The Promised Lie

by Christopher Nuttall

  He’ll just have to assert himself, she thought. Prince Reginald was mature enough to realise that some people were just stronger, physically or magically, than others. Being overwhelmed by a woman had been humiliating – men were less sore about losing to other men – but he’d just have to get over it. And besides, hardly anyone knows the truth.

  Prince Reginald sat. “Be seated,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”

  He nodded to Caen, who unfurled a map and placed it on the table. Isabella studied it carefully, reminding herself – once again – that the local mapmakers hadn’t bothered to aim for accuracy. They had the shape of the island correct, she thought, but the land looked oddly stretched. It looked as though one could walk from Racal’s Bay to Allenstown, while the distance between Allenstown and Georgetown was incomprehensibly vast. And a number of mountain ranges were missing.

  At least we have a rough idea where everyone is, she told herself. A number of noble estates had been marked in green ink. And we know better than to take the map for granted.

  “Before we begin,” Prince Reginald said, “is there anything we need to consider?”

  Gars leaned forward. “Your Highness,” he said. “There has been grumbling amongst the troops.”

  “Indeed there has,” Lord Robin agreed. “I’ve heard a number of complaints about payment.”

  Prince Reginald scowled. “The majority of the payment is due upon discharge,” he said, stiffly. “The campaign is not yet over.”

  Isabella winced. She understood the prince’s reasoning – it was better to owe money, knowing the mercenaries would stick around long enough to collect their pay – but she also understood how her comrades felt. They’d want solid proof that the prince intended to pay them, sooner or later. And if they were starting to think that the campaign was already over ...

  “It isn’t just payment,” Gars said. “It’s the shortage of entertainment. And the weather.”

  “There isn’t much we can do about the weather,” Prince Reginald said. “And what sort of entertainment are they expecting?”

  “Wine, women and song,” Lord Robin said. “Right now, a good four-fifths of our men are in the camps. That isn’t conductive to morale.”

  Isabella winced. She’d never liked the camps either. Normally, war leaders were smart enough to put on entertainment for the troops – alcohol and brothels, in particular – but Allenstown didn’t have much in the way of either. The alcohol had been poured away when the city was occupied. Prince Reginald hadn’t wanted his troops to get drunk and ransack the place. And there was nothing to be gained, anyway, by sacking Allenstown.

  Prince Reginald lifted his eyebrows. “Would you advise me to hand out some of the captured gold? Or tell the troops that they can loot, rape and kill at will?”

  “No,” Lord Robin said. “I would advise you to pay them an advance on their wages.”

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Isabella felt a flicker of sympathy for both of them. A down payment wouldn’t satisfy everyone, but it might put a curb on the grumbling for a few weeks. More money meant more entertainment ... at least until the money was spent or simply gambled away. She had no doubt that the army’s card sharps were already licking their lips in anticipation. She’d once lost half a month’s pay because she’d been too stubborn to realise that her opponent had slanted the odds in his favour.

  “It will be done,” Prince Reginald said, finally. His eyes swept the table. “Are there any other issues of importance?”

  There was a pause. No one spoke.

  “Very well.” Prince Reginald pointed to the map. “As you can see, I have received submission and homage from nearly all of the southern lords, including Earl Oxley. A handful have refused to submit. Accordingly, their lands will be confiscated and parcelled out.”

  Isabella kept her thoughts to herself. The owners – the former owners – would be driven into rebellion, but there would be little hope of recovering their lands even if Prince Reginald was driven out of the Summer Isle. Their peasants would hardly fight for the masters, not when there was nothing to gain by risking their lives. It wasn’t as if anything would change for them. And the new owners would have every incentive to support the prince until they put down roots.

  “It isn’t enough,” Caen said. “Your Highness ...”

  “I know,” Prince Reginald said, cutting him off. His hand drew a line on the map. “We have received fewer submissions from the midlands – and none whatsoever from the north. Earl Goldenrod has ignored my summons, as has Earl Hereford ... the new Earl Hereford. He has good reason not to show his face” – he smiled, rather cruelly – “but Earl Goldenrod has no excuse. And nor do any of the northern noblemen. Their lands will be confiscated too.”

  You didn’t give them much time, Isabella thought. He’s not going to give up his lands without a fight.

  She winced, inwardly. It was an old trick, one that the Golden City had banned centuries ago. A man could be punished for refusing a summons from his overlord, but he had to be given a reasonable chance to make the deadline. Earl Goldenrod might not even have heard the summons before time ran out. She scowled as she remembered one of her father’s nastier tricks. Ban or no ban, he’d done the same to some of his clients. No one had dared report him to the Grand Sorcerer. He had been too powerful to challenge openly.

  “Accordingly, we will be marching north within the week,” Prince Reginald continued, calmly. “We’ll mass our supplies here, then advance north to Rupert. There are a number of noblemen who haven’t submitted there, so we’ll deal with them while preparing to leapfrog forward again. We don’t know what happened to the remainder of the usurper’s army, so we’ll be sure to leave strong garrisons here and at Racal’s Bay. It would be very embarrassing if we were to lose either of the cities while we were on the march.”

  A chuckle ran around the room. It would be embarrassing. It was difficult, perhaps impossible, to force a confrontation in open countryside unless both sides chose to offer battle. The side that wanted to evade could almost always find options, unless they were trapped against a river or otherwise pinned in place. But Allenstown would be sure to lure the enemy like a magnet. And so would Racal’s Bay.

  Racal’s Bay might even be more important, she thought, as she studied the map. It’s the place we land our supplies. We’d have to live off the land if we lost access to the sea.

  She wondered, sourly, just what the previous kings had been thinking. Racal’s Bay and Georgetown were the only two cities with access to the sea, even though there were plenty of towns and villages that could have been upgraded into full-scale ports. Hell, there were hundreds of fishing communities along the coastline. But easier access to international trade would have brought problems as well as opportunities, she supposed. Serfs might hear radical ideas such as fair wages, free trade and an end to the nobility, and grow restless. The Summer Isle apparently had a long history of brutal peasant rebellions, often put down with even greater brutality. Contact with the outside world might make matters worse.

  But only for the former rulers, she thought. Prince Reginald will have to change that if he wants to turn the island into a prosperous colony.

  “Obviously, we will have to adapt our tactics to the situation,” Prince Reginald informed the council. “Does anyone have any comments?”

  Lord William raised a hand. “Your Highness ... is it truly wise to push the earls into open revolt?”

  Prince Reginald tilted his head. “I’m not going to allow them to defy me,” he said, curtly. “I will not become another King Edwin.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Lord William said. “But they did not have time to respond to your message.”

  “They had enough time,” Prince Reginald growled.

  It was a lie, Isabella knew. And the others knew it too. How could they not?

  “We could also offer decent terms to the Herefords,” Lord William persisted. He tapped the map. “Your Highness, a lon
g campaign into their lands risks everything.”

  He had a point, Isabella conceded. But she could also see Prince Reginald’s point. On the one hand, he needed to punish the Herefords for ignoring King Romulus’s claim to the Summer Isle; on the other, he needed confiscated lands to reward his followers. Setting an impossible deadline for Earl Goldenrod was little more than a transparent attempt to forge an excuse to confiscate his lands. And, oddly enough, it might even convince people outside the Summer Isle. They wouldn’t understand how bad the roads were between Allenstown and the Goldenrod Lands.

  “There are no terms that can be offered to usurpers,” Prince Reginald said. “Havant Hereford has been declared outlaw. The man who brings me his head will be richly rewarded.”

  And you can marry his sister off to a man of your choice, Isabella thought, coldly. She doubted it was a good idea, but she could see the logic. The only problem would be keeping the wretched woman under control. She didn’t think that was possible. The Red Monks might be able to interfere with a slave collar or a compulsion spell. Or you could execute her and then divide up the lands between your supporters.

  “He could be sent into exile,” Lord William said.

  “As long as he is alive, he is a threat,” Prince Reginald snapped. “Or do you think that my father’s enemies won’t hesitate to use him against us?”

  Just like your father armed King Edwin and sent him back to cause trouble, Isabella thought, wryly. You’re afraid of someone else doing it to you.

  “And there is an unknown magic here,” Lord William said. “Surely, we should be careful.”

  “We also cannot afford to sit here and wait,” Prince Reginald said. His voice dripped contempt. “Or do you think we can campaign in winter?”

  He looked around the table. “I want the supplies brought up from Racal’s Bay as fast as possible, followed by a redeployment for a hasty march north to Rupert. The troops will be given a down payment, which they can try and spend in the next two days. After that ... we’ll be on our way.”

  Isabella nodded slowly to herself. She understood the prince’s logic – and his need to keep the army occupied. Grumbling could easily turn into mutiny, if the officers failed to keep it under control. An army of mercenaries that didn’t have an obvious threat to fight – or an objective to reach – was one that could turn sour very quickly. And yet, with an unknown threat in the countryside, she wasn’t sure that going forward was the right idea.

  And I listened to everything Kingsley had to say, she thought. Even after some proper food – and rest in a proper bed – Kingsley’s stories had ranged from odd to unbelievable. I just don’t know how much of it was real.

  “Lady Isabella, please remain behind,” Reginald said. “Everyone else ... dismissed.”

  Isabella studied the prince as the room rapidly emptied, leaving them alone. He looked ... tired, but enthused. The prospect of action was doing him good, even if it was likely to turn into a brutal slog into Earl Goldenrod’s lands. He was right about moving quickly, no matter what Lord William said. The autumn rains – not to be confused with the summer rains – and winter snows would put an end to campaigning before spring. And the gods alone knew how much mischief the Red Monks could produce if they were left alone.

  “You’ll be accompanying the army,” Reginald said. “We’ll do everything in our power to capture one of the Red Monks.”

  “Understood,” Isabella said. “I’d also like to question the villagers as we head north.”

  “And see what they have to tell us,” Reginald said. “Will they tell us anything?”

  Isabella shrugged. Villagers rarely talked to strangers, particularly strangers in the vanguard of an invading army. But she had ways of making people talk. A couple of spells could loosen lips ... and if the villagers proved resistant, she’d know she was on the right track. She just wished she had another sorcerer to back her up. Even her father would have been more than welcome.

  He’d probably be trying to take over the army, she thought, wryly. Or bossing everyone around.

  She pushed the thought to one side. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, somehow,” she said, although she was starting to feel more than a little frustrated. She understood the laws of magic, but the Red Monks seemed to defy them. The idea that there might be things out there that were beyond her comprehension was irritating as hell. “I trust you slept well over the last few days?”

  Reginald looked ... haunted, just for a moment. “Well enough,” he said. “Thank you for your help.”

  “You’re more than welcome,” Isabella said. Keeping the prince alive was important. The army would shatter without him. “Just remember what I said about Emetine.”

  The prince sighed. “You understand the logic,” he said. “I need to keep her alive.”

  “Perhaps.” Isabella rolled her eyes in a manner that she knew was strikingly childish. “Or perhaps there’s more to gain by simply executing her.”

  “She’s a bargaining chip, right now,” Reginald countered. His voice was firm. “We cannot simply throw her away, not as long as her brother is alive.”

  Isabella snorted. “I feel sorry for whoever you marry her off to.”

  “Me too,” Reginald said. “But I do have a use for her.”

  “As long as she doesn’t put a knife in your back,” Isabella said. She wasn’t sure why she was surprised. Noblemen had always been reluctant to kill other noblemen – and noblewomen were almost always spared the noose. It simply wasn’t done. But it was also hypocritical as hell. She had no idea how many men and women had been killed in the wars, over the last five years, but she was sure it was in the millions. “Watch yourself.”

  “You too,” Reginald said. “You too.”

  He gave her an odd little smile. It made her wonder, suddenly, if he might be attracted to her. It was an odd thought – it wasn’t as if she was the picture of a noblewoman – but ... she shook her head, dismissing the thought. Reginald was nice to look at, she supposed, yet ... they were from very different worlds. He wouldn’t like the idea of a wife who had more power than him. Emetine had shaken him badly ...

  And you’re too tired for your own good, she told herself, as she headed for the door. You’re thinking nonsense.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I’m surprised you joined us, Your Majesty,” Captain Floras said. His white teeth gleamed in the darkness. “I thought you’d be busy with your wife.”

  Havant shrugged. The risks of joining the raid were immense, particularly as his brother was dead and Emetine was a prisoner. There were no successors waiting in the wings – except, perhaps, Earl Goldenrod – if Havant was felled by a lucky blow. But it was important, now more than ever, that he proved himself willing to share the risks. His men knew he’d been weakened. He couldn’t let them think he’d lost his nerve.

  “It has to be done,” he said. Riding cross-country had been dangerous, but it had also been exhilarating. He’d enjoyed it even though he knew that danger lurked at the end of the ride. “Are we ready?”

  Floras waved to the small collection of horsemen waiting in the clearing, a short distance from the road. “We’re ready,” he said, once he’d handed out the flamers. “We can go on your command.”

  Havant smiled. “Go.”

  He spurred his horse down towards the roadside, cursing the enemy army under his breath as the beast picked its way through the mud. The enemy probably hadn’t intended to tear the road to shreds, but the passage of ten thousand men – or thereabouts – had done a lot of damage. Paving stones, already weakened by years of neglect, had been pushed out of place, allowing the rain to soak into the foundations. Men might be able to move down the road at a healthy clip, but parts of it were almost impassable to carts and horses. Given time, it might slow the enemy reinforcements down to a trickle without his troops ...

  Too much to hope for, he thought, as the small force picked up speed. And besides, we have to show that we can still fight back.<
br />
  He glanced upwards, hoping and praying for fog. The enemy would outnumber them, probably. Speed and surprise were their only advantages and neither one was likely to last very long. Nor was the road, he supposed. But then, it wouldn’t be long before Prince Reginald started forcing the local peasants to leave their fields and start repairing the road. The peasants – worthless bastards to a man – would do as little as possible, but their work might last long enough to let Reginald bring his supplies to Allenstown.

  The enemy camp came into view in the moonlight, pitched by the side of the road. It was larger than Havant had expected: several dozen carts, a handful of tents and a number of horses tied to wooden stakes, either grazing or sleeping. Havant clutched his flamer in one hand as the force picked up speed, charging right towards the enemy camp. A pair of sentinels shouted the alarm, but it was already too late. Havant and his men were upon them.

  “Fire,” Flores shouted.

  Havant picked a target – a cluster of carts – and threw the flamer as hard as he could. It struck the nearest cart and burst into flames, which spread rapidly from cart to cart. Night turned to day as more flamers were hurled into tents, one even striking the horses. Havant felt a flicker of regret – horses were valuable in a way peasants were not – which was lost in the exultation of a successful attack. The presence within him thrilled with excitement and glee as the unbelievers ran in all directions, some screaming helplessly as they burned to death. Hark had delivered more than he’d promised, Havant thought, as he ducked a wild sword-swing from one of the handful of survivors. It looked as though every cart – and the supplies they carried – was burning brightly.

  “Move,” Flores shouted. “Move now!”

  Havant wanted to rebel. He wanted to turn around and slaughter the remaining enemy soldiers, even though he knew it was pointless. There was nothing to be gained by giving the enemy the chance to turn defeat into victory. The enemy commander – or whoever had assumed command – would be in deep shit, when he reported to Prince Reginald. He’d do everything in his power to score a victory he could use to save himself from a well-deserved execution.