“And be quick about it,” Jeremy huffed, jerking the reins and starting out at a clop.
Alensson gazed at the walls of Pree rising over the cropped tree tops at the edge of the village. He saw the flags in the distance, taunting him.
“You’ll get your chance, Gentle Duke,” she told him, reaching out and touching his arm lightly. “If Deford is here, it means your lands are unprotected.”
She knew just what to say to make him smile.
The king had retreated to the royal castle of Montjuno, a fortress between Lionn and Pree. They had reclaimed it during their journey. Supply wagons from Shynom arrived regularly, as did a host of courtiers come to surround the king like so many buzzing flies.
When Alensson and Genette arrived from Pree, they found the mood much changed. Instead of treating the Maid of Donremy with the awe and respect they had once demonstrated, many of the soldiers greeted her with black looks, curled lips, and whispered conversations. Alensson had told the king he’d killed a poisoner who had been sent to murder the girl. But he had not told the king he knew who’d hired the man. Chatriyon had feigned shock and outrage and promised to send his captain to investigate, but nothing further had been done.
As they walked through the crowded hall, Alensson saw several courtiers bustle up to Chatriyon to warn him of their approach. The king wore his crown and a sumptuous jeweled doublet made of purple velvet and stitched with costly gems.
Genette was limping as she walked, and although Alensson would have slowed down to accommodate her, she kept a pace that forced him to keep up.
When she reached the king, Genette dropped down on one knee. Her wince was probably undetectable to anyone other than Alensson, but the king waved her back up.
“No need for that, my dear,” he said graciously. “Your leg is still troubling you. Cousin, help her up!” The king gestured for Alensson to assist her back to her feet, but she managed it on her own. “So you’ve managed to arrive at last. You took your time in coming.”
Alensson felt a hint of censure in the tone. “She was grievously wounded in the attack on Pree, my lord.”
Chatriyon’s eyes narrowed. “I know that, Cousin. But surely you could have come, Alensson? I’ve been in need of your advice.” He cut a glance at Genette, his eyes narrowing coldly.
The duke felt his anger heating up, but kept control of his face. “I am here now, my lord.”
“Thankfully.” The king pitched his voice lower, but there was so much commotion in the hall—drinks being served, women flirting with men and men with women—that it would have been difficult for anyone to overhear them. “I have received word that the King of Brugia is warming to the thought of an alliance with us. Deford is married to Philip’s sister, you know, so their alliance is more than one of practicality. But things are changing. The tide is beginning to turn. Now that I’ve been crowned, Philip is looking at me as the rightful heir of Occitania and not the little brat from Kingfountain. I’ve been advised to cease hostilities and let diplomacy do its work.” His eyebrow lifted. “What do you think, Cousin?”
Alensson glanced at Genette, whose expression reflected the same anger and resentment he felt. After all the success and victories they’d had, why stop? The only reason they hadn’t taken Pree was because Chatriyon had called it off too soon. He hadn’t even given them a chance.
“My lord,” Alensson said, trying to master his tone. “Isn’t it better to negotiate from a position of strength? You don’t need Brugia’s help to regain your kingdom. You have soldiers willing to fight in your name, willing to fight and lose their blood on your behalf.”
Chatriyon winced. “Yes, yes, but it’s all rather bloody, don’t you think? Consider how many lives will be saved, Alensson! We are shedding the blood of our brothers. They are my subjects as well. This is a civil war. Don’t you realize that? If I can persuade Philip of Brugia to join me, it will permanently alter the balance of power between us and Ceredigion. Deford will be forced to make a truce with us. And then we can regain much of what we lost. Including your lands!”
Alensson was trembling with anger. “You think Deford will give up La Marche? He won’t, my king. It must be wrested from him. And I cannot think of a better time to attempt it than right now. If you want to play peace instead of war, so be it, but let me take those who will follow and harry Deford’s lands—my lands! Diplomacy can take years to achieve results. And it would all but hobble the momentum we’ve built thus far. The kingdom is tottering like a vase on a small table and you want to steady it before it falls!”