The Maid's War(67)

“Bless me, it’s her! It’s the Occitanian strumpet!” Alensson could only grit his teeth as the guards discovered the body.

One of them gazed up and pointed. “She jumped from the tower!”

“How could she . . . ? She’s dead? The count will be furious if he doesn’t get his money.”

Another chuckled with disbelief. “She’s afraid of Kingfountain. I knew she was a coward.”

“She’s breathing.”

“No!”

“I swear it, look! She’s breathing!”

“She survived? She must have broken every bone. Go get the castle physician. Let’s make a pallet and roll her onto it. No one will believe this!”

Genette let out a soft moan and tried to move, her action frightening the guards.

One of the hounds came up to the thorn bush, sniffling and snuffling. Alensson could smell its horrid breath as it gazed at him through the leaves, branches, and berries. A low growl sounded.

He remained still, but his heart was racing.

“Chut! Come over here, dog. The girl’s right here! Get over here.”

Alensson was grateful all the guards were trampling the area with their boots, hiding the evidence that he had been there. The dog poked its snout at the bush, snuffling and growling. Alensson held perfectly still, his body sliced and stabbed in dozens of places. He could see a thorn impaling the skin of his forearm. He felt it ache and throb, but no blood oozed from the wound. The magic of the scabbard kept him from bleeding.

But he wished Genette had been able to keep it instead.

He watched as she was laid on a makeshift stretcher and carried away from him down the length of the dry moat. His throat was thick with gratitude and despair. Despite her fear of heights, she had jumped from a tower window to save him from getting captured again.

Huddling in the thorn bush, he silently wept.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Kingfountain





As a boy, Alensson had always imagined visiting the fabled city of Kingfountain. Kingfountain was as ancient at Pree, the two capitals existing in defiance of one another for centuries beyond counting. He was no scholar, no student of lore, so he did not know what had driven these kingdoms to be perpetual enemies. He only knew there was an implacable enmity between them—one he felt in his heart as he approached the docks in a trading vessel and saw the stunning waterfall exploding off the rugged ridges and hills. There was a constant wrestle between feeling impressed and feeling spiteful.

The palace rose up on the eastern side of the river, impregnable and secure. No army could attack that bastion without great labor and difficulty. Hulking in the middle of the river was the enormous sanctuary of Our Lady, his destination. The ivy-covered walls surrounding it and gated parks were inviting and peaceful. There was something genuinely comforting about the shared forms of worship between Ceredigion and Occitania.

He climbed the steps from the Genevese docks to the lower city on the west side of the river and joined the throng. He’d spoken only Brugian while on board the vessel, for Occitanians were not welcome here. Though it was almost certainly in his mind, he felt a menace, a brooding sensation that every citizen, every merchant could sense he did not belong. The noise of the waterfall was omnipresent, growing louder as he came closer to the bridge. The streets were full of carts and merchants, selling muffins, pies, sausages, skewered fruit, joints of pig, and other aromatic delights that made his stomach growl. He dispensed a few coins into a merchant’s grimy hand in exchange for a skewered piece of pork, which he ate as he sauntered down the street, watching the urchins zigzag around in games of tag and theft. The streets bore pennants from the house of Argentine, fluttering in the lazy breeze that wafted in from the river. Alensson tried to look like a man with business, not the overwhelmed novice he was in this place. The raven’s-head scabbard was strapped to his waist, and the pommel of the sword swung lightly as he walked. Had the citizens known that he carried the blade of their ancient king Andrew, they would have torn him limb from limb and striven after it in a frenzy.

The sights and smells of Kingfountain enveloped him. The fashion of his tunic, heavy leather belt, and sturdy boots helped him blend in with those around him. The wounds from the thorns had closed and healed quickly, removing the pox-like scars. How many of the Maid’s injuries remained? He thought of her and then he thought of his pregnant wife . . . Would the babe truly be cursed if he did not succeed in bringing Genette home with him? Her instructions had been very specific. Find a lad who was Fountain-blessed at the sanctuary of Our Lady. A nine-year-old lad with dark hair. And yet . . . he’d already seen dozens of dark-haired lads just walking the streets. How was he to know upon sight if the lad was Fountain-blessed?