The Maid's War(55)

Chatriyon’s look was so patronizing. “Of course I do, Cousin. If the vase falls, it breaks! What’s the use of ruling a kingdom that’s been broken to pieces?” He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Then he turned his gaze on Genette. “And what is your opinion, dear girl?” In the past, he had attested that she spoke for the Fountain. But the coronation had changed him. It was remarkable how sudden the change had come. The king looked uncomfortable in her presence, as if her act of breathing annoyed him.

She looked him full in the eye. “You have the power to take your kingdom back,” she said in a low voice. “If you will use it. It is your decision, my lord. But you must remember that you cannot choose the consequences.”

He cocked his head in confusion and misgiving. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You know what the Fountain wills, my king.”

“Yes, I think I do,” he said with an almost lazy tone. Then he turned back to Alensson. “I will heed your advice, Cousin. Take what men you can and go around Pree. It will only help hasten the negotiations if you’re there stinging Deford’s flanks. But when I call you back, you must come. Agreed?”

Alensson felt something was wrong. The king had given in too easily. Here it was again, the sensation that something else was afoot, something the duke wasn’t seeing. “Thank you, my lord. I will take Genette with me, and she will—”

“No, I don’t think so,” Chatriyon said solemnly.

“My lord?” Alensson asked.

“You heard me. No, I will have duties she can perform. An army is always in need of good captains. There are cities to hold, garrisons to maintain. I will keep her near me.”

Alensson felt his heart warn him. “She inspires people, my lord. More soldiers would join the effort if she came to support my assault on La Marche. She’s skilled on the battlefield.”

“I’m sure she is,” Chatriyon said with a yawn. “I’m sure you want her near you for other reasons as well.”

It felt like the king had punched him in the stomach. “What did you say?”

“I don’t judge you, Cousin. But she’s too important. No, I order you to ride out tomorrow with as many soldiers as will come. I think a hundred ought to do. The Maid will stay at Montjuno, where I will look after her myself. The two of you should spend more time apart. People are starting to talk, Cousin.”

If Chatriyon weren’t the king, Alensson would have smashed his fist into the man’s mouth. It took all his self-will to keep himself from striking his sovereign. In that moment, he felt the ambition in his heart swell so much that he wondered if it would consume him. As he stared at the king in outrage, he began to understand what was going on. He understood why Chatriyon had called off the siege of Pree.

If Genette had indeed defeated Pree in only one day, it would have established her reputation forever. Chatriyon was crafty enough to know that if he kept her as his champion, he would be shackled to maintaining her standards in his court. For a man of many hungers, it was not an appealing prospect. And while each of Genette’s successes had drawn more men to the fight, they were fighting for her and not for the king. Oh, Alensson could see it in the cunning look in Chatriyon’s eyes. He was asserting his control and humbling the girl, without whom he would not be wearing his crown.

It was deplorable. It was cowardly. And it was obvious why the king was trying to shame Alensson and send him away—he was her protector. If one poisoner could be sent, why not another?

“If that is your will, my king,” Genette said, bowing her head to him.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Squire's Gift





The wind was surprisingly fierce as it battered the curtains of Alensson’s tent, the thunder of it momentarily drowning out the noise of the night crickets. The tent was much smaller than his previous one, for it needed to be packed and moved every night as they made their lightning raids through the inheritance of his youth. A small oil lamp burned nearby as he read the latest missives arriving from Shynom. The air smelled pungently of horse manure.

He sat on a camp chair, hunched over, still wearing his torn hauberk beneath the filthy tunic he’d been wearing for days. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, scowling at the news, his mind twisting for a solution to his quandary.

“You’re grimacing,” Jeremy said, twisting strands of his graying beard, shaking his head, and peering over his shoulder. “Ill news, my lord?”

Alensson sighed. It had been two months since the king had separated him from Genette. She’d been sent to take a town that showed no sign of surrendering. It was too fortified to assault without siege weapons, not that Chatriyon had bothered to supply her with any, but she had gone willingly enough. In other words, he’d sent her to kick against a stump while his negotiations with Brugia progressed. Maybe Chatriyon had sent Alensson to La Marche to get him out of the way as well, but at least his duty was more enjoyable—after all, he had been sanctioned to be a thorn in Deford’s side. He had stayed on the move, stopping to strike at a garrison for two days before slinking away and hitting another, making Deford chase him all the while. The king had expressly forbidden him the battlefield victory he craved, but the duke honestly didn’t think he would win without the Maid helping him. He’d written letters begging the king to send her to La Marche to help him. She’d wanted to come. But Chatriyon had remained implacable. Now the situation had finally come to a head, and he would have to make a decision—one that would define him for the rest of his life.