The Maid's War(41)

There was a shout of victory as the first men reached the ramparts. The clatter of steel striking steel followed, and the battle began to shift, the momentum changing as it had done in Lionn. Now that the first wave of warriors had successfully scaled the walls, the ladders were thick with men trying to find their way up.

The colorful strands from her banner fell apart and Genette drooped. She nearly collapsed, but he caught her shoulders.

“I’ll be all right, Alen,” Genette said, wincing as she put a foot forward to steady herself. A cheer and a cry came up from the army. The defenders began to flee from their positions. There were no more catapults flinging giant stones after that.

Genette used her banner like a crutch as she hobbled toward the walls, gazing up at the fighting in the ramparts. A sad smile came to her mouth. Her other hand gripped the sword pommel. The look of pain was starting to leave her, and her breathing was becoming easier.

“The Fountain blesses you,” Alensson said, glancing at her as they stood together beneath the walls of Foucaulx.

“It does indeed,” she said.

“You saved my life.” The swell of gratitude in his heart made him feel like weeping.

She turned her head and gave him a peculiar stare, one that seemed to penetrate to the deepest part of his soul. “The Fountain has great plans for you, Gentle Duke. You will survive this war.” She shook her head subtly. “I will not.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Raven Scabbard





Foucaulx, the final major obstacle on the road to Ranz, had fallen. There was celebrating in the camp, and the Earl of Doone made arrangements for a garrison to defend the city while the army marched on to the sanctuary to crown the king. Alensson was battle weary, but he was also concerned about Genette and what she had whispered to him before the fall of the city. There had been a sadness in her voice, along with a certainty that disturbed him deeply. She had forewarned him to move before that piece of rubble could squash him. Had she seen a fate in store for herself? Was something preventing her from moving out of the way?

Word came that Chatriyon and his entourage were drawing near to the city. Outriders had been sent ahead to keep the army apprised of Deford’s movements. Genette was sure to be summoned when the prince arrived, so Alensson made his way to her tent. She had limped there in great pain, refusing his offer to carry her, and a surgeon had been seeing to her injuries for the last several hours.

As he approached, he remembered his previous intrusion and called out to her squire.

The lad swept open the flap. “Yes, my lord?”

“How fares she?” he asked. “Is the surgeon still here?”

“I’m here,” called the man. “Is that the Duke of La Marche?”

“Aye,” said the squire.

“He can come in,” Genette said.

When Alensson ducked through the opening, he saw her sitting on a camp stool. Her battered armor was hanging from the spokes of its iron stand, and it was clear the young squire had been in the middle of cleaning it. The doctor stood behind her, one hand on her bare shoulder, the other on her ribs. She had covered her front with a sheet, and when she saw Alensson looking at her, he could have sworn she started to blush.

“Is her back broken?” Alensson asked the doctor, a bearded middle-aged man who was balding at the top.

“It was earlier,” he answered, shaking his head. “Sit straighter, my dear. Pull your shoulders back.”

She complied, looking a bit exasperated at his instructions. Alensson felt a throb of emotion akin to possessiveness—as if she belonged to him and no one else. The doctor frowned, then shook his head.

“Astonishing,” he muttered.

“I told you,” the Maid said, “I will be fine. Surely there are others whose injuries require more attention?”

The doctor wagged his finger at her. “When I first entered, you were in violent pain. Your shoulder was broken, your back was broken, your left arm was broken, and possibly one of your legs. How far do you say she fell?” he added, looking at Alensson.

“The distance from a cottager’s roof,” the duke said, remembering it vividly. “She landed on her back in full armor.”

He nodded in dismay. “Her initial injuries bore witness to such a fall. But as I live, Duke Alensson, I have watched her heal before my very eyes. Her shoulder was here”—he pointed to a spot on her back—“and now it is here.” He traced the path with his finger. “Truly the lass cannot be harmed.”

“Thank you, Surgeon. Go tend to the other wounded.”

The man flung up his hands in a helpless gesture and then collected his things. Brendin continued to clean her armor with a rag and jar of polishing wax. Keeping the sheet raised to protect her modesty, Genette slipped behind the narrow changing screen.