by Clare Smith
Huge gates allowed the citizenry of Leersland access to the fortress to trade and work in there in daylight hours but only those who were invited entered the innermost keep. Should an army invade Leersland or insurrection take place, then the city would have to fall first before the fortress could be attacked whilst spears, arrows, boulders and hot oil would rain down on the attackers. It was little wonder that in all its long history the fortress had never been taken from the outside by force, and now, with Sarrat's added fortifications, the task would seem even more impossible.
"There are fewer guards on the castle walls than normal," conceded Jarrul reluctantly, "but there are still two of Sarrat's guards on each gate and others walking the ramparts. Whatever Tulreth says, I don't believe they’re just going to stand there and let us pass into their fortress unopposed."
"Nonsense, my dear boy, I may not be the king's favourite lord but he trusts me enough to make me the new fortress commander whilst His Majesty is away and I can assure you my guards and I are free to come and go at any time of the day or night. Now stop worrying and let's get moving before someone thinks to ask why I’m arriving at the castle at such a late hour when everyone knows that by this time I’m normally in bed with someone young and soft to keep me warm.”
Tulreth left the concealment of the side road and gave the waiting company of uniformed soldiers a brief appraisal. He needed to satisfy himself that the band of outlaws, exiled lords and King Malute's loyal supporters who he’d helped to clothe and arm did look something like the new city guard should and not the band of armed villains they really were.
Reasonably content with the disguise he climbed into his brightly lacquered palanquin with his household crest emblazoned on the side and waited for the Lady Tarraquin to join him. He’d bought her some clinging silk robes which showed off her girlish figure nicely and a flimsy veil to hide her more mature features. Tulreth could have been quite taken with her if only she had been twelve summers younger and a lot more innocent.
Tarraquin guessed his thoughts as easily as if they were written in a book and glanced at him in disgust. His perfume was sweet and cloying and she felt soiled being in the enclosed space with him. She fingered the hilt of the knife she’d hidden beneath the wide sash of her robe, fully prepared to use it if he touched her. The palanquin jerked forward and for a while her mind was taken up with fighting her nausea caused by its uncomfortable sway and the lack of fresh air. The sound of marching kept time with her thoughts as she reviewed their plans.
It was a daring enterprise, entering the keep disguised as Tulreth's latest pleasure child, surrounded by his personal guard. However he’d convinced her and her advisors that with Sarrat away, they would be inside and have control of the keep before anyone knew what was happening. After that it was a case of dealing with any of Sarrat’s remaining guards and proclaiming her right to the throne. If Tulreth was right the people would rise up and support her against Sarrat when he returned from the south.
The palanquin suddenly stopped and Tarraquin held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest as an unfriendly kingsguard pulled the curtain roughly aside to identify the late entrants to the fortress. He gave Tarraquin a quick look up and down and then nodded briefly to Tulreth, exchanging a few mumbled words with him before dropping the curtain and ordering the cavalcade onwards. Tarraquin looked at him across the interior of the palanquin, her eyes full of suspicion.
“What was that all about?”
Tulreth gave her his most appeasing look. "Don't worry, Your Highness, it was nothing, just the guard wishing me a pleasant night in your company."
Tarraquin turned away and through a small gap in the palanquin’s curtains watched as the gates creaked open. The cavalcade moved forward until they had all passed through the gates which slammed shut behind them. A sudden fear of being trapped made her shudder. Tulreth smiled condescendingly and patted her knee, which made her shiver even more in the confined space. The palanquin lurched on its way over the cobbles, moving through the streets of the fortress at a fast pace, unhindered by the push and shove of the usual daytime crowds or the nuisance of mounted patrols. With each step her apprehension grew until she almost squealed when Jarrul parted the curtains, his face full of concern and his hand nervously clutching the hilt of his sword. Through the open curtain Tarraquin could see others looking around them in a similar state of tension.
"There's something wrong," Jarrul warned. "It's too quiet and too easy."
"Of course it's quiet," snapped Tulreth. "Sarrat and his army are several days march away so the inns and barracks are empty; everyone is taking the chance to relax whilst they can."
Jarrul shook his head, unconvinced. "I've sent some men around to the postern gate just in case of treachery. If anything happens you know what to do."
For once Tarraquin didn’t argue but nodded briefly in understanding. Jarrul closed the curtain and studied the road ahead. Since leaving the gate through the fortress wall they had seen barely a dozen citizens and they’d moved almost furtively out of their way. Under Sarrat's rule that might have been understandable and the lack of patrols could have been due to a drop in discipline in the king's absence.
However, a number of roads leading to the keep had been unaccountably blocked by broken down carts or sacks of grain waiting to be moved into storage. The huntsman in him felt as if he was being driven into a trap so he gave the driver of the palanquin the signal to manoeuvre back towards the fortress wall. A hunter's instinct for danger made him draw his sword as he went but only an instant before the first arrow whined through the air and struck the lacquered wood of the palanquin just above his left ear.
Jarrul shouted a command which was all but lost in amongst the noise of drawing weapons, whining arrows and the screams of dying men. The command wasn’t needed; his men had already formed a protective cordon around the palanquin. It was a desperate situation with only swords and their leather surcoats to protect them against the flight of arrows from the bowmen who had been concealed behind a broken wagon.
With each flight of arrows men died and their ranks thinned until less than a dozen men remained to guard the palanquin. At the next road junction the foreign mercenary had taken six men to hold the road open and fought off a dozen soldiers trying to reach the palanquin but two of their number were already down and blood pooled around where they fought.
Inside the palanquin's confusion of cushions and drapes Tulreth had acted with remarkable speed for a man of his bulk, throwing a heavy fur wrap over Tarraquin's head and bearing her to the floor with his superior weight on top of her. For a moment Tarraquin couldn’t move or breathe with the fur pressed to her face, her arms pinned beneath her and Tulreth's knee pressing in her back.
She squirmed and tried to get her knees under her to lever Tulreth off but the space was too small and he was too heavy. A stray arrow pierced the throat of one of the palanquin's horses and with a terrified scream and flailing hooves the stricken animal reared across its partner and crashed to its side, twisting the palanquin over and crashing it to the ground in a shower of splintered wood, wheels and lacquer.
Tulreth was thrown sideways onto the shattered driver’s window and Tarraquin rolled free. In an instant she was on her knees but Tulreth had recovered and his hands clutched at her throat. As he squeezed she tore at the sash which had held her torn silk robe closed and pulled her knife free. Tulreth saw the glint of the blade and with his free hand dragged her loose robe from her shoulder to entangle the knife but she thrust the knife through the silk and into his groin, slicing upwards through his abdomen. Tulreth shrieked and clutched at grey entrails which spilt through his hands as Tarraquin leapt from the ruined palanquin and ran.
The huntsman heard the scream above the noise of battle and saw Tarraquin run away from the palanquin. Pushing back against the soldier he was fighting he gave himself enough room to swing his blade and slice his opponent across his face. The solder collapsed screaming and in the brief respite
he shouted to Perguine to follow the running figure. He watched as the thief detached himself from the street battle to chase after Tarraquin, giving her what protection he could from any other guards who followed.
Jarrul and the remaining men, many of them wounded, took shelter behind the palanquin and waited for the kingsguard to reform and attack in force. Both of the palanquin's horses were down and in their death agonies they had skewed the carriage around to block the street. Jarrul waited, catching his breath, knowing that the kingsguard would have to come over the barrier to get to him and then on to Tarraquin and Perguine. Every minute he could delay them was another minute more for Tarraquin and his friend to reach safety.
Three streets away Captain Gartnor heard the first screams of battle and cursed. The barricades they had set should have sent the traitors in his direction where he held the main force in readiness; instead it had led them where the rear guard were waiting ready to just mop up the stragglers. He drew his sword and yelled a command. His men rushed forward, pikes and swords in hand eager to join in the killing, knowing the price for taking the girl alive was promotion to squad leader.
They charged through the streets behind their commander ignoring who might be hiding in the shadows of deep doorways, alleys and those streets already barricaded. Quickly they fell on Jarrul and his hard pressed men climbing over the fallen palanquin and the bodies of the injured and dead. Jarrul shouted to his men to form a defensive circle but there were so few of them left on their feet that they could only fight in small groups back to back.
With his back pressed against one of the twins he parried an overhead blow which threatened to slice through his skull and then dropped his sword low to block a cut to his knees but, before he could recover his position, the man behind him fell to a sideways thrust and with his support disappearing Jarrul stumbled to his knees. He saw the blow coming but was powerless to stop it and the last thing he felt was the broadside of a sword crashing into the side of his head and a brilliant explosion of light before darkness overtook him.
Tarraquin had seen Captain Gartnor and his heavily armed force pass by from the shadows of a dark alleyway and would have followed them back to the fallen palanquin if Perguine hadn’t pushed her firmly back into the shadows and held her there with his body pressed against hers. As soon as they were out of sight he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in a stumbling run towards the postern gate. The men Jarrul had detached in case of a trap waited with drawn swords, some bloodied where they had fought with the three gate guards who lay in the shadows with blood on their uniforms.
For a moment she was tempted to send the men back into the battle in the hope she could save Jarrul and the others but from the look on their faces she knew it was hopeless. Thirty poorly trained and armed men against a hundred soldiers would be a waste of life and she owed Jarrul more than that. Grimly she turned and slipped through the postern gate and into the dark streets of the city; her men following as quickly and as quietly as they could behind her. One by one they slipped away into the side streets and alleyways from which they had gathered until only she and Perguine were left to escape from the city by an exit only known to the city’s thieves.
Guilt seemed to swamp her and she wanted to stay behind but knew she couldn’t. "I'm sorry," she stuttered, her voice broken with emotion as she ran. "I should have listened to you and Jarrul instead of thinking about myself."
The small thin thief by her side shook his head in denial. "Yer did what yer thought were best."
"Try telling that to Jarrul," she said despondently wiping the tears from her face onto the back of her hand.
"I intend to," he replied. "That's if he still lives."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Meetings and Departures
The lively breeze stirred the uppermost branches of the giant weiswald trees, bending the swaying limbs in ripples which spread across the forest canopy like waves on a beach. Leaves danced in the breeze, touching each other and jumping free to touch again with the next surge of wind. The muted noise of their movement carried to the forest floor where the sound of the breeze didn’t penetrate, making the shadowy spaces between the giant boles a mysterious place full of whispered secrets and dappled shade. Small animals skittered from tree to tree, made nervous by the rustling sounds around them and the movement far above, whilst sky flyers had deserted that part of the forest in favour of more settled realms.
Jonderill sat back against an ancient weiswald, his arms around his knees and his wood axe by his side. He rarely carried it into the deepest parts of the forest as the only trees he ever cut were the small silver leaf which grew near the cottage but today, for some reason, it seemed a natural thing to do. Perhaps after nearly four summers of using its blade every day to provide the cottage with firewood the axe felt like an old friend and he felt in need of a friend's comfort.
He moved his shoulders flexing the muscles which had grown hard from using the axe and eased away slightly from the weiswald. Its tough, gnarled bark had pressed deeply against his woollen shirt and had made uncomfortable indentations in his back. The ground was hard and dry beneath the swaying canopy and even the remains of last autumn's leaf fall failed to soften the stony ground.
Yet it wasn’t the physical discomfort or the deep forest chill which kept the smile from his lips or kept his pale green eyes fixed on the twig he carelessly stripped of bark. For days the feeling of hopelessness had grown within him, reminding him of how it felt to be a small boy rather than a grown man. The feeling had now culminated in this final misery which he could neither escape nor hide.
A dozen steps away across the small clearing the cause of his unhappiness and the source of his never ending joy, Rosera, picked red berries with fine delicate fingers and placed them carefully in the basket over her arm. Occasionally she licked the deep juice from her finger tips, staining her lips, which were darker and redder than any berry. Jonderill purposely refrained from looking at her, denying himself her beauty like some penance but he couldn’t ignore the sound of her happy singing, a simple tune he’d taught her last summer, and each note adding to his dejection.
If she had remained a spoilt and spiteful child or even the innocent girl who first awoke in the forest his misery might not have been so profound. However, for almost four summers they had gathered the fruits of the forest together, laughed at the antics of tree leapers and built a secure and comfortable home along with the two elderly magicians. Through all that time together he’d never told her of his love or even kissed her.
Now their time together was over he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the pain of watching her leave or of hearing the city bells ring out to proclaim her another man's wife. He closed his eyes to stop his tears falling until her shadow fell across his face and he couldn’t resist the temptation any more to look up into the most wonderful blue eyes and unsurpassable beauty. If he’d not been a grown man he would have wept openly. As it was he blinked and turned away, trying to push the memory of her soft hand in his from his mind.
"What's wrong, Jonderill, you look so sad?"
"It's just the sounds of the trees," lied Jonderill. "They're like the waves of a great ocean in one of Plantagenet’s books of places far away."
"Is that where you would like to be now, far away from here?"
"No," said Jonderill but his sigh sounded wistful.
Rosera sat closely beside him and leant against the tree taking his hand in hers. "Why do you stay here if you want to be far away?" Jonderill remained silent, staring at the ground. "Is it because you have found something here which you want for your own but don't know how to ask for it?"
She leaned forward placing her head on his shoulder so her golden hair caressed his arms and the smell of soapwort and skyflowers filled his senses.
"No," said Jonderill firmly, wishing his lying tongue would wither in his mouth. "There’s nothing here which holds me."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." She mov
ed slightly away from him and released his hand. "I thought perhaps I might have held an attraction for you."
"You know you’re like a sister to me," said Jonderill, still not looking at Rosera, despite the fact that she was staring at him with a look of anguish on her face.
"Sister! Sister! Is that all I am to you? Do you think that I’m just a small child who follows you around because you're an idolised big brother? Am I nothing more than that to you? Jonderill. Look at me! I’m a woman."
"Please don't," said Jonderill, turning away and looking deep into the forest shadows.
"Then I’m not good enough for you? Is that what it is, Jonderill? Am I so ugly that you would be ashamed of me or is it that I don't have your book learning and wit? Come on Jonderill, what is it, why don’t you want me?"
"I can’t, you're just a child," whispered Jonderill to the forest's depths.
"No!" shouted Rosera, jumping to her feet. “I‘ve seen almost sixteen summers and whatever you or my guardians say I’m a woman and the time has come to treat me as one. If you won't, Jonderill, then I’ll find someone who will."
Rosera kicked her basket to one side, spilling berries across the leafy ground and ran across the clearing and down the animal track which passed between the trees. Within moments she was lost from Jonderill's sight, hidden by the giant trees and their flickering shadows. In any other place Jonderill would have followed close behind in case she became lost but this was their home and they knew every pathway and clearing, every brook and rill. He knew the forest had a magic all of its own and that it would protect her and keep her safe until it was time for her to leave and return to the life she had been born to.
However much he loved her, it was of no importance. All that mattered was today, at sunset, she would return to Alewinder and once again be the Princess Daun instead of the gentle Rosera. After that she would become another man's wife. Jonderill slowly pulled himself to his feet. He had played his part in making sure Maladran's spell was foiled and had discharged his debt to the two magicians. Now it was time for him to go and make his own life and forget all about her.