Three Nights With the Princess

by Betina Krahn

  It wasn’t gallant combat; there was nothing knightly about it. Barrels, broken boards, and beams stopped sword blows; dodging and retreating and tripping opponents were the rule; and an invader was as likely to be felled from behind as from the front. But, as Gasquar and Saxxe had told them, attempts at chivalry in such a mismatched melee would more likely bring them death than victory.

  In the thick of it all, Saxxe engaged two soldiers at a time and took them down, one by one. But it seemed as soon as he dispensed with them, two more charged in to take their place. As he finished off that second wave, he spotted two invaders in the open church door and charged after them. He battled them back inside the sanctuary and suddenly found himself facing four swordsmen. He spotted Gasquar fighting near the doors and called for help. But no sooner had they dispatched those invaders than they spotted more climbing up a set of stone steps that led downward from the sanctuary.

  They fought the intruders back down into a huge underground chamber lighted with tapers and lined with shelves and scrolls. When the second intruder fell, they stood gasping for breath, staring around them. Saxxe turned and was about to trudge back up the steps when a movement caught his eye, and he turned and charged full out with his blade raised. He stopped just short of hacking a slight figure, garbed in mailless black, who was cringing in an alcove.

  “Mercy!” Juan shouted, covering his head with his arms. “Don’t kill me! It’s them—there—in the tunnels!”

  Saxxe glanced at Gasquar and lowered his blade, growling, “Who’s in what tunnel?” He grasped the little wretch by the nape of the neck and gave him a shake. “What tunnel?” he roared.

  “T-there—” Juan pointed. “They come through the cave . . . the tunnels . . .”

  Saxxe released him and rushed to a darkened opening that was half hidden by a jutting wall. “A cave? From the outside?”

  “It explains how they got in,” Gasquar panted.

  “How they’re still getting in,” Saxxe said, seizing a candle and stepping into the passage. He stilled, and above the thudding of his heart he could hear the scrape of metal against stone and the echo of distant voices. “More on the way,” he said grimly, ducking back into the chamber. “We have to block this tunnel somehow!”

  He looked around desperately, finding only scrolls, wooden tables, chairs . . . and tapers. He ducked into the low tunnel again and glimpsed overhead beams . . . wooden beams . . . under strain. He lurched out and sheathed his blade. “Old beams, some split . . . if we can block the tunnel and set a blaze, it might collapse.”

  Gasquar knew instantly what he meant. It was a well-known tactic: firing tunnels to collapse them . . . sometimes used to bring down fortress walls. Saxxe seized the little Spaniard and pressed him into service. They hauled chairs and wooden chests, tables and piles of scrolls deep into the passage . . . packing them with combustible parchment. When they had a significant barrier, Saxxe sent the others out and used a taper to set the pile ablaze. He stayed just long enough to see the flames licking up the scrolls and catching the leg of a stool, just beneath an aged roof beam.

  “Even if the tunnel doesn’t collapse, the fire will keep them out of Mercia for an hour or two. That should give us time to deal with the others,” he declared, heading for the steps and the sunlight once again.

  Smoke was now drifting over the market square. De Verville’s men had begun torching certain buildings. But there was hope in the fact that there were now more Mercians left standing in the marketplace than black-clad mercenaries. The tide of battle had finally turned in their favor. Saxxe was about to plunge into the fray once more when he looked up and spotted a plume of smoke rising from the direction of the palace.

  Thera!

  “The palace!” He shouted to Gasquar, pointing.

  They raced through the streets, heartened by the sight of Mercians now in control of most of them. Castor and Pollux appeared, running up from the southern part of the city, their faces red and their eyes alight. They carried swords they had salvaged from fallen intruders.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Saxxe demanded, slowing but not stopping.

  “Things were dull at the passes, and when we saw the smoke we thought you might need help, Your Highness,” Castor said, grinning.

  “They fired the forge and stable and a few sheds,” Pollux added. “But Mattias got the horses out. The south part of the city is secure.”

  It was good news, but as they raced up the terraces they saw that the smoke was coming from the palace kitchens, and the dark duc himself was directing the firing of the main doors of the palace.

  “Dammit—where are those sluggards? We should have had at least another score of men here by now!” De Verville snarled at Scallion. But the captain was staring past his lord, and when the duc turned to see what had caused the man to pale, he began to quake with fury. Shoving several of his guards toward Saxxe and Gasquar, he barked, “Finish them this time, you cowards! The next time I see you you’d better be victorious or dead! The rest of you, come with me!”

  As Saxxe and Gasquar rushed in with blades raised, the duc wheeled and led a half dozen of his men toward the east side of the palace, searching for an entry. They found a walled garden and doors that yielded without much resistance. Striding through elegant bedchambers, the duc paused to feel the bed hangings, and his eyes glowed at the thought that soon all this would be his.

  “Check every door, every opening . . . we find and capture the princess, and the rest will be easy,” he ordered, waving his men ahead into the corridor. They formed a bristling cordon around him as they swept through the passages and chambers, anticipating resistance of some sort.

  But their passage through the east wing was unopposed, and with each empty chamber they encountered the duc’s confidence rose. “The Spaniard was right—they have no soldiers. We haven’t seen a single armed guard!” When they came to the Great Hall and spread out to check each arch and doorway, they quickly discovered the barred doors of the council chamber.

  “I think we’ve found where the rats have hidden,” de Verville said with a cold smile. “Break it down!”

  Thera and the elders and servants gathered in the council chamber watched the heavy doors shuddering under increasingly heavier blows. She had prayed that the duc’s men wouldn’t get this far. Her heart pounded as she glanced at Hubert and Gawain, who stood braced before them with ancient bronze swords in hand. She had to help! Casting about for something to wield in their defense, she seized a long iron candle stand and ordered the others back. Old Fenwick grabbed up another stand and shuffled grimly forward as well . . . just as the door planks began to splinter.

  The doors shuddered and shook . . . the hinge bolts gave way . . . and one door went crashing down. The duc and his men swarmed into the chamber with weapons raised and began slashing and hacking at Hubert and Gawain. The screams and wails of the women elders jolted Thera into action, and she swung the candle stand with all the energy of her fear and anger.

  Again and again she swung, always just a bit too slow to connect with a black-clad form, but managing to keep them at bay. Through the blood pounding in her head, she heard cries and saw Hubert crumple . . . there was a clang and suddenly Gawain lay on the floor, too. Then they came at her . . . three and four at once . . . or more. But all she could see was the duc’s burning eyes and his ugly sneer as he closed in on her.

  They lunged all at once and seized the candle stand . . . and after a frantic struggle, the duc’s hands dug cruelly into her arms. She fought, kicked, and screamed . . . but he managed to haul her hard against him. His arms tightened fiercely around her, and when she felt an edge of steel against her throat, her struggles slowed.

  “Now, my treacherous little bitch,” he said with a ragged sneer, “I’m going to make you sorry I ever laid eyes upon you.”

  Outside the front doors, Saxxe and Gasquar were still busy with the duc’s men. Castor and Pollux proved surprisingly capable bladesmen, though not quit
e as skillful with blades as they were with longbows. With their help, Saxxe and Gasquar were able to fight their way toward the gardens, where the duc and his men had disappeared. In desperation, Saxxe reached into his sinews for added strength and charged, hacking and slashing full out. His opponent faltered at his fierce cry and savage assault, and went down with the next stroke. Saxxe whirled on Gasquar’s opponent, then together they turned to help Castor and Pollux. Within moments, the last black-clad soldier fell and all was eerily still.

  They staggered for a moment, catching their breaths, listening to the muffled roar of flames at the far end of the palace and to the roar of their own blood. “This way,” Saxxe said, leading them back to the east gardens and into the palace through his own chambers. In the distance they could hear thudding and shouts that sounded as if they came from the Great Hall.

  But as they sped through the corridor, the pounding became splintering and cracking sounds, and the shouting became battle cries and shrieks of terror. They ran toward those chaotic sounds of fighting, but just as they reached the Great Hall, the noise abruptly stopped. They halted, searching the main hall . . . and found the doors to the council chamber hanging open, one splintered and half ripped from its iron hinges. They hurried forward, then halted just outside the chamber, listening.

  “Do come in.” The duc’s voice floated out upon the unnatural silence.

  When Saxxe and Gasquar stepped through the doorway, they saw the elders backed against the far wall by sword-wielding soldiers, old Fenwick crumpled on the steps, Hubert leaning against a chair and clutching a wounded shoulder, and Thera held captive in the duc’s arms . . . with a dagger at her throat.

  “I have been waiting for you,” the duc crowed maliciously. “You’re the one who was a guest in my camp . . . all too briefly. But I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” He pressed the dagger a bit tighter against Thera’s throat. “Introduce us, Princess.”

  “Saxxe,” she said with desperate defiance. “King Saxxe. My husband.”

  The duc trembled with sudden anger. “Lying, worthless strumpet! He’s a common dog of a soldier . . . a hireling . . . a mercenary!”

  “Yea, I was all of that—and more,” Saxxe declared, his voice borne on a current of controlled fury. The sight of Thera with a knife at her throat roused every nerve and fiber of his body to a killing rage. “But as of this day I am Thera’s husband and king of this good land. If you would have my throne, you motherless bastard . . . you must come and take it from me.”

  He raised his blade tip, curled his huge shoulders forward into a stalking crouch, and beckoned the duc with his free hand.

  The duc hesitated, his eyes darting to his captain and then to his men, who watched him even as they watched their prisoners. His lip curled and he straightened regally. “I’ll not sully my hands with a piece of refuse like you,” the duc snarled. “Take him, Scallion.”

  For a moment, there was hardly a breath taken or expelled in the chamber. Saxxe had issued a personal challenge, and the duc had passed it off to a subordinate. The captain, understanding better than his lord that rank had no part in this, hesitated and circled his sword tip, then charged . . . but at Gasquar, not at Saxxe. The other soldiers wheeled to face Castor and Pollux, and the chamber rang with the sound of steel on steel.

  “You let others do your fighting for you!” Saxxe taunted with a sneer, stalking closer, beckoning, trying not to look at Thera’s agonized blue eyes or be distracted by the sounds of fighting. “Perhaps you only have stomach for watching other men fight and die in your stead.” He saw the duc’s eyes flicker . . . saw him wet his lips . . . saw the sweat popping on his brow. And he added one last goad. The perfect taunt.

  “Coward.”

  The duc flung Thera to the floor and roared at Saxxe with desperate fury. Saxxe’s eyes fell to Thera and his heart convulsed, not knowing if the duc had cut her. But a moment later the duc’s blade came crashing down on his and he was jolted back to the deadly ring of steel and the vibration of the blow up his arms.

  The duc bore in on him, hacking and downcutting with deadly fury. Saxxe countered defensively at first, slinging the blows aside while retreating and gathering himself. Then, after a few exchanges, his battle-honed reflexes snapped back from the shock of seeing Thera go down. And his rage erupted, crackling through the edge of his blade, discharging in a stream of lightning-force blows that sent the duc staggering.

  They lunged and swung, dodged and hacked, coming hilt to hilt again and again, then breaking apart and swinging again. The duc’s blade tip edged just a bit too close, and Saxxe’s fatigue-slowed response was just a bit too slow . . . the duc drew first blood.

  But the pain fired Saxxe’s determination, and once more he reached deep into his reserves for a last burst of power that would finish his opponent. With barbarian rage welling in his blood, he let go a cry that was half battle cry, half animal roar and charged in for the kill. The duc’s blade faltered at that unearthly sound, and the fighting beast that Saxxe had become for that moment tore through his last parry and sent his blade slicing through the duc’s black heart.

  For a terrifying moment, the duc stood, suspended by surprise . . . then his blade toppled from his hand and he crumpled into a heap. The sense of their lord falling threw Scallion and the others into a desperate rally. But their cause was lost. The captain and his men fought recklessly, but before long they lay on the floor as well. The echoes of steel and the cries of falling men reverberated in the chamber, then died away.

  Saxxe staggered about to find Thera shoving to her feet. “Thera—” he cried hoarsely. Dropping his blade with a clang, he lurched toward her. She met him with open arms and they embraced with desperate force.

  A tumult of relief broke out around them . . . tears, frantic voices, and heartfelt prayers. The elders rushed to see to Hubert and Fenwick, leaving Thera and Saxxe alone for a moment.

  Thera’s heart seemed to be skipping beats, and tears were burning down her face. Saxxe felt so warm and solid, and she could hear the powerful and reassuring thudding of his heart. When he started to push her back to look at her, she shook her head.

  “No,” she said against his chest, pulling him close again. “Just hold me . . . and let me hold you.”

  * * *

  “There is more to do, Thera,” he whispered finally, setting her back. She took a deep breath, wiped away her tears, and squared her shoulders.

  With weapons drawn, Saxxe and Gasquar led a sweep through the palace, looking for stray soldiers. There appeared to be little damage, and they found no evidence of more intruders until they neared the kitchens. Smoke hung in the air and strange banging and ringing noises, and what sounded like muffled screams, billowed along the corridor, halting them on the steps leading down to the kitchens. Saxxe and Gasquar waved Thera and the others to stay behind and motioned Castor and Pollux to the other side of the corridor. They crept forward, listening to the grim sounds, then at Saxxe’s signal rushed through the doors with their blades raised.

  Their battle cries died, mere gurgles in their throats, and they lowered their swords in astonishment at the sight that greeted them. There, in the middle of the smoky, fire-damaged kitchen, stood the sooty but still formidable Genvieve with her sleeves rolled up and a long wooden bread paddle in her hands. Around her were her half-drenched kitchen folk bearing fire irons, brooms, and buckets. On the floor, at her feet, were four of the duc’s men, trussed and sitting with their backs to each other . . . large metal pots and iron kettles overturned on their heads.

  “This’ll teach you murderin’ thievin’ scum . . . try to burn my kitchen, will you,” she growled, letting go with a swing that set two of the kettles ringing over the soldiers’ heads so that they howled and begged for mercy.

  Saxxe stared at the inventively vengeful cook, then at Gasquar, in astonishment . . . and began to laugh. Genvieve turned with fire in her eyes, but when she saw Saxxe and Gasquar and Thera, she reddened and dropped a polite bo
w.

  “Everything’s under control here, Yer Graces. This lot won’t be causin’ no more mischief . . . not after we get done with ’em.”

  “Of course they won’t,” Saxxe said to Thera as they headed outside, laughter purging some of their tension. “They’ll be deaf as posts!”

  With the palace secured, Saxxe and Thera hurried to the main doors and joined a number of the elders standing on the terrace, looking out over the city. Thera gasped at the pall of smoke that had spread over the southern section, and Saxxe drew her tight against his side.

  “It looks worse than it is,” he assured her. “Castor said they fired the forge and stables, but that Mattias got the horses out in time.”

  Thera nodded grimly, trying to focus on the fact that most of the city had escaped damage. But as the wind shifted, it became clear that a significant part of the smoke was coming from the main market square. And as they searched the rooftops, she realized what was happening even as Cedric pointed and called out: “The church—the church is on fire!”

  They rushed into the city streets with the elders close behind. The closer they came to the square, the more the streets were littered with debris—broken furnishings, splintered wood, crumpled bodies of soldiers in black mail. And here and there were Mercians being tended by others . . . or helped to their feet. Thera stopped by each to see how they were and found only one dead and few seriously wounded.

  With grim relief, she pressed on toward the square. Suddenly there was a great rumbling all around . . . which seemed to come from under the ground itself. They stopped just steps from the market square, staring at each other and at the vibrating houses in astonishment. There was a deafening roar, and for a terrifying instant the air filled with hot billows of smoke, dust, and ash. Saxxe grabbed Thera and pulled her against a nearby wall, shielding her with his body. But moments later, as the rumbling stopped and the air cleared, he released her, took her hand, and ran with her toward the marketplace.