The troops are about to march out."

  Milia squeezed Lilian's hand.

  "Do you want to watch?"

  "Of course I do," Lily said with a smile. She had never seen it happen before, only in movies. But movies were no reality.

  "Go then. I feel better already."

  That was the honest truth. Her fever had subsided, and Milia looked much better. No, moving a woman immediately after she had given birth was a travesty. No matter how robust she might be, she was bound to encounter complications. Lily sincerely hoped for a happy outcome, but two wetnurses and one she-goat were the bare minimum required to make her better.