The Maid's War(13)

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.”