He looked down at the letters again, banishing the Maid from his mind as he read his wife’s words. He fancied being at the cottage, tiptoeing inside, and startling her with a surprise, folding his arms around her middle and nuzzling kisses against her neck. Pangs of loneliness and frustration spiked inside his heart. Jianne was so far away it felt as if she were on a different world. He wasn’t a prisoner of Ceredigion any longer, but he did feel like a prisoner of the crown. His fate was bound to Chatriyon’s—a king whom he no longer respected, a king who no longer valued him, despite all the years his family had served.
The thought made him brood angrily. He pored over a few more of the letters and then tied them up again and delicately returned them to the saddlebag. Each was a treasure that brought a little balm of comfort. He would get his duchy back. He would make sure Jianne was given all the comforts she deserved. He would get his duchy back. He would make sure . . .
“My lord?” said a voice outside the tent.
“What is it?” Alensson asked, wrestling with his feelings of futility.
One of the soldiers parted the tent and poked his head inside. “My lord, there’s a lad here to see you.”
Alensson frowned. “Who is it?” It was highly unusual for a local village lad to wander into his camp uninvited.
“He says he knows you. The lad’s name is Brendin.”
Genette’s squire. Alensson hurried to his feet. “Send him in.”
The soldier held open the tent and the tawny-haired boy came inside. He was holding a long bundle, tied off with ropes and straps. It was much longer than a bedroll. Alensson’s mouth went dry.
The boy looked nervous. There was a furrow in his brow, just beneath the hairline. He looked anguished. The memory of this boy lying dead on a pallet flashed through Alensson’s mind, so vivid it made him relive the clash and fury of the siege of Pree.
Alensson’s gaze fell to the bundle in the boy’s arms. It was clutched to his chest like a treasure. The young duke’s mouth went dry. He thought he knew what it was even though it was concealed by blankets.
“What do you bring me?” he asked softly, his skin prickling with apprehension.
“She told me to bring this to you,” Brendin said. “She bade me to wait until the second full moon and then find you. She told me you’d be camped outside the village of Doeg. She made me . . . she made me swear an oath to the Fountain that I would obey her.”
The boy set the bundle down and quickly knelt by it, untying the knots that bound it. Alensson’s heart hammered in his chest. It wasn’t possible. But then the boy began to unroll the blanket and there it was. Nested inside was the sword he had discovered at Firebos in the raven-sigil scabbard.
“She said . . . she said this is for you,” the boy murmured, looking up at him with tears in his eyes.
Alensson stared at it, feeling the hunger twist inside his belly, twined now with the sickening sensation of fear, as if the blade really were a serpent.
“My lord!”
The voice came from outside the tent. It was the captain.
“What is it?” Alensson asked hoarsely, unable to take his eyes away from the treasure before him.
Jeremy thrust his way into the tent, nearly stumbling over the kneeling boy. He looked around in confusion and then met Alensson’s gaze.
“Word just arrived,” he said breathlessly. There was a panic-stricken tremor in his cheek. “She’s been captured, my lord. A rider just came from Shanton with the news. The Maid has been captured by the King of Brugia!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Escape
The king’s palace at Pree was abuzz with the news that the Duke of La Marche had escaped his confinement, and everyone was on the lookout for him. Although Ankarette’s pulse was racing, she kept a calm demeanor and walked unhurriedly down the passageway. Two male servants walked behind her, carrying two chests between them. The chests were stacked atop each other, the top one smaller than the bottom one. The men were sweating from the burden.
“Careful, you fools,” Ankarette snapped as they came around a corner and nearly collided with a squad of soldiers. “Those plates are worth more than your wages.” One of the men grunted an apology and they continued.
The porter door at the end of the corridor was manned by several soldiers wearing the colorful plumage of the King of Occitania. A crowd had assembled there—people with trollies, and servants carrying crates and chests outside the palace walls. The soldiers were inspecting each of the larger chests. They offered no explanation, but their purpose was clear. A large chest could be used to conceal a man.
Ankarette joined the end of the line. There was an imperious expression on her face as she glanced back at the servants. “Tell me you have the carriage ready outside,” she said with a haughty tone. “My lady will be furious if we are late!”