Philip flew back toward the castle, forcing his horse to gallop as quickly as it could, Charles close behind him, his stallion struggling to keep up with Philip’s. Of course, he would have the fastest horse. Faster meant better, and Philip was king. After a day like this one, it appeared things would be staying that way for quite some time!
As he rode, he reveled in the battle he’d just witnessed. His men had been brilliant! Arteria’s soldiers had advanced cautiously, slowly. Their meticulous march had given the Clovington forces the opportunity to form ranks and hold them off. The Arterians had seen some early victories, covering the ground between the battlefield and Skull Creek they’d claimed the day before relatively quickly. But once they ran into this natural impediment, Philip’s troops sprang into action. Wave after wave of Caleb’s men had attempted to cross the creek, either through the shallow but swiftly moving current or by traversing the narrow Skull Bridge. It was quite easy for Philip’s archers to cover the bridge. By design, it provided a bottleneck of assailants. The Arterians would push forward, and Clovington promptly sent them back time and again. It was as if Philip’s forces suddenly realized that, if they were to retreat any further, the Arterians would overrun Castle Blackthorn and their homes would be destroyed. His men had finally started to fight like men—as if their lives depended upon it--as they did. As the sun began to set, Caleb’s army retreated for the evening, still on the other side of Skull Creek. The Clovington military would live to fight another day!
The king rode into the barn, dismounting before his horse came to a full stop and tossing the reins in the general direction of one of the stable boys. He didn’t wait for his advisors to follow as he rushed off toward the castle, his head swimming with the possibility that they might actually win this war after all. By morning, Leopold’s cavalry should have arrived. Though his cousin had originally sent them intending to cover Philip's ass as he fled his kingdom, Philip would now use these fresh reinforcements to send Caleb reeling. In fact, Leopold’s cavalry, though small in number, had a reputation for being some of the most daunting warriors one could possibly ever engage with in battle, and now that his army was beginning to make progress, he was hopeful that their combined forces would be enough to deliver the final blow.
As Philip entered Castle Blackthorn, his boot steps ringing off the stone floor, a crooked grin took over his face. Only this morning, he had been a broken man, wallowing in defeat and self-pity. Now, he returned to his home triumphant. As the thick oak doors closed behind him, he could hear his men firing a few rounds of cannon in the distance to celebrate their victory. They deserved a celebration
Entering his private chambers to ready for the evening meal, Philip anticipated the night would only get better. Tonight was the night he had been looking forward to for many years. With or without a wedding ceremony, this evening, Princess Katherine would become his wife. The thought of hearing her scream his name from between the sheets had him chuckling to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his soiled boots. He imagined what she would look like completely naked, writhing in pleasure and pain, begging him for more, yet pleading with him to stop. He felt himself begin to stiffen at the thought of it. “Oh, Princess Katherine, tonight you will be queen!” he thought.
His personal assistant came in the room, his head down, not making eye contact, but Philip did not admonish him for being late. Nothing could ruin his mood. He’d dress, take his meal with Charles and some of the others, letting the wine flow freely, and then send for his beloved. Holding his arms out so that his tunic could be removed, he smiled, wondering if Katherine had been introduced to his newest notion yet. She was probably in her room, anticipating the moment he would call for her.
“Sir?” the servant asked as Philip’s laughter spilled out of his lips. “Is everything well?”
“Everything is splendid,” he replied, still smirking. “Hurry it up. I have important matters to attend to.” The liegeman hastened his pace, and Philip did his best to keep his emotions in check, though his excitement had him practically vibrating from the inside out. He’d do his best to stay patient through the meal; soon enough, the bed behind him would make a princess into a queen and a mute into a shrieking, wanton whore.
Katherine rushed down the stairs, out into the hallway, and back to her bedchamber. Time was no longer on her side, and with Philip back in the castle, any chance she had of hiding in anticipation of Caleb’s assault on Blackthorn needed to be executed post haste. She slammed the door, and turned toward the sound of someone else in the room, expecting to see Joan working away on the wedding preparations. Instead, someone else sat in the rocker next to the bed working on an embroidery piece and humming to herself.
“Well, good day. It’s about time you returned to your chambers,” the woman said sharply, setting her work aside and getting to her feet. She was tall, much taller than Katherine, with almost white hair pulled up into a tight bun. Her dress was crisp, as was her attitude, and Katherine felt more than a little confused. “I am Lady Agatha of Spindlebrook. King Philip is my third cousin, once removed.” She peered down her thin nose at the princess, her lips drawn into a tight, thin line. “I will be your lady-in-waiting from this point forward. You may call me simply ‘Lady Agatha.’ Do you understand?”
The confused expression on Katherine’s face did not change as she slowly nodded her head up and down, wondering where in the world Joan might be.
Lady Agatha tipped her head to the side, her dour mouth turning upside down. “Still doing that nodding, I see.” She rocked her head side to side disapprovingly. “Well, I believe that a princess, or a queen, as you will be shortly, must have perfect manners, which includes saying, ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ and other polite phrases, not simply shrugging and nodding and acting like an animal.”
Katherine’s feet held fast to the entryway, as she contemplated running back out the door. She didn’t move, though. Something told her Lady Agatha was sprightlier than she appeared and that she would find a way to chase her down.
Clearing her throat, the woman continued. “Now then, what precisely have you been doing all day? Running around the garden like a child? Chasing after the cooks in the kitchen? Perhaps you’ve wasted all of these hours in the library, filling your head with foolishness?” She crossed the room and took Katherine by the shoulders, her rigid fingers digging into the princess to the point that her muscles ached. “Well, you are to be wed tomorrow, and I see nothing of consequence when it comes to preparations. Does it not alarm you that your dress isn’t even finished? That your bouquet resembles a handful of weeds? Surely, you must have given some thought to this momentous occasion?” Shaking her head again, Agatha tugged Katherine further into the room and then released her, gesturing at the piles and stacks of items Joan had been working on.
Joan had been deeply engaged these past few days in preparation for the ceremony, but it did not appear that anything was finished. While Katherine was a little surprised at the lack of progress, she could not understand how anyone could miss the war going on outside their doorstep. Did Agatha actually think there was going to be a marriage ceremony the next day?
After several minutes of pointing out the incomplete status of every item in the room pertaining to the wedding, Agatha sighed loudly and asked, “Are you refusing to comment?” Katherine’s eyes went wide. Surely, she had to know it wasn’t a question of refusal. “Fine then. You sit.” She pressed Katherine into a chair in the corner of the room. “I will go over the items I have found for the wedding, and perhaps you can somehow indicate to me just what purpose they were to serve.”
A rumbling in the distance had Katherine turning her head, though she promptly remembered she had no windows. She took a deep breath, knowing this time it had to be cannon fire. It sounded as if it was growing closer. Agatha was prattling on about the fabric on the table, but Katherine’s eyes darted to the door. She needed to be leaving if she was going to avoid fleeing with Philip; she needed to hide, and she needed to do it now.
Agatha had her back to Katherine, and the princess considered the possibility of sneaking out undetected. With a deep breath, Katherine pushed up out of the chair. Though she was older, Agatha was not deaf; she heard Katherine’s chair creak, and her head snapped around. “Wherever are you going?” She crossed the room quickly and pushed Katherine back down into the chair, hard. “We have work to do, young lady. There’s no time for skipping off and frolicking just now!”
Katherine sighed, running a hand across her forehead. Part of her wanted to push the woman as hard as she could and bolt for the door. But she was scared of what the consequences might be. Agatha didn’t seem as if she would hesitate to call the guards to have her carried back into the room, kicking and flailing.
The lady continued to snatch up each item, tell Katherine why each piece was a “nightmare, really” and toss it away or shove it back to where it had come from as Katherine attempted to ascertain how far away the cannon fire was. It wasn’t getting louder by the moment, but she thought it seemed closer than it had been at the beginning of this exercise.
After what seemed like an eternity, a rapping on the door finally gave Agatha pause. “Oh, who could that possibly be? Doesn’t anyone care that there is to be a wedding tomorrow?” She continued to mumble as she crossed the room to answer the door. Pulling it open, she held her nose in the air. “Yes?”
Surprisingly, Katherine could see Charles’s profile over Agatha’s shoulder. If Philip had sent his most trusted advisor to her room, the situation had to be urgent. Otherwise, he would’ve sent a servant. An overwhelming wave of defeat welled up inside of her. There was no question now that Philip was most certainly in the castle, and if the king were here, then avoiding him would be impossible, particularly if Charles were here to escort her to his side. Philip must be preparing to flee the castle.
Charles beckoned Agatha out into the hallway. Katherine strained to hear the conversation through the closed door and picked up the shrill notes of Agatha’s voice, though it was more difficult to hear Charles’s muted tone, and he was doing most of the talking. “Yes, um hum, I see,” Agatha was saying. “All right then; I’ll be by directly.” A moment later, the door opened, and the princess looked away, trying not to show that she’d been eavesdropping, not that it had done a bit of good.
“Well, then,” Agatha said, closing the door behind her, what appeared to be some sort of a smile forming on her rigid face. “The king has sent for me.” She was doing her best to stifle the grin, but Katherine could see the edges of her top lip curling. Apparently, the woman was particularly fond of Philip, though Katherine couldn’t imagine how that was possible. “You are to stay here while I go and speak with His Royal Highness. Now, while I am away, perhaps you could sort through some of this mess and determine what is useful and what is not. Although, if your taste is anything like that of your prior lady-in-waiting’s, I highly doubt you know the difference.” Agatha ran her hands down the length of her olive green gown, pressed loose pieces of whitish blonde hair back into her bun, and tugged the door open, her nose in the air once more.
Katherine let out a deep breath, feeling her heart begin to still itself. Now that Agatha was gone, she could slip out and find a place to conceal herself. Leaping up from the chair, she headed toward the armoire, thinking about what she should wear to escape, when the most malevolent sound Katherine had ever heard had her freezing in her tracks. She’d know that sound anywhere--the turning of a key in the door. Rushing over to the barrier, Katherine shook the handle and pounded on solid oak. It was no use. The door held fast. Katherine banged her forehead on the obstruction, slipping down to the floor in defeat. Though she couldn’t be sure, Katherine thought she heard the sound of Agatha’s tittering echoing down the hall. Katherine was a prisoner in her own bedchamber, Joan was nowhere to be found, and Caleb was coming.
Dusk began to settle over the Arterian Army, cloaking the men in a comforting darkness that made them almost undetectable. Caleb ran a hand along his stubble-covered jaw and took in the scene from the back of his horse. Today had been a farce. He had sent in a skeleton crew, told them to advance slowly and cautiously, not to risk casualties, and to let Philip’s men believe that they were winning. It had served to be extremely difficult for a group of men used to annihilating every opponent. Yet, his soldiers fully understood the king’s plan, as their superiors had explained it to them, and they were willing to follow his command to the letter. They had spent the majority of the day holding back, anticipating the evening’s advancement. Now that the sun had set, a nervous excitement radiated off of the encampment as the soldiers anticipated his order to attack.
A horsemen rode over from the far side of the embankment, bringing a piece of parchment to David who read it, nodded, gave an order, and then led his stallion over to Caleb’s side. “Calhoun’s ready on the right,” his most trusted commander said with a steady nod. “The hills cast long shadows. He’s fully concealed.”
Caleb gave a steady nod, understanding David’s unspoken message. The time was upon them. In a moment, he’d give the signal, and his men would advance, running through Philip’s lines in a matter of minutes. In an hour or two, they would have completely closed the distance between where he now stood and Castle Blackthorn. Then, either Matthew would be free at last, or Philip would committee the most egregious, ridiculous sin of all. Swallowing hard, Caleb tried to put that thought aside. He had no choice but to move forward. Otherwise, Philip might escape, and Matthew would still be in danger.
“Sir, what are your orders?” David’s voice was calm, reassuring, and insistent all at once. If anyone fully understood the gravity of the situation, it was the man next to him.
With a deep breath and as much resolve as he could gather, Caleb said, “Give the signal to advance.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” David said, unable to hold back the trace of a smile that battle brought to his face. He hurried off, and Caleb turned his attention back to the field in front of him.
Upon the signal, cannon fire rang out from the line near the shores of Skull Creek, and his men fell into rank, ready to cross the water way and trap Philip’s forces against their very own village walls. From there, the Arterians would press on, past the meager village defenses, over the remaining miles to the castle wall. They would take Castle Blackthorn before morning.
An optimistic spirit flowed through the lines as they took their places, weapons at the ready, and Caleb could sense his men were eager to get into the fray again, to press on without holding back. Each of them understood his purpose for being here, that King Matthew of Zurconia was relying on them to free him, to bring him home. Caleb had no doubt Blackthorn would fall, but what he would find on the other side of the castle walls had him observing the battle as it unfolded before him with a tightness in his chest and one hand on the hilt of a sword he’d promised not to use.
“Fill me up,” Reginald Cuthbert demanded, laughter spilling from his lips as he thrust his empty goblet before a half-full wine skin. The drink had already begun to leave his head fuzzy, but it mattered not. His forces had been triumphant that day, and a celebration was in order. He’d make sure his men laid off the liquor in time to recover for whatever the morning might bring, but he had no doubt the Arterians were tucked in for the night, their tails between their legs.
Cuthbert took a swig of sour wine and gazed out at Skull Creek, the meandering, swampy body of water that held the Arterians at bay. Many of the men were already drunk; he could tell by the dancing and cavorting going on all around him. He folded one arm beneath his elbow as he tossed back more of the liquid, a chuckle escaping his lips. They deserved a celebration, and he was more than willing to let them have free rein for a bit if it inspired them to fight just as solidly on the morrow.
Near the shore, a few of the men were fooling around with the cannons, sending shrapnel into the darkening sky from time to time, the explosions a reminder to King Caleb and his forces that they had lost the day. Another boom rattled the ground, and Cuthbert thought back to how exuberant King Philip had been over their triumph on the battlefield. It had taken everything Cuthbert had to finally bring his king a victory, but he relished the feeling now, taking a few steps back beneath a copse of trees where the rest of the commanding officers reflected on the day, their cups refilled and their laughter as loud as the cannons.
A whizzing in the air around him caused Cuthbert to pause with his goblet halfway to his lips. The cannon fire had grown louder, though he hadn’t paid it any mind. Now, however, the situation seemed to have changed as the space around him came to life with a charge he would’ve known anywhere. Even in the dark, he realized the fire he was hearing was no longer friendly, nor was it only cannon. Arrows were flying their direction, and the few thin trees behind them was not enough cover to take shelter while he sorted through a response.
One of the men next to him slumped forward, his wine spilling all down his uniform, as an arrow tore through his chest. Panic stricken, Cuthbert dodged behind the closest tree, praying it would be thick enough, as the other commanders who were able to move did the same. Orders tumbled out of his mouth, though few of them were heeded; most of the men were drunk, asleep, or already hit by flying arrows or cannon fire. While it may be impossible for him to put up any sort of a front, he needed to send word to Blackthorn of the situation immediately.
Frantically, Cuthbert’s eyes searched the darkness for a courier, but in the soft glow of the rising moon, he could see none. Nor could he find a trumpeter to sound a call to arms. “Damn it all to hell!” he muttered, deciding he’d have to be the one to make the ride himself. Horses were aplenty, tearing through the campsite unmanned at the sound of the bombardment with no riders to keep them under control. Leaving the solace of the trees, Cuthbert rushed toward a painted mare, her eyes as wild as his own heartbeat. Tossing one leg over the saddle, Cuthbert caught his breath as the sharp sting of an arrowhead entered his arm. “Son of a bitch!” Blood poured from the wound on both sides as the arrow had gone all the way through his bicep. Stilling himself, he grabbed hold of the feathered end and began to pull, the pain increasing such that he had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. He nearly had it free when an even sharper pain took his breath away. This time, the arrow entered his shoulder, slicing through his chainmail, the sharpened end protruding just above the patch on his chest that showed he was an officer.
Unable to fully catch his breath and unsure now that he could even ride, Cuthbert lowered himself back to the ground. Around him, men were running in every direction, some still under the impression this was a celebration, others falling face first on the ground as arrows struck them in the back. The scene near the copse of trees was chaotic, as well, the officers there fighting to discuss a strategy while arrows picked them off one by one.
Cuthbert ducked his head and charged back in that direction, but he only made it a few steps before a pain even more severe than the last radiated out from just above his ear. His thoughts became jumbled as he fell to the ground, bringing his knees up to his chest, the agony blinding him. He thought he heard the voice of his friend and fellow officer, Simon Troughly, shouting his name, but he couldn’t be sure. The stench of piss was overwhelming, as Cuthbert lie in his own filth, muttering, “At least King Philip will not have the pleasure of killing me himself.”