The Maid's War(83)

Ankarette nodded. “So you don’t believe that Lewis has it. He allows people to believe he does, but it’s likely a bluff.”

“Indeed. He’s quite good at those.”

“You were carried off the mountain with the corpses in a wagon. No one bothered to check if you were alive. And no one guards a wagon of corpses. You slipped away the first chance you got.”

“You are a crafty lass, Ankarette. So far, you are right.”

“And since Genette disguised you as one of the king’s soldiers, you had no trouble making it back to the borders. You returned to the cottage as quickly as you could. Had your wife delivered the baby yet?”

He let out a deep, ragged breath. “I was not there when she first went into early labor. Alix stayed by her side. I arrived just before it was over. The babe was stillborn, as you know.” His voice softened as he spoke the words. “Jianne was so weak, so heartsick, that she died a month later. Alix pleaded with tears for her to hold on, to come back to us. I was her nurse, her constant companion. She said she had to leave us, to be with the child. She told me she understood why I had left. And then . . . she was gone.” His voice was a mere whisper at the end.

The poignant recollection throbbed in Ankarette’s heart. She was a midwife herself and knew some of the remedies that could have sustained Alensson’s wife. But even the surest remedies wouldn’t work if someone was determined to fade.

“You never remarried,” Ankarette said, struggling to find her voice.

He looked back at her. “I did.”

She gave him a startled look.

“You must understand, Ankarette. It is the privilege of a king to decide whom his nobles will marry. Even though I was penniless. Even though I was scarred by the ordeals of my life, Chatriyon arranged for me to marry the daughter of one of his sycophants. Someone to keep an eye on me. It was not a pleasant memory, and I was not a good husband. To be honest with you, I was quite bitter during those years. But we had no children. And when she died, I was considered too old to sire an heir. I could not stand being in Chatriyon’s court.” He stumbled on a tree root and caught himself on a trunk. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. His strength was flagging, but they were so close. Ankarette thought she could hear the rushing water of the Sienna River.

“Do you need to rest?” she asked him, coming close and putting her hand on his back.

He shook his head and limped onward. “No. I am sturdy. We’re almost there.”

“I’ve heard that Chatriyon’s court became rather . . . debauched,” Ankarette said knowingly.

“Yes, you could say that. Remember how the Maid’s presence inspired a higher degree of morality? After her death, it was as if Chatriyon descended into a bleak frame of thinking. His turn was sudden, though, you have that right. It was not a gradual descent. The peace negotiations with Ceredigion lasted for years. Deford’s wife was poisoned and he remarried a pretty young lass. Your queen’s mother, as we discussed. They didn’t have any children, so the duchy was passed to the Kiskaddon family as a reward. They became loyal to Eredur when he won the throne, so he allowed them to keep it. They call it Westmarch, but in my mind it will always be La Marche. And it will always be mine. Do you think Eredur will . . . ? Well, it’s best not to hope.”

Ankarette heard more snapping of wood and saw flashes of color from uniforms. The noose was beginning to tighten.

“We’re not going to make it, are we?” Alensson asked in a low voice.

Ankarette’s skin prickled with unease. “We may have to fight our way to freedom. But I will see you safely to Eredur.”

“It’s me they’re after,” Alensson said. “Somehow, they always find me. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Ankarette. You are a wise soul. I’ve looked forward to meeting you for many years now. Genette saw you in her visions. That should make you feel special, I hope.”

“It does indeed,” Ankarette said. “But don’t despair. I’m not out of tricks yet.”

“La Marche!”

The voice rang through the trees behind them.

When they turned, they saw a knight advancing wearing black armor. He had a chest under one arm and a sword in his other hand. As soon as Ankarette saw him, she felt a shuddering sensation—as if a stone boulder were grinding against the ground. It made her dizzy, and her vision went blurry.

“I’m sorry,” Alensson whispered to her. “You did your best. But you must survive this fight.”

And then he shoved her into the ravine.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Secrets of the Grave