Three Nights With the Princess

by Betina Krahn

  * * *

  Just after dawn the next morning, second and third waves of mounted horsemen attacked the western pass of Mercia and were driven back by a storm of arrows from Mercia’s expert marksmen. When they limped back to their camp, they reported yet another development guaranteed to befoul the dark duc’s temper: the Mercians had begun to fill in the pass with boulders and rocks.

  The news sent the duc into paroxysms of fury. He strode through camp with a studded whip in his hand, lashing everyone and everything that got in his path. When he saw several men being tended for arrow wounds, he struck out in senseless fury. His men went silent and taut and fingered their weapons as he raged.

  “They’re supposed to be soldiers, bladesmen—battle-hardened warriors. And they’re laid low by mere sticks of wood!” he roared. “Three assaults and all I have to show for it is a score of bleeding cowards. I won’t stand for this—there has to be another way into that rat hole!” He wheeled in a crouch and glared, wild-eyed, around him. “Scallion!”

  When the captain came running, the duc ordered, “Bring me that little Spanish worm—that scout.” He made a show of coiling the whip into one hand and stroking its metal-studded leather appreciatively. “Perhaps I can help him recall something more about that festering hole she calls a kingdom!”

  Less than hall an hour later, Juan the Spaniard was on his knees in a circle of men before the duc’s tent, wishing with all his heart that El Boccho had been the one to carry news of Mercia to the duc and claim this wretched “reward.” He trembled visibly as the duc’s long fingers caressed that lethal braid of leather. Juan the Spaniard was frantic, trying to recall something—anything that would pacify his employer. He rambled, tracing aloud their movements and discoveries from the time they reached the valley, most of which the duc had heard at least twice before. He could see the ominous twitch of the whip and knew that the duc was losing patience. Then he recalled their trek outside the valley, along the ridge of the hills, and remembered the cave they had stumbled across. And it came to him . . . a cave.

  “It was not much outside. I was smaller . . . El Boccho made me go in with a rope. I crawled at first, but then was able to stand. Some parts were only large enough for one man to go on hands and knees. Some places it was big as a cottage.”

  The duc was clearly interested. “And how far into the mountain did this cave go?” he demanded, searching Juan’s frightened eyes, obviously pleased by what he saw.

  “I do not know, mon duc,” Juan pleaded. “It seemed to go beyond . . . but I ran out of rope and had to turn back.” De Verville straightened and, for the first time that morning, calmed.

  “Well . . . this time, Spaniard, we shall see you do not run out of rope.”

  With a score of his personal guard, the duc himself took Juan the Spaniard up onto the mountain to search for the entrance of the cave he had explored so briefly. They provided him with tapers, tied a rope around his waist, and lowered him into the small opening. He called back information and the duc had two men follow him down and wait in the first large chamber they came to . . . to relay messages.

  Juan crawled and stumbled and flinched as he burrowed deeper into the damp cave. Only once did he have to choose a path. After a prayer, he crossed himself and chose the larger of the two passages. Again and again, he tugged on the rope to demand more slack, fearing each time that it would be snagged or cut by the rock and he would be abandoned there. But each time, after an agonizing delay, he was able to pull more rope. Some of the passages were small, some as big as rooms or even whole cottages. But finally the cave floor sloped up and he thought he glimpsed a dim light ahead.

  In fear and trembling he approached it, wondering if he had found the valley or the gates of Hell itself. To his surprise, the light became a steady glow and its source became a torch in a large, hewn-stone room. When he stepped out of the passage, he found himself in an alcove of a massive underground chamber, lighted by a ceremonial torch and filled with shelves and rolled-up parchments and chamois-covered scrolls—hundreds of them! It was an astonishing sight. And on the far side of the large chamber was a set of steps leading to a massive door.

  He made his way across the chamber and would have thrown the door latch, but at that moment there came a sonorous ringing . . . and a moment later a second, higher-pitched, tone joined in. Suddenly he knew where he was: under the church in the city. The caves led to the church in the heart of the city! He had indeed found a way into Mercia, and he knelt and said a prayer of thanks for the discovery that had just bought him his life.

  * * *

  Saxxe and Thera stood on the ridge overlooking the western pass later that afternoon, staring down at a force of at least three hundred mounted and foot soldiers. Gasquar, Lillith, and Cedric were not far away, speaking with the archers who guarded the pass and encouraging them to stay vigilant. Though they worked in shifts, the strain of the waiting and the ritual taunts of the soldiers below were wearing on them.

  Saxxe saw the troubled expression on Thera’s face and sensed she was recalling her time with the dark duc. He took her by the hand and led her away from the sight. When they joined the others, Lillith observed that the soldiers seemed to be waiting for something.

  “Are they laying siege, do you think?” Thera asked Saxxe.

  “It is always possible,” Saxxe said, rubbing his nonexistent beard from habit, then catching himself and smiling. “But not likely here.”

  “A siege only works when you can deprive a city of something it needs to survive . . . water, food, fuel,” Gasquar put in. “We have all we need of that, and they must know it. Nay, they wait for something else. They have large numbers. . . .” He glanced at Saxxe. “Perhaps they are building scaling ladders for a run at the cliffs.”

  “Also possible, though they would lose a great many lives. Scaling makes high casualties, and the men I saw were not overeager to die in the duc’s employ.”

  “Then it would appear,” Cedric contributed, “that we will just have to wait and see what they do.”

  They rode back to the city in the brilliant, sun-warmed afternoon. It was hard for Thera to believe that only yesterday she had been held prisoner in a dirty, smelly camp of soldiers by a madman bent on taking her body, her people, and her throne. She shuddered and looked at Saxxe. It was even harder to believe that bloodshed and violence were literally at Mercia’s door, and being kept at bay only by slim wooden shafts tipped with metal.

  It made her think of all the things she had vowed in the depths of despair, sitting in the duc’s suffocating tent . . . sick with anxiety over Saxxe and what might be happening to him. By the time they got back to the city, she was resolved on a course to seize royal prerogative and use it to make at least one of her dreams happen before it was too late.

  As soon as they reached the palace, she turned to Cedric and asked him to assemble the council straightaway. Then she led Saxxe and Lillith and Gasquar into the Great Hall, to the steps of the great double throne. When the councilors appeared, some out of breath, Thera mounted the steps and sat on the throne that was rightfully hers.

  “This day marks a turning point for Mercia . . . a time of change and uncertainty. And I propose to make at least one of those changes in a positive direction. I wish to marry Saxxe Rouen, this day, before my seventh night with him. I have declared my intention to spend a seventh night . . . why must I sleep with him again before I can speak the words of confirmation with him?” When old Fenwick made to offer one possible reason, she glared him into silence and went on. “Mercia needs a king and queen, the sooner the better. I believe Elder Audra will tell you it could only benefit Mercia. One prophecy is being fulfilled in these events; perhaps we can avert the consequences of another if we act quickly and in good faith.”

  “Well, I see no objection,” Hubert offered, “as long as she promises to spend the seventh night with him as soon as possible.”

  She glanced at Saxxe. with a smile. “I am certainly willing to promise
that.” And she could have sworn that he blushed.

  There were murmurs and puzzled head shakes here and there, but there was no objection raised, not even from Audra. Then Cedric asked for consensus and the elders raised their voices in a chorus of ayes. He turned to Thera with a beaming smile. “We are agreed . . . marry your barbarian, Princess. With all good speed.”

  “And the coronation as well . . .” Thera insisted. Cedric glanced at the other elders. Most seemed anxious at first, then, one by one, their faces lighted with wistful smiles.

  “Good enough. Then while the vestments and robes are out, we shall have the coronation as well!” Cedric proclaimed proudly.

  When Thera looked at Saxxe, there was an odd expression on his face, and she descended the throne to stand before him. “One thing remains.” She took a deep breath and knelt before him, taking his hand. “Will you do me the honor, Saxxe Rouen, of becoming my husband this day?”

  His face nearly split with a grin, and he lifted her up into his arms and hugged her with all his might. “Yea, I’ll marry you, demoiselle . . . Princess . . . Thera. I’ll marry all three of you.”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, the Mercian service of marriage, which was more the blessing than the binding of a union, was performed for Thera and Saxxe on the steps of the palace. All of Mercia looked on as Thera was escorted under the garlanded portico to join her life and the lives of her people to Saxxe Rouen. She glittered in the sunlight, resplendent in her white gown, coronet, and royal surcoat embroidered in gold. Saxxe stood handsomely beside her in a crimson tunic and matching hose . . . a gift prepared earlier by Lucian and the other tailors in anticipation of the royal nuptials. Lillith attended Thera, and Gasquar attended Saxxe, both dressed in their finest . . . though Gasquar caused something of a stir by refusing to leave off his weapons, even for so peaceful and dignified a ceremony.

  The couple knelt to exchange the promises of loving and honoring, and to receive the words of blessing. And when they exchanged the kiss of peace and were declared husband and wife the cheering went on for a quarter of an hour. Then Cedric called for quiet and the couple knelt once more, to pledge their joined hearts and hands to Mercia’s service. And when they rose again, it was, as Cedric proclaimed: “Queen Thera and King Saxxe, by the grace of Almighty God, rulers of Mercia.”

  With full hearts, Thera and Saxxe embraced, treasuring the warmth and power of the feeling between them and praying it would always be so. The cheering went on and on . . . until Cedric seized control and decreed the feasting begin.

  It was a most unusual feast . . . held, as the wedding and coronation had been, outdoors and virtually on the spot. With no real time to prepare, the people had been asked to bring whatever food they had on hand . . . and the broad garden terraces were filled with hampers and people on blankets and the music of merchants turned jongleurs. Thera’s cellars provided wine, and Genvieve and her kitchen legions emptied their shelves and ovens to provide a surfeit of food for the rest of the throng.

  Thera and Saxxe were provided chairs and a makeshift table for the meal, but spurned them to take their food on a blanket just like everyone else. For a time the peril that lay just outside Mercia’s hills was forgotten, and Thera’s joy and her hopes for their future flowed down the terraces and into their people like a clear, sweet river.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As the people celebrated in the sun and warmth, a ripple of darkness was winding its way into Mercia’s very heart, beneath their feet. In the core of the city, in Mercia’s beautiful church, the jewellike light that poured through the colored glass windows was being captured and held by the sullen black garments of the forms moving stealthily about the floor of the nave, far below.

  “Look at this place,” de Verville said, brushing the dust of the tunnel from his sleeves and staring up at the domed ceiling and brilliant windows overhead. “It’s a bloody cathedral . . . in all but size.” Shoving his way past a number of his men, he strode to the chancel, swung his spurless boots over the altar railing, and snatched up the sacramental goblets. “Look at this. Gold, encrusted with jewels.” He shook one in Scallion’s direction. “This place is a plum just waiting to be picked. And I intend to have it.”

  He tossed the goblets onto the altar with a clang, demanding, “How many men are through?”

  “Almost three score and ten . . . more soon. Some of the men have trouble in the small parts of the tunnel. It will be a while before we have a hundred—”

  “We won’t need a hundred to begin—”

  “But, seigneur—”

  “Now, Scallion!” The duc drew his sword quickly and the ringing echoed like a portent around the chamber. “I am eager to see what the rest of my new kingdom is like. Come!”

  He led them to the great iron-bound doors of the church, and at his nod, two men grabbed one of the doors and swung it open. They peered out, squinting against the bright light, then stepped into the deserted street and stared in amazement at the stone-paved streets, the trees, and the immaculate shops of the broad marketplace. As they stood in the square, gawking, they heard a whistling and froze. Around the corner of the shops, two doors down, came a burly, broad-faced fellow with a tankard in his hand. When he looked up and saw them, he blinked and stopped in his tracks.

  For a moment they stared at each other . . . Randall, the head smith, and the dark soldiers of the duc’s personal guard. Randall dropped the tankard, pivoted, and ran back toward the waning celebration, yelling for all he was worth.

  “Damnation!” the duc roared. “Don’t just stand there—after him!” As a number of them ran after Randall, he turned to the others. “Spread out—find the armory and the forge and torch them! You and you—” he pointed to Scallion and a number of his personal guardsmen—“come with me. I want to find the strumpet’s palace. When we take that from her, the rest of the place will fall into our laps.”

  “Soldiers! They’ve come—the soldiers—in the church!” Randall ran with all his heart. The palace was in sight when three of the duc’s men caught up with him and sent him sprawling to the ground. But his cries had drawn the eyes of citizens on a crossing street, heading back to their homes as the marriage celebration ended. They spotted Randall and the black-clad soldiers, and in a heartbeat went rushing back toward the palace to sound the alarm.

  Thera and Saxxe glimpsed the commotion from the terrace, and as the shock spread like ripples through the people, they charged straight toward the center of the confusion, hearing—“The soldiers, they’re here! In the church!”

  “Stay calm,” Saxxe shouted, “and do as we planned! Women and children—this way—through the palace and up into the hills!”

  “Archers to your roosts—staffmen and bladesmen to your posts! Run!” Gasquar roared, shoving some to get them started.

  It took only a few of the leading women, calling to the others, to start the stream of women and children toward the doors of the palace and the safety of the hills beyond. And with Saxxe’s and Gasquar’s determined example, the men calmed and recalled that they had prepared for this very thing . . . they had made plans and it was time to implement them. In the midst of the confusion, a man came running from the marketplace, calling for Saxxe

  “Where are they? How many are there?” Saxxe said as he intercepted him, supporting the fellow as he gasped for breath.

  “Didn’t see—many—they got Randall—coming from the marketplace—the church—”

  Saxxe sent a servant running for his armor and blades, and pulled Thera and the elders into the palace. “You must go with them into the hills,” he said, taking her by the shoulders.

  “I will not!”

  “Look, I don’t have time to fight both you and a dark horde!” he roared at her.

  “Then don’t!” she yelled back. And she grabbed his face and kissed him hard. “Go and fight—I’m queen here and I have a right to defend my own palace!”

  He wanted to carry her off and lock her in a ce
llar somewhere, but there was no time to spare. The page was shoving his weapons at him and she was already gone—issuing orders of her own to barricade the doors and windows once the women and children were through, and to gather the palace servants into the Great Hall. He strapped on his cross braces and blade and sank his daggers into his belt. With a last glance at her, he bolted for the door and the streets of his city . . . to defend his home.

  The young men grabbed their wooden staffs and the older men took up whatever tools of their trades might make for weapons . . . pruning hooks and pitchforks, hammers and cleavers. They snatched up barrel lids for shields and fire irons for clubs, and they assembled in small knots at the junctures of their streets, shoulder to shoulder.

  Where they found the invaders, they engaged them, using their odds of four-and-five-on-one, and harrying tactics Gasquar had shown them, to wear the intruders down, then to rush them all at once. Where they found no enemy in their own streets, they began sweeping toward the center of the city . . . the marketplace and the church.

  The sound of fighting filled the air as Saxxe ran through the city, but the bulk of the noise came from the main market square. He arrived to find Gasquar and a group of men rushing in to engage a force of professional soldiers that teemed like huge black ants, overrunning stalls and overturning carts, bringing down awnings and signboards.

  Spotting Saxxe and watching him draw his huge sword and charge in to do battle, the Mercians took heart and rushed valiantly into the fight against superior skill. Their numbers were in their favor, and their makeshift weapons were surprisingly effective. Well-sharpened scythes and sickles were as good as daggers and short swords when swung properly . . . pruning hooks kept a man out of sword’s reach and worked well on an intruder’s legs . . . and mallets and cleavers and even benches and planks were surprisingly serviceable when an enemy’s back was turned.