Whatever one man cooked up, another could always spot, and the Virmans did, noticing the footprints on the ground, a flooring, and filed trees.
They would have done the same if they wanted to set an ambush, and it meant only one thing: it was hunting time.
***
Gael explained his idea to Her Grace.
Lily suggested she would play the bait, straying away from the procession.
Gael objected, yelled at her, and promised to tie her up and lock her in the carriage, prompting the countess to threaten to rip off his head and rat him out to Leif.
After a ten-minute screaming match (their shared tribulations allowed for such drama), Lily and Gael reached a truce and started coming up with a new plan.
Of course, nobody would let Lily play the bait. All women would be sitting inside the carriages: the Virmans wouldn't agree otherwise.
As for the rest... Who said that hunters couldn't be hunted? They absolutely could, provided you had the right scheme.
And that was exactly what they had.
***
Despite the Virmans' objections, Lily's idea about bait was a sound one. Instead of her, however, that role went to the skinniest of the royal guards. The poor guy had to shave off his mustache and put on a dress.
Everyone emphasized that it wasn't shameful in the least, but rather a military trick.
They could have used a farm girl or an Eveer woman in his stead, but alas, they had no idea how to wear noblewomen's dresses, move the right way, ride horseback, or wear a heavy, if almost gossamer-thin, chain shirt under the clothes. They could never succeed, instead only scaring the prey off.
Gael knew what he would do if he wanted to lay an ambush.
He would have sent a man to watch the royal procession from afar and signal in case everything was fine. Unfortunately, Gael had no idea where such a man would be hiding, forcing the countess to sneak into the stables and get inside the carriage there, while the guard disguised as her left with Miranda, the dogs, and the Virmans, and was triumphantly hoisted on a horse. Nobody even thought about laughing, other than maybe chuckling inwardly.
The cortege left the gates and slowly started moving.
Lily was seething. Miranda and Milia were trying to calm her down as well as they could. The countess was frustrated by uncertainty and a mysterious enemy who... How dare they! They were beaten! In such circumstances, any proper enemy would get the hell away with their tail between their legs and never come back.
What could they want? Revenge? She could understand it, but still... Bastards!
Lily was so carried away with her anger that she didn't even notice when everything started.
One could say a lot of things about Edwin Fremont, but he was no fool, and his plans were quite feasible.
Everything happened at once. Two huge trees started falling on both sides of the road, arrows whooshed past, someone screamed... Lily tried peeking out of the window, but six hands held her—even the maid jumped in.
"Where are you going?"
"Mama!"
"M’lady!"
Lily remembered herself and quieted down.
Really, why risk looking out of the window and getting an arrow? It was better to lay low. After all, nobody had installed metal plates around the carriage. Being shot after a victory would be foolish.
Swords kept clashing outside, accompanied by yelling. So what was going on?
***
Edwin actually got enough time to be happy that his plan had worked.
Several crossbows fired at once, and he grabbed his backup weapon, unloading it as well. No, they couldn't delay anymore. In a second, their enemies would recover and begin pursuit.
He saw a blonde woman fall out of the saddle, someone trying to scoop her up, and then...
It was time to flee.
Edwin gestured to his people and darted off, running through the woodland to the spot where they had left saddled horses.
They were allowed to cross that distance.
The trap hadn't been set next to the ambush spot. It was clear that the mercenaries would arrive in advance, plus they might have reserves. Instead, the Virmans waited for them at the place where they would come anyway: their horses.
They couldn't attempt to run on foot, could they?
Edwin wasn't going to surrender without a fight, while the royal guards were eager to capture him and his men alive. A fight broke out.
A Virman man appeared in front of Edwin. His face even looked familiar. The countess' man? He was sure of it.
Edwin gritted his teeth, furious, and charged forward.
The sword clashed against the axe, then again. The Virman warrior used his brute force, making the opponent evade his blows rather than parry. Edwin took a step back, then another, and suddenly screamed like a bird caught in a net. To be fair, it wasn't far from the truth.
Edwin might have set up an ambush with a crossbow, but the Virmans used nets, common fishing nets that they threw at the baron and his companions on cue. It was impossible not to get trapped, and Edwin was no exception.
He lost several precious seconds, and that was enough for the Virman. A powerful blow knocked the baron out, and everything went dark.
***
"Your Majesty, Your Grace, we're safe now."
Only after hearing those words did Milia dare to peek out of the carriage.
The guards were clearing the road of felled trees, cutting them into pieces first—thankfully, they had axes for that.
The Virmans rode out in the open. They were carrying bodies toppled over their saddles.
"How many were there?" Lily asked.
"Six."
Twelve bolts.
"And what—"
"A crossbow bolt."
Lily jumped out of the carriage.
The guard disguised as her had gotten a crossbow bolt in his leg. His chain shirt protected from serious injuries, but his ribs might have been broken. He also had difficulty breathing.
Lily swore.
"On the grass, now. Get your dirty hands off, or I'll punch you!"
A countess was gone, replaced by a medic, and Her Grace wasn't going to be shy.
Her first aid kit had been left at the embassy—it's not like she could take it to a ball—but over the time spent in the Summer Palace, she managed to scrounge a few things up, such as bandages, needles, a few knives serving as scalpels, and various supplies like alcohol—fine, fortified wine—and opium for killing pain.
Why'd she need it?
Lily felt naked without her tools. The circumstances around them didn't allow a medic to sit on her hands idle. Someone was bound to need medical aid; if she didn't have anything, that would be embarrassing.
Lily lowered herself onto the grass next to the guard.
The bolt had pierced his thigh, thankfully not passing through, or it might have pinned him to his horse, resulting in a laceration. But even without it, she had her hands full. She hoped that the tip wouldn't get stuck inside the wound.
Lily glanced at the squad's physician.
"Could you lend me a hand?"
He wasn't about to argue, and Lily got down to work, not paying any attention to what was going on. It's not like the cortege could start moving anytime soon: they needed to clear the road and deal with the attackers first.
***
The tip of the crossbow bolt almost bounced off; she had to start cutting from the other side of the leg and carefully pull it out, then sew the wound and drain it.
The doctorus who helped her was completely floored. The countess' movements oozed discipline. Training like that was obvious to any medic who wasn't stupid.
The way she threaded a needle, her stitching, her knots...how many indications did a skilled eye need?
And then the ribs: Lily palpated the guard like a true professional.
"Two ribs are broken, one cracked. We'll apply a dressing, but avoid strain for the next three days. You'll also have problems breathi
ng, but it will heal."
Curiously, it didn't occur to anyone to crack a dirty joke. The countess wasn't wiping off the injured man's sweat from his forehead or doing other silly stuff. She was working: calm, focused, and professional. The guards, most of whom had gotten their share of wounds either in battle or duels, could appreciate her skill. How could they joke?
She applied the bandage just as masterfully. The guard sighed with relief and thanked her.
Lily watched as he was put into a cart.
Yes, the attackers had clearly targeted her specifically. But who were they? Why would they do it?
At last, she was free to look for the Virmans. She found Gael not far, pleased, calm, and as usual, guarding someone.
"How are you?"
"Everything's fine."
"And those—"
"Two dead, four alive. Have a look, Your Grace."
"I would like that, yes."
"After you."
***
Edwin Fremont opened his eyes, rudely awakened by the sharp tang of smelling salts. He groaned with impotent rage. A woman leaned over his face—the one he hated so much, Lilian Earton.
Aldonai damn the day they met! It was then when everything went downhill...
"You..."
That simple word was seething with so much hate that Lilian didn't need anything else. Everything was clear.
"Revenge. Just revenge."
Edwin spat out a few angry curses, but it was pointless; Lilian wasn't listening anymore.
"Good catch, Gael. Count Lort is bound to reward you handsomely."
The Virman smiled, content. One could never have too much money, and he was thinking about marrying if Rutha agreed. He would put it to good use starting a household, maybe buy a share in a ship company. He was a poor trader, but ships were a different story.
Lily smiled.
She could easily read Gael's thoughts on his expressive face. And who'd blame him, really?
Such was the time.
Enemies were to be killed, but if you could make a profit on them, you would.
"Damn you!" Fremont spewed.
Lily shrugged.
"I suggest you discuss curses and other things with Count Lort. He'd be happy to oblige."
She turned around. That page of her life held no interest for her anymore.
Behind her back, the Virmans were busy tying the baron up in just the right way so he wouldn't choke, harm himself, or lose his limbs if he tried to struggle. They had a lot of experience at that. A gag would prevent him from biting his tongue off or any unnecessary screaming. He would get the opportunity to say whatever he had on his mind at the interrogation.
The rest of the journey was uneventful.
Virma, the lands of Clan Hardring.
Angelina had never seen an expression like that, other than maybe on her father's face when her mother had died, but she was still a child back then.
Right before her eyes, Bran faded to grey, as if his very being was scrubbed away from the fabric of the world. His features turned thin as if he was a living corpse rather than human.
"H-how?"
"Your son and your daughter are alive, the youngest ones. The eldest died protecting the house and his family."
"Who?"
"The same people. They sent one squad to your clan. I've already dispatched a pursuit..."
Olav knew that finding the culprits was a long shot. All of them had been disguised, and the boy would never identify them, and after learning about the conspirators' defeat, they would surely pretend to be loyal subjects. The Virman held no illusions: they had caught only some of the mutineers, but far from everyone.
"Papa!"
Ian Gardren flung his arms around his father's neck, showering him with tears. Bran knelt down and hugged his son.
Angelina was standing by his side.
The moment of choice had come.
Either she was a princess with her own troubles and worries or...
Slowly, she knelt down and embraced both men, showing that she wanted a place in their life. Just let them try to push her away!
It didn't occur to either of them. Instead, Bran breathed out, as if human warmth was pulling him out of a dark abyss.
His clan; his people; the ones he could call kin.
The woman he had shared a bed with who bore him a daughter. His eldest son, his pride and hope. His aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews, the ones who had the same blood...
They were all dead, and he was to blame. He couldn't even protect them.
He had been too caught up in the game. If only he could get everything back! How could Bran not see that his people would become targets? He could live with placing himself in danger, but they... They were blameless.
Ian sniffled.
"Papa...I should have fought, too..."
"You should have survived, taking care of your sister and telling the news," Bran cut him off.
Fight?
He should have foreseen it. Instead...
Idiot.
A stupid idiot.
His cheeks were moist. Was it his son's tears? His own?
At some point, Bran realized that he had been left alone with Angelina and Ian. Angelina?
The princess was by his side, kneeling and watching him. She was silent, not expressing her sympathy, not saying unnecessary words. She was simply there for him, and for Bran, it meant more than any promises and oaths.
"Thank you."
Angelina's eyes flashed.
"Wait until we talk to Richard. He'll probably give me a piece of his mind."
Bran didn't doubt that. Still, it's not like the prince would kill him. The rest didn't matter. And even if he did...
Death had already taken his family and kin. He wasn't scared of it anymore; there, beyond the veil, they were waiting for him. Well, other than his son and his daughter...
"Angie?"
Richard was late for the meeting. Sitting by the sea, he had forgotten the time. Lately, he had spent hours staring at that icy mirror.
If only those who left could return...
Angelina grew pale at the sight of her brother but didn't stop touching Bran and Ian.
The confused boy kept glancing back and forth between the strange lady and the prince. His father's son, he was smart enough to avoid saying anything.
Still, he was curious.
"Yes, Richard?" the princess echoed in an even tone.
"Do you want to explain something to me?"
Angelina shrugged.
"Should I explain something that's already obvious?"
Richard shook his head.
"Am I to understand that you regret nothing and aren't going to repent your sins or refuse your—"
"Richard!"
He tossed his head, looked at her again, and realized everything.
That's how Tira had looked at him, with love, Aldonai be damned! With the desperation of love that would be unable to overcome all hurdles.
Wouldn't it, though? It hadn't worked for him and would never work.
But what about his sister?
If he could turn back time and he knew what would happen, would he have married Tira?
Yes. He would have, and he would have taken her from the island the very same day—and never regretted it. It was too late for that, though. Unforgivably late.
"Don’t, Your Highness. I am the one at fault, and I will answer for that."
The prince had learned as much about Bran Gardren as that enigmatic man allowed to, but at the moment, all he could see in Bran's narrowed blue eyes was a reflection of Richard's own pain.
He had also lost the things he held dear, but he did love Angie. It was clear.
So if that's how things stood, there was only one choice.
"You are, Gardren. Do you love my sister?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
Bran wasn't going to dodge the question. There was no need to hide it.
Richard grinned.
/> "Then you'll have to make an honest woman out of her."
All three of them were blown away by his words, including the boy who sat down on the sand right where he had stood. Bran raised his eyebrows. Angelina opened her mouth agape in a decidedly unmannered way.
"Have...have I heard it right?"
"Did I understand you correctly, Your Highness?"
"We'll hold the wedding under Virman laws. The second time will be at sea. Captains have a right to perform marriages."
"Father..." Angelina couldn't gather her wits and thus picked arguments against marriage rather than for it.
"Will be furious, no doubt. He'll cuss at you, throw a tantrum, even banish you from the capital for a spell...but you'll be back in a year or two."
"B-back?"
"You'll need to present him with grandchildren. And Gardren, take heed: if you agree, you'll become a citizen of Ativerna. You'll get a title upfront, but I absolutely count on your skills."
Bran started shaking his head.
Holosh, you...
All Virmans knew that the gods loved having fun at the mortals' expense, but that seemed too cynical even for them.
On the other hand...
"Your Highness, if I am executed, will you care about my family?"
"Of course. It's my family, too."
Bran couldn't believe that was happening.
"You...really want to let me marry Angelina?"
"I did say that, didn't I? Gardren, I'm not the one to use words lightly."
"I'm no one. I have no title, no estate, not even a clan anymore."
"Do you love my sister, or are you trying to find an excuse to refuse?"
Richard could be quite heartless when he needed to.
Angelina was quiet. Sometimes, it was better to stay silent, especially since she had already made her stance clear. Let the men negotiate, and she'd use the results as she saw fit.
"Angelina is my heart and soul."
The princess smiled softly. When would she have heard such a confession if not for her brother?
"You're the chief of Clan Gardren. It's equivalent to a duke or a count in Ativerna."
"A chief without a clan..."
"Yes or no, Gardren?"
The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8) Page 25