Valour and Victory

by Candy Rae

  “Down the stairs,” commanded Charles and watched as first his wife (he caressed her cheek gently as she passed) and children then Marcia and Jennifer climbed down. “Take this water and make it last.”

  A white-faced Jennifer nodded as she took the first pitcher, placing it down on the floor before reaching for the next.

  “You,” he addressed the scullery-slave, “what’s your name?”

  “Han,” she boy answered.

  “Right Han, down you go. Help the ladies all you can. You got a knife?”

  “Yessir.” Han brought out a veritable monster of a knife, grinned at Charles and scurried down the trap-stairs after the women and children.

  Charles Dubois beckoned his wife Tamsin over to the bottom of the stairs. She looked up at him as if trying to stamp his face on her memory.

  “Now remember, keep them quiet and whatever you hear outside, don’t come out. You know what to do. Boy here has got a knife.”

  “I’ve got one as well.”

  “Good, now if they find you use it. Move back against the wall.”

  “I’ll see to it Charles. They won’t take us alive.”

  “It won’t come to that I promise,” he said, lying through his teeth. Tamsin backed away, her scared face riveted on that of her husbands. He blew her a kiss and was rewarded by a tremulous smile.

  The two men slammed the trapdoor shut and rammed home the bolt. They then dragged over some nearby barrels and placed them on top. Charles broke some bottles of port over the top before draping some sackcloth over the resultant mess. The smell of spilled wine permeated the air and for good measure Mark added a flagon of fragrant nut-oil.

  “Good enough,” he said in a grim voice. “The Larg have been sighted. They’re only half a candle-mark away.”

  “Do we have any chance?” asked Charles.

  “There are too many,” answered the Count. “My brother is gathering all the men together in the courtyard. We’d best be off.” With a last glance at the untidy (and smelly) heap on top of the trapdoor, he led Charles out and into the sunshine, beckoning the kitchen workers to follow.

  The Cocteau men, their retainers, the nearby farmers and the male servants and slaves (those not already manning the walls) stood in the courtyard. Some of the women and children were sheltering in the stone tower (those there was room for), not on the top étagère; that was reserved for the Ducal family, but the two floors underneath.

  This was a manor house, not a castle. The outer walls were built of stone but they would not be high enough to present much of a challenge for the Larg.

  Charles Dubois looked up, he could see the scared white faces of some of the women as they looked out from the narrow windows. The ‘tower’ was not a ‘tower’ in the real sense of the word. He could hear hacking sounds of splintering wood and Charles realised that the Duke had set some men to demolishing the wooden stairs in an attempt to stop the Larg from reaching the upper floors.

  He turned to the armed man standing next to him with surprise. “James,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing here? I thought you were up north!”

  “I returned,” replied James. “I got back not more than a double candle-mark ago.”

  “Your timing is awful,” said Charles.

  “Isn’t it just?” James answered, wishing that he had sent his father’s messenger away with a flea in his ear and had remained in Duchesne with Elliot. He had spent only a half candle-mark with his Katia before the warning had come. She had been so overjoyed to see him. Now he would never feel her soft lips on his again.

  I am going to die here, thought James.

  Charles Dubois and the other men in the courtyard were thinking the same.

  The Larg didn’t stop to assess the situation before they attacked. They kept on running until they reached the walls when they jumped, up and over like an endless wave of angry monsters.

  Their blood-howls were chilling in their intensity and told anyone within earshot that their bloodlust was in the ascendant.

  Duke Pierre had realised that there was no point in trying to man the walls but had formed his miniature army up in the courtyard in front of the entrance to the tower.

  James pulled his sword out of its scabbard with a determination to die bravely. There were around four hundred of them and from what he could see over three times that number of Larg.

  “Get ready,” ordered Duke Pierre, “they’ll try to rush us all at once.”

  A woman, a slave by her dress, exited one of the outhouses. She had a bloody knife in her hand and blood on her kirtle. She was crying, her face ugly and blotchy. She ran up to a man standing to the left of James and Charles where she squeezed in beside him.

  James knew what she had done. The woman and her children had been hiding in one of the outhouses. She had taken a knife to her children’s throats and gone to die with her man. He saw her grip the man’s free hand.

  The act had an effect on them all. They stood determined to take as many Larg with them as they could.

  James wondered if the women in the top étagère of the tower would be brave enough to mercy kill the children before the Larg reached them. He hoped so.

  * * * * *

  Duchess Anne watched from the window as the first Larg jumped over the wall. She turned to her daughter. The younger Anne was sitting on a settee in a corner, her arms round her youngest son, Mark, aged three. The two older children were sitting beside her.

  Anne raised terrified eyes. “Mother, what is happening? I knew we should have gone to the cellar with Jennifer and Aunt Marcia.”

  “It’s too late for that now,” answered the Duchess.

  “Are the Larg in the courtyard?”

  “Yes,” her mother answered as she closed the casement window.

  There was tense silence in the room. They could hear shouts and cries as the men fought. She looked out and watched, bile in her throat as a Larg dragged a screaming child out of one of the outhouses and began to gnaw at him. Another Larg joined in the fun and a tug of war ensued as they played with the little one. Anne prayed that the child was dead.

  “It will be our turn soon,” she said. They knew then that there was no hope.

  “Perhaps they’ll not manage to climb up to here,” suggested Isobel from her corner.

  “They didn’t manage to demolish all of the stairwell,” answered her aunt, “there wasn’t time.”

  She came to a decision. She looked at her daughter and at the others. The younger Anne divined her mother’s thoughts and her face blanched.

  “No,” she whimpered, tightening her hold on young Mark. Worn out with all the excitement, he had fallen asleep in her arms.

  “We cannot let the Larg get to them alive.”

  “Perhaps we can hide them.”

  The Duchess shook her head and walked towards the wall-cabinet. She took the keys from her belt and unlocked it.

  The bottle she took from the self was dark brown in colour and about half full. With a steady hand, Duchess Anne picked up a spoon and turned to face the others.

  Herself, her daughter, her three grand-children, Katia, Estelle and Isobel. Eight of them, plus the servants. Thirteen in total. There would not be enough in the bottle to go round. She looked over to the servants, two were very young, not more than twelve. Anne decided that they with little Pierre, Anne and Mark must be given a spoonful of the ungba syrup. There might also be enough for Isobel and Katia.

  “We must do it now,” she said, “it takes a while for it to take effect. There is enough in the bottle for seven, perhaps eight if I am careful.”

  She spooned out the first doze and approached her grandson Pierre.

  “What is it?” he asked suspiciously as his grandmother offered him the spoon.

  “Something to make you sleep,” said his mother. “When you wake up the Larg will be gone.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Pierre appeared satisfied with this and took the dose, grimacing at
its bitter taste. His sister followed suit and his mother dribbled the syrup into baby Marks’ mouth.

  Duchess Anne dosed the two little serving maids next.

  * * * * *

  James slashed at a Larg with his sword. It was a large ugly brute with great yellow teeth that snarled and snapped at him.

  “Not yet you bastard,” yelled James. His parry missed, but only just, the Larg sprang back and gathered himself for another leap. James hadn’t realised until now just how big and nasty the Larg were.

  “Retreat,” shouted James to the desperate souls fighting beside him. “Back to the tower.” He looked up at the outside walls of the manor, more and more Larg were jumping over and running towards where the small knot of manor inhabitants were still resisting.

  There were less than thirty of them left, all trained in sword-work and wearing armour.

  The Duke was down, as were most of his war-guard. As James and the few who could retreated to the tower he saw Charles Dubois fall, his neck ripped apart by one of the giant blood-soaked paws.

  Four made it to the tower.

  Their blood lust is up. None of us will leave here alive. It’s not supposed to be like this. He felt a searing pain in his shoulder and fell to the ground.

  A Larg surged over James, he felt the heavy weight as it used his body as a springboard to leap up on to the ragged rim of the partly demolished stairwell.

  Shit. The women.

  Then his stomach exploded into an agony so intense he wished he could die, now, before he was forced to watch his entrails being pulled out of his body.

  Katia! Katia!

  He screamed.

  * * * * *

  Isobel was sitting next to Estelle and Katia. She watched her aunt give the syrup to the children.

  I’m next. I’m the next youngest.

  As her aunt approached, Isobel raised a protesting hand.

  “I thank you Aunt, but no. I have no intention of quietly falling asleep.” She produced a knife from under her skirts. “I intend to die, if that is the Lord’s will, fighting.”

  “Me too,” announced Katia, producing a knife of her own.

  “Give it to the other maids,” said Isobel and her aunt nodded.

  The Duchess walked over to the window and watched the last stand of the remaining Cocteau men.

  Duke Pierre, as he lay dying on the blood-smeared flagstones, looked up and his last sight was that of his wife’s face, smiling at him and nodding.

  Satisfied, she had done what was expected, he let go of his life.

  Isobel could hear the snarls and howls as the Larg fought over the bodies outside.

  “I do have a little ratroot,” offered her aunt and the four remaining women stared at her askance. Ratroot was a poison but death was not painless.

  “I’d, I’d like some,” said the younger Anne who was sitting cuddling her unconscious youngest child.

  “Me too,” said Estelle with a shudder. “Anything must be better than being ripped apart alive. What’s that?”

  “The Larg have reached the first étagère,” answered Isobel. “You have just enough time if you take it now.”

  * * * * *

  Isobel looked at Katia. They were the only two who hadn’t partaken of the soporific ungba or the ratroot.

  “We need to open up the inflow vent that Uncle Pierre had installed for the heater,” Isobel said, “it’s run on oil.”

  “Why?” asked the terrified Katia, wishing now that she had taken up Duchess Anne’s offer of the poison.

  “So that oil will begin to flow in. I don’t know about you but I don’t intend just to wait passively for the Larg to reach us. They’ll get up here eventually.”

  “I think they’ve reached the floor below,” squeaked Katia.

  “Try not to listen to the screaming,” advised Isobel, turning the screw. “Right, that’s the oil starting to flow. Now where’s the tinderbox?”

  “Over there on the mantelpiece.”

  “Get it for me.”

  Katia ran over to the mantelpiece and found the tinderbox. “What are you going to do?” she asked, glancing at the door. It rattled. “Hurry Isobel, they’re here,” she pleaded.

  “If we light the oil it’ll begin to burn,” explained Isobel, “and as soon as the flames reach the storage tank hidden behind the panelling it’ll blow up like a fireball. Seems a vastly preferable way to go than a knife across each other’s throats or being ripped to pieces. We’re going to take as many with us as we can. Are the children sound asleep? Go check.”

  The girls could hear the screams of agony emanating from the étagère below. Katia felt that she would do just about anything to avoid such a fate. She checked the children. The ungba had done its work. The children were unconscious. Katia stroked the hair on little Anne’s forehead, which was flushed, and damp. She wondered how her little sister Jill was faring.

  Mother Breguswið will be looking after her, she’ll not let anything happen to Jill.

  The thought brought her comfort as she turned to Isobel, “fast asleep.”

  “Good. We should just have time before they reach us,” said Isobel, her hands busy trying to make a spark. “By the way Katia, I’m glad you’re here with me. Start the prayer would you?”

  Kneeling by Isobel’s side Katia began to intone the prayer for the dying.

  The wick came alive with a tiny bout of flame.

  James Cocteau, Katia’s husband and Isobel’s beloved brother was the only one still alive on the ground floor when the tower blew. His last conscious thought was one of relief as the walls and ceilings tumbled down on top of him.

  In the cellar Tamsin felt the blast and the masonry falling. Terrified, they huddled together wondering what was happening.

  Please God, please don’t let us all be entombed alive down here.

  Their vigil was only at its beginning.

  It was over two tendays later when they heard human voices and shouted for help. It was another day after that before their rescuers cleared enough of the rubble to reach the trapdoor. It was only then that Tamsin found out that her father and husband were dead and that the Ducal House of Cocteau had been virtually wiped out.

  * * * * *

  The Prince-Duke

  Xavier woke with a start. It was a tenday since he had fled the Citadel, taking with him a small escort of some dozen men, mercenaries all, sell-swords who he had hired to help him overrun the palace complex at the start of the coup.

  He had not brought with him the men who had served him since he was a boy. All his life Xavier had put himself first but something had prompted him, with thoughts about his own mortality staring him in the face to do something for his two children. Before he had fled the palace he had sent these men to the castle. Xavier hated his wife with a deadly hatred but his children were the only living creatures apart from his horse he cared for. The men had instructions to get his wife and children away from the Larg.

  Mercenaries were expensive and Xavier was sure of their loyalty, until that is, last evening when the first, faint, stirrings of doubt had set in.

  He had overheard them talking in the stable yard of the farm on which the thirteen fugitives had descended, throwing out the family whose farm it was and taking over the farmhouse and outbuildings.

  For this was the Duchy of South Baker, Xavier’s own. He believed he had the god-given right to take and enjoy whatever he chose.

  That right had included the farmer’s eldest daughter who he had taken to his bed and enjoyed with savage abandonment as he tried to forget the events of the last days.

  It had been during a lull in this pleasure-taking when he overheard the mercenaries talking. It had been a warm night, the room was stuffy and the sweating Xavier had risen from the bed and gone to the window to let in some fresh air.

  These were rough men, accustomed to taking their pleasure from unwilling women but they had been shocked at Xavier’s actions. The farmer’s eldest daughter was little more than a chi
ld.

  Her piteous screams had unsettled them; that much had been obvious, even to Xavier. He had made a serious misjudgement. Sell-swords and mercenaries were considered the lowest of the low but they did hold to an unofficial code of practice. They did not make war on children and had been known to turn on their own if one of their own transgressed this unwritten rule.

  Xavier looked over. The girl was asleep, huddled on the floor. Her face was puffy with crying and her hair was matted with sweat.

  Xavier felt uneasy but he did not believe he was in any danger. The mercenaries were being well paid to guard him during his flight from the kingdom. He had plenty of coin - he had ransacked the royal coffers. There was more than enough to pay the men a bonus too and to pay for a ship to take him to one of the islands to set up in comfort. There were plenty of islands in the Great Eastern Sea whose leaders would accept him, no questions asked.

  Xavier walked over to the corner and prodded the girl with his foot. Her eyelashes flickered but she did not move.

  Xavier shrugged. Awake or asleep, it did not matter. Xavier licked his dry lips and gulped down another large slug of rough farm wine.

  * * * * *

  Next morning Xavier dressed with care. Even though he was a fugitive, there were standards to be upheld. He was a Prince of the Blood, son of a King and he had always known that dress and demeanour was important.

  He glanced at the bed as he left the room. The girl was awake and was watching him warily.

  “Get yourself cleaned up,” Xavier ordered. “I’ll be back for you later.”

  Xavier had decided to take her with him.

  She did not respond, hiding her head in the covers as if to blot him from sight.

  The farm kitchen was deserted when he jumped the last few rungs of the ladder. Remains of a meal lay on the table. Xavier grabbed an end of bread and took a swig from a half empty bottle of wine. He went outside, intent on finding out when the mercenaries would be ready to depart.