Alensson felt there was some deeper meaning beneath his words, but he couldn’t comprehend it. “And you feel it is the Fountain’s will, Genette?”
“I don’t feel it, Gentle Duke, I know it.”
Alensson looked at Hext. “Why are we arguing against her idea?”
“Because it goes against the principles of military strategy,” Hext said, exasperated. “Don’t give your enemy time to recover. Hit them again, while they are off balance. They are more likely to topple as word of our victories spread through the kingdom. You don’t think that the people are happy having a usurper as king?”
Alensson folded his arms. “The usurper is a child, Lord Hext. His father defeated us at Azinkeep. Deford is merely doing his duty. I agree that we must reclaim our land. But if we lost Azinkeep because we ceased heeding the Fountain in the past, this is our opportunity to mend things. We must present a united front to Chatriyon. No doubt the gossips and double dealers at Shynom have been whispering in his ear, persuading him this is folly. If Genette says our destination is Ranz, then we go there.” He glanced at her and saw the grateful smile on her mouth.
“We must go to Ranz, my lords,” she said. “The prince will not argue about the route we take.”
Hext sniffed in through his nose. Alensson could tell it galled him that they were taking advice from an inexperienced girl. It went against his feelings, against his nature, against his better judgment. Lord Hext had hailed her victory as a miracle after the siege of Lionn had broken. But now that the deed was done, its magnificence and wonder were beginning to fade. One feat could not make him forget the habits and beliefs of a lifetime.
“So be it,” Hext said, sniffing again. He looked at Doone, who nodded to him in agreement, and then they dispersed from the war council to wait in the courtyard for the entourage to arrive.
It was a long wait.
When Chatriyon Vertus finally arrived at Lionn, the city took up a cheer that was impressive in its volume and clamor. Alensson rocked impatiently on his heels, his hand gripping his wrist behind his back. Jianne had sent word that she was coming with the entourage, just as Genette had foreseen, and he was anxious for her to arrive.
“Patience, Gentle Duke,” the Maid advised him with a wry smile.
“So says the doctor who does not have to endure the medicine himself,” he quipped back. Her smile broadened. “Did you leave a beau back in Donremy, Genette?” he asked, suddenly curious. “Is there some young shepherd pining for your return?”
That easy smile quickly vanished and a strange, almost guilty look crept into her eyes. “No one, my lord,” she stammered. Her cheeks began to flush.
“I’m surprised. Or maybe I shouldn’t be,” he said jokingly. “You are rather outspoken.”
The flushing deepened to a rosy blush. She had feelings for someone, that much was clear. But her reticence implied her affections were not returned. “Ahh, I see.” He leaned closer. “Your secret is safe with me, Genette. I’ll tease you no further.”
All her self-confidence and bravado had vanished, and she looked very much like a young woman in that moment, even encased in polished armor—a bit dented, although the gash had been repaired by the blacksmith—and holding her war-ravaged banner. She might look like a soldier, like some knight-errant—but she was still a young woman with a woman’s tender feelings. She gave him a grateful look, a short nod, and then stared fixedly at the gates.
Chatriyon arrived in splendor, wearing the crimson jeweled tunic that he had doffed several months ago to impersonate someone else. Off came his hat, its sweeping plumes fluttering in the breeze as he swung it low as a token of respect to the Maid, who had won her first battle.
Genette quickly fell to one knee. “My lord,” she said with a hint of anxiety in her voice. “Welcome to Lionn. Your city greets you.”
“Thanks to you,” Chatriyon said in a pleasant, respectful tone. His horse was restless, and several royal grooms rushed forward to help him dismount, an act which made Alensson sneer inwardly. A pampered man who ate the best foods, wore the best clothing, supported by the richest nobles.
As well as the poorest one, he thought blackly to himself.
And then he saw Jianne amongst the crowd, his eye drawn to her like an arrow to its mark. He bowed to the king respectfully and then hurried to her side. She had a fearful look in her eyes, as if uncertain of how to dismount amidst such a crowd. She had no servants to look after her or tend to her needs. Alensson was only too grateful to oblige.
“Let me help you, my lady,” he offered, seizing the reins. He whistled softly, soothing the mare.