After an interminable wait, a cry arose from down the bridgehead, and suddenly the street was a writhing mass of onlookers, each craning to get a view. A phalanx of soldiers bearing royal tunics and banners rode on horseback and cleared an opening so that the cart bearing the Maid could lumber past. Alensson’s pulse raced and he squeezed up to the pocked iron bar, smelling its rusty scent as he pressed his face slightly through the gap.
The citizenry of Kingfountain took up howling against the Maid, jeering obscenities at her and flinging spoiled fruit at her cart. There were at least fifty soldiers in front and fifty behind, but they would be useless against the swelling mob if a riot started. The indignities hurled at the Maid burned in the duke’s ears, making him bare his teeth at the willful humiliation. The street vendors had even stopped hawking their wares to join in the abuse of the young woman. He watched the advancing phalanx plow through the crowd as if trudging through a snow-packed landscape.
As the first ranks of soldiers passed, Alensson saw the wary looks they were giving the tumultuous panoply. A fearful dread began pounding in his heart. What if they rushed the cart and seized her and threw her into the mouth of the falls? In the days since Alensson had been at Kingfountain, he had witnessed only one such outrage, a man caught thieving at one of the fountains. He’d been unceremoniously accosted and rushed to the ledge, and his corpse had later been found on the river shore below. The duke was terrified by the mass of life, the frenzied rabble who had been taught to hate Genette. What if she was murdered before his very eyes and she wasn’t even granted a trial?
The pandemonium on the bridge outside the sanctuary was so great he could not hear the clacking of the wagon wheels as the cart followed the ranks of royal guardsmen. Smashed fruit and sludge dripped from the bars of the cart as it passed, making Alensson squeeze the bars of the gate in impotent fury. He saw Genette within, seated on the wooden floor, her hands bracing her body as the cart bumped and jostled. She was thinner than when he’d last seen her, her dark hair speckled with tomato seeds and other stains. But as the cart lumbered past Our Lady, she lifted her head and stared up at the sanctuary beyond the gate, taking in its vast architecture and sky-piercing spire. If she heard the taunts and deprecations of the crowd, there was no sign of it in her expression. A rotten cabbage exploded against the bars, and Alensson wanted to throttle the villain who had hurled it, but Genette still did not flinch. A slight smile brightened her face as she stared up at the shrine dedicated to the Fountain. She made a quick sign of obeisance with her hand, a prayer, and then her eyes fell to the gate of the sanctuary.
Their eyes met.
He was relieved she’d seen him, for he’d worried the cart would bear her away before he could alert her to his presence.
Her shoulders slumped in a grateful sigh, and this time her smile was so bright it pierced his heart and brought tears to his eyes. She crawled to the edge of the cart, fastening her hands on the bars, and she looked at him with tenderness. With his gaze fixed on hers, he nodded once and inclined his head respectfully, as if she were the duchess and he a mere village boy. She took his meaning. He had done as she had bidden him.
For the next three days, the boy Tunmore brought Alensson daily tidings of the trial occurring at the palace. The trial was attended by most of the nobles of the realm, along with many of the prelates, including the deconeus of Our Lady and his protégé, John Tunmore. They were restless, anxiety-ridden days.
Alensson desperately wished he could find a way to gain entrance to the trial itself, but the notes the boy took in his ledger book were articulate and thorough. Despite his young age, Tunmore recounted details so vividly that Alensson almost felt as if he were there. They conjured images and moods and emotions. The boy had captured Genette’s tone and willfulness so well, it was as if she were speaking to him from the page. The people were astounded that such a young woman was managing to defy and out-argue the brightest minds in the royal court.
On the third night, Alensson paced the sanctuary grounds as darkness fell and the torches were lit. Then he spied the young man approaching, his ledger clutched tightly to his chest.
The sense of doom in the boy’s countenance made his heart jump in his chest. “What happened today? You look grave.”
The boy sighed, his face pinched and worried. “The king’s court does not want justice. They are only interested in arriving at guilt. Tomorrow she will be condemned.”
It was the result he’d expected. Hadn’t Genette told him that she was going over the falls? It was why she had asked for the scabbard. And yet he nearly swooned with worry.