The Maid's War(4)
The duke’s eyes narrowed. “And that is what your king desires? Even more power?” He shook his head disdainfully. “That is all men ever want. There is no slaking the thirst of ambition. Don’t I know. Don’t I know.” He hung his head sorrowfully. Then he clapped his hands on his knees. “What is your name, lass?”
“Ankarette Tryneowy,” the poisoner answered without hesitation.
“Before we speak of the sword, Ankarette, we must first speak of her. Everyone calls her the Maid. But she had a name. She was a girl, like you. A peasant child from the village Donremy. She told me you would come, aye, and she commanded me in the name of the Fountain to tell you her story before I died.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “Sit down, Ankarette Tryneowy. Make yourself comfortable. It is a long story. But we have all night.” He leaned forward. “To understand her, you must understand why the Fountain chose her. You see, the Fountain stopped protecting Occitania because we were unfaithful to it. When I was a young cub, my father died during the Battle of Azinkeep. You know of it, of course. My father sent a knight, Boquette, to safeguard me and my mother away from La Marche. Boquette trained me in war. He taught me about honor and Virtus, and all the things a father should. He believed the Fountain would choose me to save our people. And so I came to believe it too.”
CHAPTER TWO
Vernay
Wars were not decided by battlefield tactics and the valor of half-drunken terrified soldiers. They were decided by trickery and deceit. It was an audacious plan. And Alensson was convinced it would work.
“There’s the city,” Boquette said under his breath, his voice husky with nerves. There was a slick feeling of fear in the air, but it was tempered by the thrill of the bet, the toss of the dice, the feeling of fortune hanging in the balance. “Have you been to Vernay, lad?”
Alensson bristled at the disparagement of his youth. He was fifteen years old, newly married to his best friend, a peer of the realm who was his own age, and he was wearing armor and riding a warhorse into battle. His mother and his wife’s uncle had persuaded the prince to sanction his match to the heiress of the duchy of Lionn after Alensson’s wardship to her uncle had proved more than amicable. Surely he wasn’t a lad any longer, yet his father’s old bodyguard still treated him like one.
“Aye, when I was a boy,” he answered brusquely, letting the defensiveness show in his tone.
“You’ve never been bloodied in battle,” Boquette said with a grunt. “You’re a whelp.”
“I’ve done nothing but train in war since my father died at Azinkeep,” Alensson said between his teeth. “You’ve seen to that. There’s not a man within a hundred leagues who can beat me with a sword—yourself included, Boquette.”
Boquette chuckled to himself before replying, “A training yard is one thing, son. A very different thing.”
“I will take back my duchy, town by town, castle by castle,” Alensson said passionately. “We start in Vernay. Then we conquer Averanche. Then drive Deford out of Tatton Hall and send him back to Kingfountain with his tail cut off!”
“I like your energy, lad. But don’t count coins until they’re in your purse. Deford is lord protector. You’re not just facing another duke, a man of your own rank. You’re facing a man who can bring the might of the army of Ceredigion down on us.”
“Let him then,” Alensson sneered. “We won’t be defeated like my father was. The Ceredigic king died of dysentery and left a newborn to inherit two crowns. Let’s wrest one of them back before the brat gets his teeth.”
Boquette chuckled sardonically again. “It wasn’t dysentery, lad. A poisoner got to him.” His scar looked white and puckered through the thicket of his unshaven whiskers.
“You think so?” Alensson hated the slight quaver in his voice.
Boquette nodded sagely. “I heard some men whispering about it over their cups. Deford is not the same man as his brother. He wasn’t even at Azinkeep. This is our chance. If this ruse works, we’ll take Vernay without a fight and have a means to support ourselves.” He sighed. “But if it fails, you may get a chance yet to show off your, ahem, skills.”
From their vantage point, disguised as guards and riding chargers, the situation looked strange and otherworldly. Their ruse was simple. Fifty men wearing the kilts and badges of Atabyrion were seated backward on their horses, their arms tied behind their backs, the customary position for defeated foes being marched as hostages after a battle. The dozen horsemen leading the prisoners wore hastily sewn uniforms bearing the badge of Deford, three white scallops on a field of black. Some peasant girls had sewn the liveries for them, and while they wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny, they were convincing from atop a city wall. The Atabyrions’ language was the closest to Ceredigion’s, and the soldiers had been handpicked to be their spokesmen.