The Maid's War(29)

“I told you this would happen, Gentle Duke,” she said, noticing his bafflement. “Why didn’t you believe me? The wound isn’t serious. I’ll be fine.”

When they reached her discarded banner, it was still upright, though there were several arrow holes in the fabric. Releasing her grip on him, Genette walked forward with calm strength and hoisted the banner again, crying out to her countrymen, “Courage! Courage! The Fountain is on our side! Take courage!”

A battle cry swelled from the ranks when the men saw her waving the banner again after having fallen to a mortal wound. The Fountain was on their side, and they could not lose. The soldiers had been peeling away from the wall, but they flooded back triumphantly. Three ladders started up again, but this time two of them held, and soldiers managed to clear the wall. Fighting broke out on the ramparts above, and bodies began to topple over, but it wasn’t clear which side they belonged to. Shouts of victory began to surge from the prince’s army.

Genette was quick to follow. Gripping the banner in one hand, she started scaling the ladder, using the arm that should have been permanently disabled to haul herself up the rungs. Alensson came up behind her, amazed at her endurance but determined to protect her. As soon as they cleared the rampart, several soldiers from Ceredigion charged at her with their swords. Alensson leaped in front of the Maid, his sword ringing from his sheath. He skewered one man and blocked the attacks of the others. Paying no attention to the danger she was in, Genette swung her banner over her head from atop the wall, and a roar of cheers sounded from below.

More and more soldiers from the Maid’s army arrived, and Alensson saw with satisfaction that the enemy was fleeing, abandoning the outer fortifications to try to reach the Turrels in time. There was more than one wall defending their position, and the tower would be even more difficult to breach. But somehow they had succeeded. He didn’t know the cost in life at this point, but it was worth it. In one night, they had begun to overturn the defenses of Lionn. By dawn, they would have shelter from the arrows of their enemies. They would have more supplies. They would win; finally, Alensson would be part of a victory.

“Watch, Gentle Duke,” the Maid said in his ear after he’d dispatched another soldier, killing him. He swiveled and looked, saw her arm pointing to the tower where their enemy had fled.

Men with torches stood atop it, overseeing the disaster unfolding below. He couldn’t see their faces, but their tunics bore the enemy’s standard.

One of the men was running down the narrow stairwell that wrapped around the outside of the tower wall, leading down to the battlements below. And he watched in horror as the man with the torch stumbled and then plunged off the tower wall, landing in the massive river with a splash that could be heard over the noise of the fighting.

“By the Veil!” Alensson gasped. “He was wearing armor too!”

He saw the corners of Genette’s lips start to curve. “He was indeed. That was Lord Tenby.”

“The commander? How do you . . . ?” Then he caught himself.

“I did warn him,” she said with a knowing smile.





CHAPTER TWELVE

Triumph





The mood in the army had changed overnight. By morning, the defeat Alensson had once seen in the eyes of the Occitanian soldiers had blossomed into hope. There were no shouted taunts and bravado from the defenders; all was stony silence. The outer walls of the defenses had been breached, and now the fighting was happening in the streets beyond.

Alensson hadn’t slept in almost two days and he felt weary and beleaguered, but the air was electric with energy. It was the same as the crackle of wood before a tree falls down. They were winning—they were finally winning! Deford’s army was still in Pree, it was said. He had neither believed the Maid’s threat nor considered her a true danger. Now his captain in Lionn had drowned in the river and the defenders were leaderless and frightened.

But to finish what they started, they needed the Maid. Alensson walked through the makeshift camp outside the walls, making his way to Genette’s tent. He had sent a surgeon to attend to her wound. To his surprise, she was sitting up when he entered. Her breastplate and gauntlets had been removed, but she was still armored from the waist down. Her sweat-stained tunic was begrimed, and there was a huge tear in it from where the arrow had penetrated.

“How deep was the wound?” Alensson asked the surgeon.

“It was nothing,” Genette insisted.

The surgeon put his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “I don’t know how she pulled it out without bleeding to death. The wound seemed to . . . close on its own. I used no stitches.” He spoke the words in an undertone, as if even he did not totally believe them.