The Red Fox Clan

by John Flanagan

  “The King, my lady,” he replied and she recognized him as one of the men she had detailed to bring her father to the tower. He pointed toward one of the chambers set along the wall. “We put him in that chamber, my lady. It’s got a good bed and it’s nice and airy for him. He’s quite comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” she said, starting toward the door he’d indicated. “I’ll have a few words with him now.” Then she saw the doubtful look on the man’s face and stopped. “Is there a problem?”

  He shook his head. “No, no, my lady. He’s fine. Just, he’s sleeping at the moment and maybe we shouldn’t wake him.”

  She touched his arm gratefully. It was interesting to see the devotion and love that her father inspired in the men serving under him. Unlike Dimon, she thought bitterly.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Keep an eye on him and let me know when he wakes.”

  He knuckled his forehead in salute. “I’ll do that, my lady.” He stepped back and took up a position outside the chamber door. Cassandra turned back to the sergeant.

  “By the way,” she said, “what’s your name? I can hardly go on calling you ‘sergeant,’ can I?”

  The sergeant grinned at her. “Don’t matter to me, my lady. But my mam christened me Merlon. So that’s what I usually answer to.”

  “Merlon it is then,” she said. She sat down in one of the heavy wooden chairs around the command table and gestured for him to sit as well. He did so, a little awkward at relaxing so close to the Princess Regent.

  “Well, Merlon, we’re in good shape here. Plenty of food and water and weapons. We should be able to hold out indefinitely. Certainly until my husband and the Ranger Commandant get back.”

  “Yes, my lady. When do you think that’ll be?” he asked.

  She hesitated a second or two. It wouldn’t be good for morale if the men knew she had no idea what was delaying Horace.

  “Shouldn’t be much more than a week, I’d think,” she said, forcing a confident tone into her voice. She didn’t want to raise any immediate expectations, and now that Merlon knew their position was secure, the prospect of a one-week wait wouldn’t be too daunting. She was saved from further discussion of Horace’s whereabouts when one of the archers mounted the stairs, obviously looking for her.

  “Over here,” she said as he glanced curiously around the open space of the ninth floor. He turned and walked toward them.

  “It’s Captain Dimon, my lady,” he said. “He’s at the gap in the stairs and he’s requested a parley.”

  38

  “Better come with me, Merlon,” she said. “You should hear what he has to say.”

  Together, they retraced their steps down the ladder to the eighth floor, then hurried out the heavy door to the spiral staircase. The archer who had apprised her of Dimon’s request for a parley followed them, and now she recognized him as the man she had left at the gap in the stairs, with orders to shoot anyone who appeared round the bend in the staircase. She smiled grimly. Presumably, Dimon had called out before he showed himself, making sure he wouldn’t be an immediate target.

  They reached the gap. There was nobody visible at the lower end. She glanced interrogatively at the two foot soldiers who had remained on watch.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  One of them jerked a thumb downward. “He’s there, my lady. Just round the curve.” He grinned. “Don’t think he trusted us.”

  She smiled in return. “He’s no fool,” she said. Then she raised her voice and called down the stairway, her voice echoing off the stone walls and ceiling.

  “Dimon? Are you there?”

  There was a pause, and then she recognized his voice. He sounded quite close, and she realized he must be just around the elbow in the stairway.

  “Cassandra? I have a flag of truce here.”

  As she heard the words, a pole appeared round the stonework. A white cloth hung limply from it. The bearer waved it a few times, presumably to help those above see it.

  “So I see,” she replied.

  There was another pause, and then Dimon spoke again, uncertainty in his voice. “You’ll honor it?”

  She was insulted by the implication that she might violate a flag of truce. But then, she realized, it was the sort of thing Dimon would do. And if he would do it, he’d assume that others would as well.

  “Yes,” she said, the irritation obvious in her voice. “You’re safe. We won’t shoot. Although God knows why not.”

  “I need your word,” he said.

  Now the irritation in her voice was even more apparent. “You’ve got it. Stop skulking and come out in the open.”

  Slowly, Dimon emerged from behind the curve in the stairway, the white flag held in his right hand. He moved out into the center of the stairs and peered upward. He shaded his eyes with his left hand. It was dim in the stairwell, and neither of them was carrying a torch.

  “I can’t see you too well,” he said.

  “I can see you perfectly,” she said. “Get on with what you have to say.”

  “I’m offering you an accommodation,” he said. “Surrender and I’ll spare your life. And Madelyn’s as well.”

  She felt a surge of relief as he said the last words. She’d been half expecting that this parley would be about Madelyn—that Dimon would tell her he’d captured her daughter and would use her to force Cassandra’s surrender. Now it was obvious that he believed Maddie was in the tower with her. So she was safe—for the moment, at least.

  “You’ll simply let us go, will you?” she asked, the disbelief all too clear in her voice.

  “I didn’t say that. You’d be kept prisoner until I could send you out of the country. I’d want your sworn oath that you wouldn’t try to come back and take my throne from me.”

  “My father’s throne, I think you mean,” she said, and when he didn’t reply, she continued. “Why this sudden generosity, Dimon?”

  “I’ll have gotten what I wanted. My followers want a return to the male line of succession. Once I’m on the throne, that will have been restored. They believe having a female succeed to the throne is against reason and tradition and God’s law.”

  “I wondered when he’d be brought into it,” she said sarcastically.

  “I’m offering you your life. I’ll see you’re well provided for. You and Madelyn could live quite well in Gallica or Toscana.

  “Not Skandia, however,” he added. “Erak and his Skandians might not take too kindly to having you tossed off the throne.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked. “It’s a wonderful plan, but I don’t think my husband will stand for it once he’s back from the north. Nor Gilan. I doubt you’ll stay on the throne too long once they hear I’ve been banished.”

  He looked down, hesitating for a moment. Then he said regretfully, “I’m sorry to tell you, Cassandra, but Horace is dead. And Gilan.”

  An icy-cold hand clutched at her heart as he spoke. She couldn’t conceive of a world without Horace—big, powerful, cheerful Horace. He was a tower of strength for her. He was kind and gentle and caring. And he had never been defeated in battle. He couldn’t be gone. And Gilan too, with his ready smile and friendly disposition. How could they both have been killed?

  “I don’t believe it,” she said.

  Dimon shook his head again. “I’m sorry to tell you. I truly am. I really liked Horace. But that small band of rebels he went to shoo away was actually an army of a hundred and fifty men. They fought a pitched battle two days ago, and both Horace and Gilan were killed—along with most of their men.”

  He let her think about that. Then he continued. “So don’t cling to any false hopes that they’ll be back to rescue you, Cassandra. They won’t. And my offer is the best one you’ll get.”

  She paused, knowing that if she spoke immediately, the doubt in her voice would give aw
ay her uncertainty. She needed to sound strong, she realized.

  “I’ll need time to consider it,” she said eventually.

  He came back at her immediately, sensing the strength of his position. “Don’t take too long. As I said, my offer is the best one you’ll get, but it’s only on the table for a day. After that, we’ll drive you out of this tower.”

  “You can try,” she said. She was on firmer ground now, and her voice was more confident. “But we’ve got food and weapons and water. We can hold out here for months. You could die of old age trying to take this tower.”

  “We could burn you out,” he threatened.

  She laughed. This time, her reaction was genuine. “You don’t know a lot about the construction of this tower, do you?” she asked. “It’s mostly stone. There’s no wooden framework, and stone won’t burn.”

  “The floors are timber,” he pointed out. “They’ll burn well enough.”

  She sensed the sergeant glancing at her. She met his anxious gaze and shook her head to reassure him.

  “As I said, you don’t know too much about the design of this tower. We’ve got two huge water cisterns in the roof. And one of them has pipes running down to the lower levels. The floors are hardwood, so they won’t burn easily. And if you try to set them alight, we can simply drench them with water.”

  There was a long pause. Then Dimon replied, but without his former confidence. “And then you’ll have used up your drinking water,” he said.

  “Rain, Dimon,” she said. “The cisterns are filled by rainwater collected on the roof. And as you know, it rains quite often in this part of the country. Two or three nights of good rain will refill the cistern.”

  Dimon looked up at her. Anger was beginning to show on his face. He knew that the south tower was virtually impregnable—a small force could hold it indefinitely—and he didn’t have time to spend on a lengthy siege.

  Horace and Gilan were very much alive, even if they were contained in the old hill fort by the Wezel River. And he knew that situation wouldn’t last for too much longer. His forces there were becoming restive. Messengers had told him that they’d lost a lot of men—they’d been driven back with heavy losses each time they attacked Horace’s small force. Sooner or later, they would start to drift away. Mercenaries fought for profit, after all, and there was little of that to be found besieging a capable enemy in a well-defended position.

  He had hoped to bluff Cassandra—to make her panic and surrender with the news that Horace was dead. Of course, he had no intention of honoring his promise to banish her. Once she and Maddie were in his hands, he would have them killed.

  He faced her one more time, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  “I’ll give you a day to consider my offer,” he said. “One day only. After that, if you insist on defying me, you will suffer the consequences.”

  “I’ll give you my answer this time tomorrow,” she told him.

  He couldn’t resist one more sally. “If you’re as smart as you claim to be, you’ll accept,” he said. Then he stepped quickly into the shelter of the curving wall and she heard his footsteps receding down the stairs.

  She looked at Merlon and raised her eyebrows, puffing out her cheeks and releasing a long breath. She felt exhausted.

  “Well, at least we know one thing. He doesn’t have Maddie,” she said.

  Merlon scratched his beard thoughtfully. “That’s true.” He hesitated, not sure whether he should ask the next question, then decided to do so anyway.

  “Do you believe him, my lady?” he asked. “About Sir Horace. Do you believe he’s dead?”

  She shook her head. “I just don’t know, Merlon. It would explain why we’ve heard nothing from the north. But . . .” She hesitated.

  “But what, my lady?”

  “But Horace is not an easy man to kill. A lot of people have tried in the past, and it didn’t work out too well for them.”

  “So you think he’s alive?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “I think I’d feel it if he were dead.”

  But as she said it, she wished she could be certain.

  39

  There was a balcony running round the tower at the ninth floor, affording a panoramic view of the land below the castle. Cassandra was pacing it now, looking out at the parklands below and the forest in the distance while she pondered her situation. Several hours had passed since her conversation with Dimon.

  Immediately below her, she had a view of the castle courtyard. She could see men there, moving from the keep to the gatehouse and occasionally to the stables. On the battlements, she could see sentries standing watch.

  It all appeared normal, except that the sentries and the men in the courtyard were not part of the castle garrison. They were Dimon’s men. And now they were protected from outside attack by Castle Araluen’s massive fortifications. Even if Horace and Gilan did appear with their men, they would have no chance of breaking in.

  She leaned on the rough stone of the balcony wall and sighed bitterly. She was in a total impasse. She and her men were safe for the moment—and for the foreseeable future. But they had no way of breaking out, of driving the invaders out of the castle. They were outnumbered, and they continued to survive only by virtue of the well-planned defenses of the south tower.

  Where was Maddie? The question kept hammering at her. Ingrid had thought she might be outside the castle. But where? And what was she doing? Cassandra racked her brains, trying to think of a way of contacting her. If Maddie was outside the castle, and if Cassandra could get a message to her, she could head north and alert Horace to the current situation. Maddie’s Ranger horse, Bumper, was outside the walls, Cassandra knew, at the small farm where Gilan had arranged for him to be stabled. If Maddie could get to him, she could be at the Wezel River within three days.

  If, if, if, she thought. But even if Maddie could reach the Wezel, then what?

  Horace might be dead. At best, if anything Dimon had said was the truth, he was trapped in a hill fort, surrounded by a superior force. How would he break out of that trap? And if he did, he would still face the problem of breaking into Castle Araluen.

  But at least he’d be here, close to hand. And the thought of his presence was a comforting one. Besides, once he was back, he could raise the army from the surrounding countryside. In times of war, the relatively small garrison of the castle was augmented by drafts of men-at-arms from the farms and villages of the fief. Mobilizing them would take some time—perhaps a week or two—but he would then have a sizable force for Dimon to reckon with.

  The same inevitable predicament raised its head. No matter how many men he had, how could he hope to break into the castle? No attacker had managed that in living memory. Even Morgarath, when he rebelled against her father, had bypassed the castle. She laughed bitterly. It was an ironic situation. She and her men were trapped here in the tower, but relatively safe from attack, by Dimon’s men. They, in turn, would be trapped in the castle, but relatively safe from attack by Horace’s forces.

  And on top of that, there was still the fundamental problem facing her: Where was Maddie? The scenario she had just envisaged hinged on Cassandra’s being able to make contact with her. And Cassandra simply couldn’t see how that could be done. She heard footsteps on the balcony behind her and turned to see one of the archers hurrying round the curve of the tower toward her, saluting as he came.

  “My lady, Sergeant Merlon says you should come immediately,” he said, his tone urgent.

  She began to make her way to the door leading back into the tower.

  “What’s happening?” she said. She was puzzled. Dimon had given her a day to consider his offer. She assumed that meant he would try nothing further until that deadline had expired. There was the implication of a truce in his offer. But she realized, not for the first time, that Dimon could not be trusted.

&
nbsp; “Merlon’s not sure, my lady. But there’s something going on down the stairway. We can hear them moving. There’s a lot of whispering going on—and it sounds like they’re dragging something heavy up to the gap.”

  She ran down the ladder to the lower floor and headed for the stairs. Merlon and four other men, all of them archers, were standing just above the gap in the stairway, sheltering behind the bend in the stairs. The sergeant looked around as she approached, holding his finger to his lips.

  “What’s happening, Merlon?” she asked in a whisper.

  He pointed down the stairs to the edge of the gap. “Listen, my lady,” he told her.

  She moved out from the shelter of the wall and craned her head to listen. The sound of low-pitched voices floated up the stairway to her, echoing off the curving stone walls. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but there was a definite sense of urgency about them. Occasionally, a voice would be raised, resulting in urgent hisses for silence. She stepped back into cover, peering round the rough stone to look down the stairwell.

  “Something’s going on, my lady. They’re planning something,” Merlon said, his voice close to her ear.

  She nodded, frowning. That much was obvious. But what, exactly, did they have in mind? She held up a hand to forestall any further comment from the sergeant. There was another noise apparent now.

  It sounded like something heavy and wooden being dragged up the stone stairs. She could hear slow, deliberate footsteps on the stairs now, and the occasional grunt of effort from the men below. She turned to her archers.

  “Get ready.”

  They nodded. They all had arrows nocked.

  She stepped out again for a clearer look, ignoring Merlon’s warning murmur. The stairs below were empty. She could see the gap, with the yawning dark drop below it. Then the first three or four stairs below that. Then nothing.

  But the dragging sound continued, getting louder with each minute. Then it stopped and she heard more whispering. She caught the eye of one of the archers and gestured to the door that opened into the eighth floor.