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

by Lina J. Potter

  "Is this...what I think it is?"

  "This is their right," Olav said with a look of sympathy. "It looks savage to you, I know. But what if a person cannot live on in this world? What if nothing keeps them here, while someone waits for them over there?"

  Richard slowly lowered his head. He understood. He understood it all too well.

  The ship drifted from the shore, the fire growing brighter. The railings covered with oil burst almost straight away, giving off smoke, and Richard burned together with them—the old Richard, the cheerful scallywag who had once caroused and drunk together with Jerisson. Something inside him had burned down; something that he couldn't quite name.

  That night, he left together with Tira, and he knew that he would never return. His youth was gone. His Highness Richard of Ativerna was dead, giving way to the next king. He would have a long life. He would have his duty. He would marry, hold his children in his arms, raise them, save them for Ativerna and save Ativerna for them. Nobody would ever learn...

  The silver lid of the medallion made a dull click in his hand. Tira was smiling at him from the portrait, a strand of blond hair wrapped around his fingers. Richard groaned, turned around, and headed into the darkness. He hadn't seen Leif send two of his men after him, hadn't seen the rocks and the brambles, didn't realize that his feet were bleeding.

  My love...

  As usual, Aldonai didn't hear Richard's prayer—or maybe he wasn't listening? Tears rolled down his face. When it came to heartache, even opium didn't help.

  Chapter 4

  Wellster, outside of Cardin.

  Leir Olsen couldn't believe his eyes when a pigeon finally arrived.

  The note was short, just three words.

  On my way.

  But did words really matter? The leir was well aware whose signet ring had been used to seal the letter. Knowing such things was his job, after all.

  Chantaine.

  Had their own pigeon reached the count? That was complicated. It might have. But for Chantaine to believe, to actually head to Shedar... Leir Olsen did realize that it wasn't half the battle or even a beginning, but still. They weren't alone anymore, and that made all the difference.

  Jerisson Earton became the first to know that wondrous news.

  "They're marching here?"

  "Yes."

  "That was very quick," he said, noting the same thing that irked the leir.

  "I suppose."

  "A thousand men couldn't have set off so quickly..."

  "Unless they learned about all of that from another source," the leir finished and gave a happier smile. "So someone must have escaped the palace. Good."

  Jerisson nodded.

  "They might know something about my wife and daughter."

  Leir Olsen looked at him with sympathy.

  "Pull yourself together. If you lose it, you'll fail both yourself and them."

  "I know."

  The men knew each other's minds but couldn't do anything except for waiting.

  It felt like the worst thing in the world.

  ***

  Robert Alcine was waiting, too. He was about to receive the second boy: the replacement Henry.

  He was calming Albitta, talking to the nobles...he had a lot of business, just as he would in the evening. His Majesty's funeral—Robert would have loved to throw Gardwig's corpse in a dump to be eaten by dogs, but the people needed to see the king dead, so as not to get hordes of pretenders. He knew that ilk; before one knew it, they would crawl out of the woodwork like cockroaches.

  With time, Robert would deal with all of Gardwig's whelps, including the daughters—in public, too, so that nobody would suspect him while the girls would be undoubtedly dead.

  Sparing anyone? What a silly idea! There was pleasure Robert couldn't deny himself.

  He went to look at his defeated enemy. Corpse artists—and yes, the court had some of those—had done a wonderful job. They even covered up the neck scar with a collar, so Gardwig looked almost alive.

  Robert stared at him for a few minutes and finally spat into the coffin.

  "May Maldonaya never grant you any rest, scum! And remember: your children will follow you."

  Gardwig didn't reply.

  However... Was it a dancing shadow? A flickering torch? Out of nowhere, the corpse seemed to sneer, and Alcine barely held back his rage.

  You crowned wretch! I hate you!

  The fit was so powerful that he had to stand a few moments with his eyes closed, or he would have pulled the body out of the coffin and started kicking it.

  Yet he could not. The people were waiting, and they needed their ceremony. Time to go.

  ***

  Funeral rites in Wellster and Virma were strikingly different. The only thing in common they had was a body—and the name.

  The Virmans believed that the soul would soar into the sky between water and fire and thus, buried their dead between the three elements: air, fire, and water, except for a small pouch of sand from Virman shores put under the head of the deceased. It wasn't like that in Wellster.

  The king's funeral started with a solemn mass. The Aldon personally read a prayer for the repose of Gardwig's soul. He was quite good at it, too. As Robert stood at the forefront of the audience, he felt his soul at peace. Serves you right, you royal trash.

  He knew that his vengeance for his beloved was finally complete and would be over as soon as he got his hands on Gardwig's bastards.

  Albitta was pale and dressed in green. That color didn't fit the queen at all, making her look older by a decade and her skin yellow. Still, that was a necessity.

  At least she could wear lots of diamonds on top of the dress; let them shine just like Albitta's eyes.

  So far, she was only a regent. She would only be crowned when her son arrived.

  And as for him not really being her son... That was nothing. The main point was the crown; she had never loved children, anyway. She had had her girls to tie her husband to her, hoping for a boy; as for her son, she gave birth to him for revenge.

  Her daughters were standing right behind her: all pale and scared but not daring even to cry. Gardwig had trained them well. Console the girls? Explain things to them? That seemed funny to Albitta. She had no time to waste on those snot-nosed babies.

  Her Majesty Albitta threw another glance at Gardwig. She couldn't believe she had won. In their game, the one who survived the opponent was in the right, and she had.

  The courtiers kept exchanging looks, quietly whispering to each other, while some glanced at her with apprehension or respect. There was no loyalty, not yet, but it wasn't a problem. She would make up for it later. First came subduing, then came taming. People were no different from wild beasts, and they had nowhere to go.

  After the service, the king's coffin was carried outside and solemnly laid on a bier. Gardwig was to make one last journey around the capital.

  The funeral cortege took their places.

  The grieving wife and the daughters followed the coffin. Behind them came the courtiers, positioned according to their title, then the royal guards... The crowds would have bread and coins thrown to them, people saying goodbye to the king, and the king to his subjects.

  Robert took his place just behind the princesses, and nobody dared to argue that. Albitta was content and calm, but he didn't like what he saw. As they rode around the city, the people's faces were clear to him: Cardin didn't accept them. It was rejection, dark and gloomy, hanging above the crowds like a cloud, glowing in the people's eyes, visible in the corners of their mouths.

  They loved Gardwig; Robert had to admit it. He might have been a tyrant and a despot, but he was charismatic, handsome, always providing grounds for a talk... Commoners didn't like rulers for their intelligence or decency. The sympathy of a crowd is an unpredictable thing. Gardwig was their favorite, and Robert and Albitta had killed him.

  Unbidden came the thought—how long did they have yet? When would the thunder strike? Robert didn't know,
but even at the peak of his triumph, he mused: maybe it was time to flee. Or maybe wait a few days? Prepare an escape route? Gather valuables, funds, make arrangements, buy and sell something... Nobody in their right mind would want to start a new life in another country from scratch, including Alcine. He might not get to be a duke there, but he would have a quiet and comfortable life.

  Albitta? She wasn't his problem. She had wanted revenge, and she got it. The crown? Power? Fame? Money? Absolutely. But she would have to spend her entire life—whatever was left of it—holding on to that power. And thus, Robert made his decision and would start implementing his plan as soon as he returned home.

  But that was later. For the time being, both of them were riding along the streets and giving the king his due. An hour, two... At last, the circle was complete, leaving them free to go back to the palace.

  There, in the palace chapel, Gardwig would rest in the family crypt. Even his enemies couldn't deny him that, not yet. They didn't dare to. Albitta had suggested otherwise, incidentally, but Robert asked her to wait. Why risk ticking people off? Later, when it was safe, they might pull his body out and throw it away, if they still wanted to carry corpses around. Albitta agreed.

  She watched the coffin with her husband's body be lowered into the vault, the undertakers leaving it, the heavy door being shut... A milestone in her journey through life, yet another one.

  ***

  Pigeons might not fly at night, but people could ride. Not as fast as they might have wanted, of course; the road was hard to see, a horse might easily stumble and twist its leg, get scared of something and throw the rider off—a lot of things could happen with that soft and fickle means of transport. Horses weren't human, really. They needed care, affection, and attention.

  And that is why Lort and Chantaine took their time riding to Fort Shedar. They planned on reaching it by the morning, getting a brief rest, and then going to the city to ascertain the situation. Maybe Olsen had some news, too.

  They made it almost without any accidents, other than a few limping horses: pretty much a miracle, by the grace of Aldonai. Nobody was surprised to see all the gates shut. They exchanged looks and nodded at one of their adjutants—knocking was beneath a commander; he had squires for that.

  It didn't take long for the gate to open. A group of fifteen hundred men might sound simple on paper, but in reality, so many people couldn't sneak through back roads. Such a regiment was bound to be noticed from afar, and the dwellers of the fort had done so. They counted down the numbers, made estimations, and rightly decided not to fuss: if those were friends, there was no need to twitch, and if enemies, better to avoid alarming them. Let the fort seem quiet as if everyone was sleeping and definitely not preparing to be attacked. As for stones and timber logs on the walls and water being boiled in the courtyard... Well, those were details.

  There was no need for torches; in the fall, the nights weren't especially dark yet. Coupled with campfires and stars, the defenders of the fortress had enough light.

  "Who goes here?" a voice came out from the walls.

  "His Grace Count Lort."

  "WHO?"

  Leir Olsen, who was standing on the wall, couldn't help but ask to repeat the name.

  Altres Lort rode forward.

  "Don't you recognize me?"

  That wasn't the roar of the Lion of Wellster, but everybody knew the Wolf as well.

  "Open the gate!" Leir Olsen shouted and rushed downstairs to meet the guests.

  The help had finally arrived. It was the king's brother; what else did he need to be happy?

  ***

  The council of war took place in the commander's quarters thirty minutes later. While the soldiers were being escorted inside and their horses unsaddled and rubbed, the leaders held a discussion. The people in attendance were Altres Lort, Count Chantaine, Leir Olsen, and as the representatives of foreign powers, Count Earton and His Highness Miguel of Ivernea. The princesses hadn't been asked.

  The meeting started with Jerisson's story about the events in the palace. Altres Lort listened to him without a word, same as Count Chantaine. Some parts of his tale they had already learned from Lilian, some they had guessed, but something was new. At last, they could see the big picture.

  "Alcine, that rat," Lort said through his teeth.

  "A rotten seed," Chantaine agreed. "We should have rooted it out from the beginning."

  "If we didn't, let us fix that mistake," Leir Olsen concluded.

  Everybody present was in agreement. But how would they accomplish that? It stood to reason that they needed to attack, but... Oh, that perennial word!

  Alcine was no fool, having arranged and implemented such a coup, and he had his own men. The most likely scenario was the avengers getting stuck fighting on the streets, while the duke figured out that they came for him and slipped away. He must have prepared an exit route; everyone present would have done it, and they shouldn't think any worse of their enemy. They wanted him specifically, the real culprit. If he fled and they only got Albitta, what was the point?

  Even if she was the heart of the conspiracy, someone else was the brain. It was he who needed to be hung on the city gate.

  Jerisson Earton broke the silence.

  "We wanted to use me as bait. Alcine will definitely want to know where I hid the princess. After that...I'll distract him."

  Altres shook his head.

  "By being tortured?"

  Jess shrugged.

  "My wife is out there. I have to find her."

  "Your wife is in the Summer Palace, and so is your daughter. Plus, two of the furry beasts she keeps calling dogs and a ragtag bunch of people she picked up along the way," Chantaine said.

  It took an effort of will for Jerisson to keep standing.

  "What?"

  He couldn't pronounce anything else.

  Leir Olsen took pity on him, pouring some wine in a cup and handing it to him.

  "Gulp it down."

  Jess obeyed. He felt a little better; at least the lump in his throat seemed to grow softer.

  "Lily and Mirrie are...safe?"

  Altres Lort nodded.

  "You have a wonderful wife, Jerisson. She escaped the capital, got to the count, and told him everything."

  Jess breathed out. Lily was alive. Miranda was alive. They were safe in the Summer Palace, and he could go there any minute.

  Thank you, Aldonai.

  The rest of the story didn't matter to Jess. Whom had Lily dragged along? He didn't care even if it was Maldonaya's unholy army and the forces of darkness, as long as Lily was all right.

  "Are they all right?"

  "Yes. They're worried for you, but they're fine."

  For a second, Jess touched the leg of the chair with his cheek and closed his eyes. The wood felt pleasantly cool against his feverish flesh. So that's what true happiness felt like. A heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  All that was left was to survive and get back to his wife and daughter, but he could deal with it.

  "Then I need to go all the more so. I'll figure out what to tell Alcine and how to delay him."

  He didn't ask the other men to take care of his family if anything happened to him. It was already clear to everyone.

  "We could lead maybe fifty men through the secret passages," Altres Lort estimated. "Any more than that, and we risk being caught."

  "Then our task is to engage the enemy and cause a commotion," Olsen replied with a nod.

  "That's what I'll do, then: engage them in battle, arrange road patrols, so not a single of those scumbags escapes," Chantaine said, agreeing with the others.

  "Ahem?" Miguel of Ivernea coughed.

  Nobody had time to respond, as the door swung open.

  ***

  The girls looked dazzling, especially next to each other.

  Lydia was blushing in indignation, while Maria's eyes shot lightning bolts just like her father's.

  The ladies were offended by not receiving an
invitation to the meeting, and having to break through completely obtuse soldiers didn't improve their mood in the least.

  Out of habit, Jess gazed at them with admiration. Maybe Richard shouldn't have let Lydia slip away. In her light blue dress, her hair in a casual braid, her eyes sparkling like diamonds, she was amazingly pretty. Maria was no less gorgeous. A sapphire dress, dark eyebrows knit together, her hands clenched in fists...

  "Count Lort? I’m glad that you're here," the princess said, launching an attack.

  She miscalculated. She was nowhere experienced enough to go toe-to-toe with him.

  Altres lowered his head.

  "Your Highness, I'm glad to be here myself. I came later than I should have, but not too late, I hope."

  "I hope so, too. Do you know anything about my stepmother and brothers?"

  Unlike novels, where one exchange of glances gave conspirators out, Lort and Chantaine didn't even turn a hair. They had agreed to keep silent about the queen, at least so far. Any potential rumors didn't have the time to heat up.

  "We'll make sure to ask the conspirators about that, Your Highness."

  Maria bit her lip.

  "Is there any chance they are alive?"

  "There's always a chance, Your Highness," Count Lort wasn't going to concede. "I'm glad you're all right."

  "It's all thanks to Count Earton."

  "What are you planning to do next?" Lydia didn't waste any time on being angry. "Count?"

  Altres shrugged.

  "Take Cardin."

  "I'll go with you!" Maria perked up.

  "No!"

  All five men said it in unison. The princess almost opened her mouth, but before she managed to utter a word...

  "I'll leave fifty men as an escort," Count Chantaine spoke out. "If anything unexpected arises, they'll help you escape, Your Highness."

  "And His Highness Miguel will help them," Altres added in a syrupy voice.

  Miguel flushed.

  "Do you expect me to cower under a skirt?"

  "Oh, come on, Your Highness. This is Wellster's internal matter." Altres gave him a cocky look.