“My first duty is to you,” he reminded her, pinching her chin. She nodded, her eyes filling again with tears, and she hugged him, though not as fiercely as she had before. This embrace was full of resignation.
Genette stared at them awkwardly, waiting.
“I’ll return later tonight,” Alensson promised.
“I know,” Jianne answered, stepping aside.
Genette stared at them. Then she approached Jianne and took her hand, giving her a tender look. “I promise you, sweet duchess, that he will return safely to you. Take courage. He will be there when the child comes.”
Jianne’s eyes widened with surprise at the words. The worry and fretting melted away from her in an instant. It melted from them both. Alensson knew she had visions of the future. It gave him solace to hear the promise. He believed it.
“Thank you,” Jianne said, taking the Maid’s hand and kissing her knuckles. She started weeping with joy.
There was a knowing look in the Maid’s eyes. She smiled at Jianne, patting her hands, and then turned to leave, glancing at Alensson to see if he would follow her.
After kissing his wife once more, this time in relief, Alensson followed Genette back down the corridor full of servants rushing to and fro to meet the various needs of their noble guests.
“You truly love her,” Genette said to him as they walked through the frenzied hallway.
“She waited for me faithfully,” he answered, not looking at her for fear of running into someone. “Indeed, I love her well.”
“That is noble, Alen. Not all husbands are so devoted. Especially not at Shynom.”
The anger simmering in her voice was unmistakable, and he could only wonder what she had seen. Genette was driven by unflinching principles. She even had shamed soldiers away from cursing. Her sense of right and wrong was like the checkered design of a Wizr board.
They reached the main hall, which was bursting with noise, music, and a raucous crowd that had only grown as the day progressed. It was common gossip at court that the prince’s political marriage was a loveless one. They had sired an heir and no other children had followed. Chatriyon and his wife were rarely seen side by side, and it was common for him to be found talking amidst the men while his wife socialized with the women.
The court thrived on such gossip, so it should have come as no surprise that he and Genette were greeted by plenty of raised eyebrows when they walked in together. No matter. Alensson cared little for gossip and intrigue. He was going to be a father. His wife would give him a child. A boy? A girl? He didn’t know and didn’t care. He would love either. Since hearing the news, he felt as if he’d grown a new heart.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Maid's Vow
There were similarities between the battlefield and court. Both required strategy, quick wits, and an unflagging constitution. But Alensson despised politics. He much preferred the disarray and mayhem of a siege. The Occitanian army had followed Genette’s plan, and now they were facing the last enemy bastion on the road to Ranz: the city of Foucaulx. Shouts from the warriors attempting to breach the city walls mixed with the grunts and groans of men squirming in their death throes. Arrows and crossbow bolts whizzed down from the ramparts, and every few minutes the catapults inside the city sent boulders flinging over the wall, smashing anyone in the way. It was a grim death, and many had died already. Those closest to the walls were the least affected by the threat, but there were horrors to face still.
With smoke stinging his eyes, Alensson stood in the shadow of the wall, shield up, watching Genette as she waved her stained banner, shouting for the men to advance, to breach the walls that penned in their enemies. She had demanded, once again, that the city surrender and open its gates, but they had remained defiant, expecting support from Deford’s army, which was still hunkered down in Pree. It was said the Duke of Westmarch had summoned an enormous force from Ceredigion and it was marching at breakneck speed. The canny duke would not be tricked into committing his Occitanian legions without reinforcements. A mighty host was on its way to punish the Maid. And so Foucaulx held firm and Chatriyon’s army hammered relentlessly at its walls.
An arrow struck Alensson’s upraised shield, the blow battering his arm and making him stagger back. There were arrows sticking in the dried earth all around Genette. Her voice rang out amidst the cries and blasts of horns.
“Onward! Courage! Let’s drive these foes back to the ice caves! Take heart! We will win!”
Alensson admired her courage and tenacity. She had shown equal strength when dealing with the politics of court. Many nobles had gathered around the prince, whispering in his ears to distrust her counsel, warning him that she was leading his forces to their deaths. But the prince had hearkened to Alensson. Lionn had been the test, and had she not passed it? Was not the Fountain truly blessing them with victory?