by Jeff Wheeler
CHAPTER FIVE
Genette of Donremy
The Duke of La Marche was a free man. But everything he had, he owed to others. He had been given transport on a Genevese vessel bound for the Brythonican city of Ploemeur, and from there, he’d walked the uneven dusty roads on hot summer days for leagues and leagues wearing clothes belonging to another man, his feet shod in ill-fitting boots handed to him from one of his guards out of pity, equipped with a half-dull sword from a Ceredigion garrison.
His father-in-law, the Duke of Lionn, was still a prisoner in Kingfountain. He was an heir to the Occitanian dynasty, so no amount of ransom would be acceptable to the butcher kings of the East. Meanwhile, the man’s main fortress at the capital city of Lionn had been under siege for years and was still holding desperately like an anvil against the hammer of the Ceredigion invasion. If Lionn fell, the rest of Occitania would tumble with it. But Alensson’s wife was not in the war-ravaged lands of her father. She had taken refuge in the duchy of Vexins and was living in a small cottage in the village of Izzt.
This was Alensson’s destination. He admired the lush fields of berries growing in the mild climate of Brythonica as he passed through them. The farmers and pickers he met treated him with courtesy once they knew his name, and gave him leave to snack on their berries. Yet none had a horse they were willing to lend the impoverished duke to hasten his return to his wife.
The Occitanian court had been relocated to Shynom, deep within the kingdom. Alensson needed to see the prince, to demand he take action about Lionn and to volunteer to help, so he very nearly stopped in court on his way to Izzt, but he was desperate to see his wife again. He continued onward until he reached the sleepy village. The castle that presided over it was situated in a lush valley amidst green vineyards. Even the castle was green, from the ivy clinging to the walls to the green mold coating the slate shingles. Small square turrets rose above tall walls of varying heights forming a square. The castle was so secluded it had not seen action in over a century.
Some of the groundskeepers hailed him and told him that the castellan was visiting court at Shynom that day. But Alensson’s wife, Jianne, was waiting for him. They directed him to her cottage, which was connected to the outer wall of the castle, next to a porter door and a small hillock that defeated the purpose of the wall because someone could walk up the hill and jump over the wall at that back portion of the castle. Alensson shook his head in wonderment at the poor design.
The cottage was two levels high with a steep sloping roof, a single dormer window, and a few scraggly grapevines growing in the seams by the castle wall, only one of which was still alive and thick with leaves. Alensson paused at the door—even the brown wood was speckled with moss—overcome by emotion. His wife was the daughter of a duke. She should be living in luxury at the castle yonder, not in some moldering cottage that probably had a leaky roof.
When he heard the sound of humming on the other side of the door, he could hold back no longer. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, shifting and fidgeting as he heard the humming cease and the sound of footsteps rushing to the door.
He anticipated it would be her maid, Alix. But it was his wife who answered the door. When he saw her, his heart surged up into his throat, and all the years of separation, all the years of longing, all the years of misery broke with the sunshine. Jianne was shorter than him, her wavy hair so dark it was nearly black. She was not wearing one of her court gowns, but she looked absolutely radiant in a peasant frock, her sunburned arms and cheeks a testament that she had labored out of doors.
“Alensson!” she breathed, a sleeper awakened from a nightmare. She flung herself into his arms, and he held her, burying his face in the mane of hair at her neck, hugging and squeezing her as the years of anxiety sloughed away like old bark.
“Where’s your maid?” he asked with a grin, hugging her back fiercely.
“It’s market day at Cienne. It’s a long walk, so Alix won’t be back until supper. But look at you! Come inside!”
Jianne showed Alensson the small kitchen, the warm oven, the well-swept stone floor, and the spacious loft where the bed had been assembled by a local carpenter friendly to House La Marche. He drank in the sights, drank in everything about her. She seemed overjoyed that her husband was home, even if that home was borrowed. The small cottage had originally belonged to the porter who controlled the rear door. The old porter lived with his daughter now, and the place had sat empty until Jianne’s arrival with her maid.
Later, as they sat across from each other at the small oak table, holding hands, Alensson stared into his wife’s cinnamon eyes and said, “I swear to you, my love, I swear that I will make this up to you. This will not be your home for much longer.”
She caressed his hand with her thumb. “I care not for castles, Alensson. I care not for rings or jewels. You are here, and I would be content to live out our lives in this cottage. I’ve fancied our children playing by the oven there. I’ve fancied you pruning orchards with your sword instead of spilling blood. Would that the Fountain had blessed us with a season of peace. This war, I fear, will never end.” But from the look in her eye, he knew that she understood his restless soul, his determination to reclaim his lost inheritance. To pay back every crown she had borrowed on his behalf. “You must go to Shynom, my love.” She squeezed his hand. “And I will go with you.”
He smiled. “We will be welcomed there with great honor and respect. I heard your father’s city is about to fall to the siege. Is that true?”
Jianne nodded, her countenance darkening. “I fear I shall never see him again. The people lose hope. The Fountain has forsaken us. Perhaps because we have forsaken it.”
“We will go on the morrow then,” Alensson said.
She shook her head no. “I beg one full day with you, my lord husband. Before you plunge back into the war, let me have a day of you to remember. A day just to ourselves.”
And the look she gave him made him eager to honor her request.
They had to walk most of the way to Shynom, and they did so hand in hand. Although his boots still hurt his feet, the journey was more enjoyable with his wife at his side. Alix was a dark-haired girl from the Felt family, a distant kinswoman who rarely spoke, but she seemed delighted that Alensson was back to relieve her mistress’s worries.
There was something exhilarating about bedding down in the deep field grasses by the light of the stars. This was the life of a peasant. He folded his hands behind his head as he stared up at the sky, savoring the feel of his wife’s hand resting on his chest. His head was full of thoughts, full of ideas. It was clear to him that relieving the siege of Lionn was the right strategy. Why was the prince still in Shynom and not traveling between cities and rousing a larger army to break the siege? When Alensson had last met him, he’d judged the prince to be an overly timid man. He was quick to laugh and drink and share a joke, but he rarely ventured outside the protection of the fortress of Shynom, one of the most ancient castles of western Occitania. His realm was being held hostage by a small toddler from Kingfountain. But the youth wasn’t the enemy. It was the child’s uncle. There was such a stark contrast between Chatriyon and Deford. They were opposites of each other in so many ways.
Chatriyon needed a bold commander. Someone who was decisive and would take action. Alensson had failed at Vernay, but not through cowardice or lack of ambition. But how was he to persuade the prince to give him command of an army again? All this dithering at court meant that Deford’s army continued to hold and maintain the lands and cities he’d won years before. The Duke of Westmarch would fall. Alensson vowed it to the stars.
When he and Jianne reached the town crowded outside Shynom, they stopped at an inn to change for court. Alensson had carried their fanciest clothes in his pack. Jianne’s gown was not of the latest court fashion, and she no longer had any jewelry. But she was determined to make an impression, and Alix helped braid her hair elegantly.
Alensson chafed in the comm
on room, listening to the sound of rowdy drinkers. It was only midday, but many of the patrons were already drunk. He looked at them with disdain, his eyes darting from person to person. He was anxious to be on his way and hopefully get a command position, as well as a purse full of coins from his prince to reward him for his long imprisonment. He needed funds desperately. He needed a horse! He needed a decent sword.
What was taking Jianne so long?
There was a sudden commotion at the door of the inn. Alensson’s head turned toward the bright outside light, which flashed across the crimson tunic of one of the prince’s guardsman as he shoved a young man onto the floor inside the inn.
“If you come back to the gate again, I swear by the blood you’ll get a thrashing next time! Now go back to whatever town it was you came from!”
The guardsman sneered and then slammed the door of the inn, rattling the windows with the violence of the action. Some of the patrons started to guffaw as they stared disdainfully at the youth.
“He still won’t see you?” one of them jeered. “Should that surprise you?”
“Give it a rest. It ain’t no harm for trying.”
“Oy,” the landlord shouted, waving over the lad, who rose and rubbed his elbow. “I left a bit of bread at the table. But I told you they wouldn’t let you in the palace. Right? Didn’t I tell you? It’s unnatural. Get a bit to eat. Maybe you should be on your way.”
The youth gave him an angry look and then retreated to the table, sitting alone at the very end of it. Light from the window fell across its surface, reflecting white off the polished wood. A half-eaten loaf of trencher bread waited there on a plate.
She is a maid.
The whisper cut through the commotion of the room, striking the center of Alensson’s heart. It startled him, because it was not a spoken voice so much as a feeling. His whole life he had longed for the Fountain to speak to him. That it should do so inside this squalid inn amidst drunken men, and not in a sanctuary, made him wonder. Squinting against the stabs of light, he rose and started toward the youth. As he studied her face, he realized his mistake. This was a girl, maybe sixteen years old, wearing a man’s clothes. Her hair was shorn to her shoulders, but her face and hands were more delicate than a lad’s. The look in her eyes spoke of pain and disappointment, and a tear trickled down her cheek as she stared out the window.
He felt an inexplicable pull toward her, as if a river current were tugging him along. He did not know her name, he knew nothing about her, and his wife was still changing upstairs, yet he found himself pulling aside a chair and sitting across from this stranger who had been humiliated, not for the first time, in front of the folk at the inn.
“Why do you weep?” he heard himself say to her, leaning forward. The words just came from his mouth.
She looked across the table at him and then stiffened in surprise, as if she recognized him. “Gentle duke,” she said softly, “I weep because they will not let me see the prince.”
She had called him by his title. His attire was fancier than hers, to be sure, but a stranger would have taken him for a knight, not a prince of the blood.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked her. His heart began to hammer at the strangeness of the experience, but beneath it there was a deep, soothing peace.
“You are the Duke of La Marche,” she said as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you not know your own name?”
“Yes, but how did you know?” he asked her.
“The Fountain whispered it to me,” she said, gazing back at the window a moment. Then she reached across the table and grabbed his arm. Her fingers were surprisingly strong. “Will you take me to the prince? I cannot get past the guards. They treat me very rudely and drag me from the doors. They mock me.”
“Why must you see the prince?” he asked her in confusion.
Her dark brown eyes were piercing in their intensity. “Because I must obey the Fountain. It commands me to tell Prince Chatriyon that he is the true king of Occitania. He must be crowned at the sanctuary of Our Lady at Ranz. That is where the holy oil is. That is where he must be crowned to take his rightful place as regent. If he gives me an army, I will drive his enemies away.”
Alensson stared at her in disbelief, his heart immediately torn between disappointment and something brighter, purer. He had wanted to be the chosen one. He had desired it more than anything. And yet . . . this girl seemed lit from within. He had never heard someone so passionate, so full of purpose and determination. Could she be Fountain-blessed? She had known who he was without any introduction. Trying to balance his emotions, he fumbled with his words.
“Who are you? Where are you from?”
“My name is Genette,” she answered meekly. “My father’s name is Jeannow. I am from Donremy.”
“That’s a peasant name,” he said.
She let go of his arm. “I am!” she said proudly, almost defiantly. “Take me to the prince, gentle duke. I beg you. The Fountain has spoken to me. I swear this by all the saints. I swear this by the Deep Fathoms. I swear this as a maid. I am sent to bring the prince to Ranz and see him crowned,” she repeated deliberately, firmly, passionately. “You must take me to see him! If Lionn falls, all is lost.”
Her words throbbed in his skull and in his heart. She was not deluded. She was not some drunk babbler or pretender. He could see that in her eyes. And he felt as deep as his marrow that she was telling the truth.
He realized, with growing awareness and respect, that the girl sitting across from him was indeed Fountain-blessed.
“When did you—” he paused, nearly choking on the words. His words proceeded as a whisper. “When did you first hear it speaking to you?”
She blinked at him, looking at him boldly. “When I was but a child.”
As he listened, a spear of jealousy stabbed inside him.
CHAPTER SIX
The Vertus Prince
The kings of Occitania had always ruled from the royal palace in Pree, a thronging city full of the splendors of trade and the majesty of a realm that was ancient in its customs and rites. But Pree was held by Ceredigion, and its peoples cheered for the Duke of Westmarch now. How much of the adulation was genuine, feigned, or driven by fear was inconsequential. So the Occitanian court had moved west, beyond the rivers, woods, and ravines that protected the hinterlands, to the ancient fortress of Shynom. It was a piece of irony that it had been the stronghold of the first Argentine king centuries before.
Alensson found the troubled prince there. Chatriyon was the lawful heir of Occitania, but he’d been driven into exile following the defeat of Azinkeep. At Shynom, he was protected by huge walls of thick stone, and his courtiers only granted a royal audience to people who shared their beliefs and allegiances. Thus it was no easy task to see the prince. Bribes helped pave the way, but while Alensson had no money, he was a prince of the blood himself, a cousin of the nobility, and a young man with a reputation for courage that preceded him. No one else had dared stand up to Deford so boldly after Alensson’s defeat. He might have lost Vernay and brought trouble to the prince, but at least he had tried to do something. He was allowed inside the ballroom filled with lords and ladies dressed in bright silks and velvets. The ladies’ hair was coiffed with intricate headdresses, a fashion that was copied by their Atabyrion allies. The odor of strong wine hung in the air, and the clamor of loud laughter and debate battled against the musicians for dominance. The polished floor was made of white and black marble like a Wizr board.
The young duke worked his way through the throng, accosted every few steps by a butler offering him a goblet, which he refused, as he searched for his sworn lord.
Chatriyon was found in halfhearted conversation with two lords and a deconeus. He had dark hair that was combed forward, barely seen under a puffy, wide-brimmed velvet hat. He wore a red tunic with a fur collar that billowed out at the shoulders in a V shape, giving the illusion that he was a muscular man. His gaze darted to and fro above his pea
r-shaped nose as he listened to his companions. It was obvious he longed for an escape. His eyes widened with sudden interest when he noticed Alensson’s approach.
“And here’s the man himself, my noble cousin!” Chatriyon said good-naturedly, a genuine smile spreading across his face.
One of the lords, an older man with an earring dangling from his lobe, turned a dark look on Alensson. “He’s the one who brought her inside the castle!”
The deconeus pawed at the prince’s sleeve. “You must not speak to her, my lord!”
“A moment, a moment,” the prince said, batting away the man’s hand. “Cousin!” He reached out and took Alensson by the shoulders, gazing at him fondly. The prince was only half a dozen years his elder, but he had the haggard, harried look of a man nearly forty. “The Fountain delivered you! I heard about your release and had hoped you’d come to Shynom straightaway. Is Jianne with you?” He craned his neck, his eyes searching the hall.
“No, my prince,” Alensson said, grateful for the warm welcome. “She’s anxious to greet you again, but she is waiting outside with someone who has not been permitted to enter.”
The scowling lord stepped forward. “My lord prince, if you admit a peasant into your court, you will be a laughingstock! Send the girl home!”
Alensson flashed a glare at the older man. He recognized him as the Earl of Doone, though the man had aged quite a bit since he’d seen him last.
“You’ve seen her?” Chatriyon asked eagerly, looking at Alensson. “What is she like? They say she is dressed like a page boy. Isn’t that rather peculiar?”
Alensson shook his head. “Not at all, my lord. She did it for protection. The road from Donremy brought her past hostile forces. She was escorted here by two soldiers from a garrison along the way.”
The deconeus, an older man with a limp and a sneer, butted in. “She’s probably just a camp follower, my prince,” he said contemptuously. “Seeking to increase her fortunes among those of more noble blood. Like the Earl of Doone, I suggest you send her away.”